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The Charm is Broken Utterly

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Bonnie's caught by the mirror, like something trapped in glue, sticky and thick and drying hard and fast. She can't look away, can't move more than a few inches, cannot move out of sight of the mirror. Of course that's the whole point. This is some long dead witch's spell-trap and it has them both now.

"It's a curse," Damon says, like she wouldn't know that without his say so. "Smells like some kind of sex spell gone wrong and we fell right into it."

In the old stories vampires don't appear in mirrors and Bonnie wishes that were true. Damon's shiny, white smile and bright blue eyes should fade out to invisible, where it can't hurt people anymore.

He should be a ghost, a rotten, maggoty corpse, not a white boy with a young, pretty face and warm hands, pressed up behind Bonnie. He's a monster. He breathes in her ear and she wonders why he bothers with the act when she's already seen through to the other side. When she knows exactly what he is and what he costs everyone around him.

"It's okay," he whispers, like he's a real person. "It's okay, we'll get through this."

"There's no we here," she spits back. Let go of me! she wants to scream, even though she knows he can't. She almost does anyway, to see if it hurts him, but she's too scared it won't, that he'll still be meeting her eyes in the mirror, smirking and impassive all at once and somehow that will make it worse.

He doesn't flinch, but there's something in his eyes that's not humor. A flicker of old and tired, like Grams on a bad day. Grams will never have another bad day. Bonnie wants to scream, but that will just let him see how weak she really is. He says, "I know. Listen, Bonnie, I know..."

"We're stuck here staring into this mirror until we fulfill the conditions of the curse," she says. "Which is sex." It feels odd to say it out loud. Mechanical and strange. It can't be real. These things don't happen.

He should look smug instead of tired, she knows that last week he would have. "Right." His eyes close, but only for a second. The curse won't let either of them stop looking in the mirror, not for long. "So shall we get it over with?"

His hands are warm, pressed up against her shoulders, a pale contrast the the brown of her skin. She can't get over that. He's dead, a bloodsucker, it's all stolen warmth, she tells herself. He should be cold. She doesn't want him touching her. The words are out before she can call them back. "I don't want you touching me!" It comes out muffled, more a plea than a shout.

"I know," Damon says. "And if I don't, we're both going to sit here, glued to the mirror until I start to get hungry. I like you, but I won't remember that when hunger gets bad."

She makes a noise that's half a laugh. "Right. You like me. That's why you--"

"This isn't helping," he interrupts. "Let's just--"

"You'll be trapped here if you kill me, no one to sex up to break the spell," she spits out. "You'll turn into a fucking mummy. Decayed. A walking corpse."

He makes a face, a twist of a smile that's almost the Damon she recognizes, "Wait, are you trying to convince me that scenario sucks all around? Because I promise, I already know. Look, let's just get this over with--"

"I said, I don't want you to touch me!" she shouts, frustrated and too loud, even though there's no one in this room, in this whole abandoned wreck of a building, to hear and do anything to help.

He sighs noisily. He sounds so irritated, like it's all this giant inconvenience instead of the worst thing in the world. She wants to smash his pretty face in. It's hard to aim, just watching in the mirror, but she does it. He doesn't catch her wrist even though she knows he's more than fast enough, just lets her crack down, skin on skin. He doesn't wince, just sighs again.

"Feel better now?" he asks. He sounds like he's trying to be gentle.

"No." Her hands haven't even left a mark. Fucking vampire. She isn't going to cry. She isn't. She's not shaking and her eyes aren't wet.

"Bonnie," he says, and there's that stupid gentleness again. "This is just some stupid spell trap and you're a Bennett witch. You'll get through this." He looks as frustrated as she feels and it makes him younger, less... less. That shouldn't help, shouldn't make her feel better, but it does. He looks so open and honest, she can even see when a new thought strikes him. "Look... how about you lead? Would that make you feel better? I wouldn't have to touch you if you did the touching."

She blinks. He keeps looking at her expectantly and she blinks again. "Wait. What?"

He grins at her, those white teeth again. "It's a sex spell, not a fertility rite. No one says we have to have a lights out, boy on top, penis in vagina moment. Just orgasms."

She doesn't pause to think, just smacks him again. Harder this time. It only makes his grin widen. "Fuck you, penis in... ugh. I'm going to have nightmares about you saying that," she mutters. "Never do it again." She wasn't crying before and she's not going to laugh now, dammit.

"Your wish is my command, fair lady," Damon says and grins again before he gives her a stiff little formal bow, or at least as much of one as he can in the space they have. It's weirdly sweet, like he's the gentleman of the old plantation asking her to dance. Which is exactly what he was a hundred and fifty years ago and she... well she'd have been the slave. She winces and the momentary urge to like him passes as quickly as it came.

Bonnie doesn't have to like him, though. She has to get out of here. Intact, if possible. "Okay. Okay. Right." She takes a deep, slow breath, and then another one. "I'm touching you and we're having sex without... um. How?" She has a vague moment of gratitude that she's not a shade of burns in the sun milk like Caroline and no one can see her blush.

Damon laughs like he can feel the blush even if he can't see it. Bastard. "You're a telekinetic witch, Bonnie Bennett, you probably don't even have to touch. Be creative. Think big."

It takes her a second, because this hasn't exactly been a consuming thought of hers. It's not like she wakes up on sunny mornings and thinks things like, hey, I can use my superpowers for sex. I can use my powers to shut Damon Salvatore's big, pretty mouth. Even now when she's actually going to do it, she knows it wouldn't be that easy if he was fighting her, but he's not, he won't. He needs to get out of here too.

"Fine," she mutters. "Fine, okay."

It's awkward, shifting around, so that she can see him without ever turning to actually look. Without ever moving her face away from the damned mirror. It just reflects them back at her, relentlessly. A pinched looking girl with dark, sweaty skin, messy hair and a homicidal expression on her face. A ruefully smiling blue eyed boy in a thin black t-shirt over broad shoulder tapering down to a narrow waist and too tight jeans. He looks maybe five years older than her instead of a hundred and some.

He's a monster in a pretty package. He killed Grams, or as good as. She died because of him. He killed lots of people with his own hands and fangs. He's only alive, or whatever passes for life for his kind, because Bonnie intervened when she should have let him burn and here she is intervening again. Then she feels it like the rush of anger called it forth, the place where her power lived, bright and strong, almost a living thing that was willing her to reach down and take hold of it.

She slaps him again, but not with her hand this time. She hits him with force, the full bright rush of magic. He makes a sound, low, like the wind's been knocked out of him, and stumbles. If the mirror weren't holding him up, he'd have buckled under it, she knows that.

"Did that hurt?" she asks, and now she's the one who feels calm, safe.

He shrugs, half-shouldered. She can see him steady himself. "Sure. You wanted it to. Does it get you off?"

She hits him again before the words are even fully out. Harder this time, and then again. The blows are silent, but they rock him back. There's a trickle of stolen blood dripping down the corner of his mouth. He laughs anyway, between gasps for air. "I'm only saying," he manages. "Because if it doesn't get you off, it's not going to get us out of here."

Bonnie can smell his blood and that's what stops her, not the words. What the hell is she even doing? "Will you stop talking?" she hisses. Damon is still looking at her out of those improbably blue eyes and she can't even close her eyes for more than a blink to get away from him. Jesus Christ. She shakes her head like that will clear it. Tries to look down at his feet instead of his face, like that will help.

Her gaze catches somewhere in the middle, at the bulge in his jeans. Jesus Christ. "Well, I guess we don't have to worry about it getting you off," she says before she can stop herself. She laughs helplessly and he just shrugs and joins her like it doesn't bother him at all that he's turned on by being smacked around.

"Nah, I have broad and interesting habits. I could have told you that." He's mostly mocking himself and she feels the faint rush of something almost warm and aimed at him. The feeling she hates herself for, that she will hate herself for. She'll hate herself in just a little while.

Now, for the moment, she's smiling. "You like girls that can beat you up, huh? I wouldn't have called that."

His grin is lopsided. "Why not? You know I loved— I was Katherine's." And then there's that flicker again, the spark of something very old and worn to a thread behind those blue eyes.

"I don't feel sorry for you," she says, as much to herself as to him. "No one forced you to hurt people." And then, in the seconds the spell allows her the range of motion, she turns toward him and kisses him on the mouth. For some weird reason she'd expected Damon to taste gross, like old blood, even though with all the times Elena kissed Stephan uncomplainingly that wouldn't even make sense, but he doesn't. He tastes as warm as he feels, like a living being.

She's blinking again when her gaze is forced back in the mirror and he isn't smiling anymore. His hand is on his mouth and for just that moment, he looks like a little boy, all wide eyed surprise. "That's fine," he says, like he has no idea what he's agreeing to. He shakes himself.

Suddenly, she doesn't want to give him a chance to recover his cool. She wants... she needs to do something else. Her power is still there, vivid and strong, close at hand. She touches him with it, but this time it's not a blow and the noise he makes, low and soft, isn't pain. It doesn't sound all that different, though, it only takes her a second to realize. The sounds of Damon's surprised pleasure are almost exactly like the sounds of someone hurting him. That shouldn't make her knees knock, that shouldn't turn her on.

They're way past shouldn'ts.

It's her power and not her hands that she uses to unzip his jeans and push them down around his ankles. He doesn't have anything on underneath and she shivers. It's not her first sight of a bare from the waist boy, but it's this time there's no alcohol and a whole lot of intent. This time she's supposed to be taking 'the lead' or whatever and she's not Caroline or even Elena, and she really hadn't wanted to think about what comes next.

"I--" she starts and manages to stop herself before she asks Damon what she's supposed to do now. She can feel the heat that's not all embarrassment rise up under her skin.

He seems to hear it anyway and shakes his head. "I wouldn't worry. You have good instincts, Bonnie Bennett," he says, with more poise than anyone with their jeans around their ankles and their dick saluting the ceiling ought to be allowed.

She touches him, invisible fingers, carefully modulated. It's like giving someone a handjob with a mirror for direction and no hands. Okay, it's nothing like giving someone a handjob. She can see too well. His face, the way his eyelashes move, how dark they are. His cock, blood heavy and thick. It would feel nice, she thinks, if she touched it. If she climbed him and just... took it. Her power shifts and she can feel the tingle between her legs, like she's pressed up against him even when she's not that close.

He makes another noise, louder, strangled sounding and his ass flexes, all smooth muscle and soft looking skin. She imagines touching him there her palms cupping him and sliding along the curve. That makes his hips jerk forward and his lips part.

The power's not limited, she can pretend she's a goddess with a dozen hands. One to stroke the length of him, from balls to crown, two to hold onto his ass, curling and sliding. Another for his mouth, stroking over lips, slipping between them, unsure if she's mimicking a kiss or spreading him open for something else. More hands for herself, more touch, but like he's there touching her. It doesn't matter that she's standing apart and unmussed, still wearing all her clothes while he's half bare and open. It does matter that he's panting and gasping, no more perfectly composed, above it all Damon.

The part of her that's still thinking is vaguely horrified at how good it feels to bring him to this, bring him down. A few weeks ago, no a few hours ago, she'd have killed him without a moment's guilt. He's a monster.

He's a beautiful monster.

She brings him off with a vicious stroke and twist that probably shouldn't feel good but make his eyes roll back in his head. Brings herself off a moment later, wet and hot and strange, and god, she'd never have even guessed her magic could bring her here.

The mirror that had them trapped cracks like someone slammed a hammer into it. She hears it, but doesn't have time to blink before Damon's pushing her down and out of the way, his body shielding her from the spraying shards. He's breathing too hard in her ear and he's shaking like he still hasn't come down from whatever it is she did to him, but his voice, when it comes is steady, perfectly calm. It shouldn't be reassuring, but it is.

"Well, that was fun," he says smoothly. He climbs off her without any excess touching and she waits for him to pull up his jeans and zip them closed before she gets up. When she looks at him his hair is a mess, and there's still a trail of dried blood on his mouth, but otherwise he just looks like the same old Damon.

His expression is as careful and full of the gentleness that has to be fake as it was when he'd been telling her it was all going to be okay. "Are you all right? Do you want me to take you home?"

Bonnie wants to laugh but it doesn't come out right. She scrubs her hands over her face and feels a thick sense of relief that she can do that now, that she doesn't have to keep looking at him if she doesn't want to. "No. There's a damn powerful grimoire in here somewhere and we need to find it. I'm not going through all of that for nothing."

"Well, good for you." Damon grins and clucks his tongue. "I bet you want to see if you can recreate that mirror spell, huh?"

The laugh is helpless, like something forced out of her, but it feels kind of good anyway. "If you hadn't just proved how much you liked it, I'd smack the shit out of you."

"Ha. I let you do that in the interest of getting out from under that spell," Damon says and winks. "Try it again and see what happens."

Her mouth purses and she rolls her eyes. "No thank you," she says and tries to pretend she isn't thinking about it. It won't happen again, she tells herself. Nothing has changed and it won't happen again.