Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/166763.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Vampire_Diaries_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Bonnie_Bennett/Jeremy_Gilbert
  Character:
      Bonnie_Bennett, Jeremy_Gilbert
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Oral_Sex, Plot_What_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-03-01 Words: 3886
****** some say it's absurd ******
by summerstorm
Summary
     "Okay," she finally says, feeling a little smile bloom across her
     mouth, "what do you—" She lowers her voice a little and tries again,
     "What do you want to do?"
Notes
     Title from W.H. Auden.
Bonnie's not sure when she started cataloging the various ways Jeremy touches
her—it must have been somewhere between her first private emotional crisis over
not really knowing what she was doing and that time he covered her mouth with
his hand in the library, she guesses, because she was aware enough by then to
wonder why she hadn't noticed how much she liked his hands before—but this—this
is something she recognizes.
They're in her bed, there's no one else home, and they've been kissing for what
seems like hours. She's pretty sure there's a hickey blooming on her
collarbone, because she was stupid enough to ask if that was what he was doing.
She wasn't even serious; she was just teasing him because, whatever, he's not a
vampire, and given they live in a place that's crawling with them, it's a
little ironic to date a human boy and have him spend that much time sucking on
her neck. The thing is, saying something like that to Jeremy basically amounts
to asking for it, so she was only surprised for a second when he said,
"That's—yeah, that's exactly what I'm doing," smiled bright and fake up at her,
and took her up on it.
She let him, because she's not without her share of stubbornness and because,
like, cute boy kissing her neck, she had no complaints. Once he was satisfied,
though, he ran his fingers into her hair, holding the back of her head and
pecking her on the lips once, twice before tugging her closer. She smiled and
he licked his way into her mouth and deepened the kiss so much Bonnie's face
warmed up, so much that it stopped feeling like playing around and started
feeling like a prelude to something, and that's what led to this. That's what
led to the way Jeremy's touching her now, the way he's gone from practically
groping her ass to curling his hands loosely around her waist, his grasp
tentative and barely there.
The first time he did that she thought he was gearing up for stopping. Which
was a perfectly reasonable conclusion, at least until he traced the strip of
skin over the waistband of her jeans with a fingertip and started tapping his
thumb on the button of her jeans. So he's not, like, easing them back into
reality or anything. This is how Jeremy touches her when he's waiting for her
to make a move.
Bonnie breathes out a laugh, her lids unconsciously stretching over her eyes as
she does. Her lips brush his when she tries to pull back, and he follows her,
stealing another kiss, and another. She sets a hand on his chest and keeps him
in place the next time she breaks apart, tugging at his bottom lip with her
teeth until it slides away.
She cocks her head and presses her lips together, gathering her thoughts.
"Okay," she finally says, feeling a little smile bloom across her mouth, "what
do you—" She lowers her voice a little and tries again. "What do you want to
do?" By the end the words are a giggly whisper, and she's smiling a full smile.
He only returns a fraction of it, which is kind of weird, and makes Bonnie
worry she's said the wrong thing. Maybe he wasn't thinking—okay, he was
probably thinking, but maybe he wasn't actually pushing for—for sex, here,
right now. He pulls a strand of hair behind her ear, and his knuckles brush her
cheek and stay there, shifting softly. Bonnie searches his face, not wanting to
repeat the question, and she notices his gaze drop to her mouth for just a
second, she does, but her brain doesn't register it as meaningful until he
says, sober, low, "Go down on me."
A part of her almost bursts out laughing at the seriousness of it, the
solemnity.
For the most part, though, she finds herself torn between freaking the hell out
and wondering why she suddenly wants so much to say yes. She stays in between,
a little shell-shocked.
The silence stretches without her noticing until he says, "I don't mean you
have to, you don't—"
"I asked a question," she says absently, shaking her head dismissively, "you
answered that question. It's fine."
"But you know you don't ever have to do anything you don't want to, you know
that, right?"
"I do know that," Bonnie says, raising her eyebrows. Sometimes it's a little
hard to grasp why Jeremy feels the need to remind her of this constantly. It's
not like she would push herself to do anything unless she wanted it, and she
knows he would never push her, either. For one thing, he probably couldn't even
if he tried, but she trusts him implicitly, both because he hasn't given her
reason not to, and also on that instinctive, irrational level that she can't
really explain.
"Okay," he says, falling silent again.
She shrugs, apologetic. "I just need to think for a second."
"It's fine," he says, and tilts his head to kiss her. She brings her knees up
until she's almost straddling him, until her weight rests on them, and slides
her hands under his shirt. She keeps them low at first, thumbing at the
waistband of his jeans, thinking. It's not—it wouldn't be totally new, what he
asked. They've done some things, things that were also firsts for her, things
that had her worrying he'd be disappointed or underwhelmed, given his dating
history, until she made herself stop, and they didn't turn out so badly. She's
not scarred for life, or anything. She can still face him without blushing.
Most of the time. And it's not like she doesn't want to. It's not even like she
hasn't thought about it. She has. A lot.
She's just still not used to having a boy like this for longer than an
afternoon before he turns up dead or a traitor or both, and she's still not
used to knowing Jeremy like this. He's so nice, so weirdly gentlemanly, almost
like he's trying to make up for all those years she thought of him as just
Elena's kid brother by constantly looking at her like she hung the moon. He's
attentive and careful and sweet, and now he's asking her to—to go down on him,
and hearing him say it out loud, in this matter of fact, calm, normal tone, is
almost incongruous in a way that fills Bonnie with contradictory feelings,
fondness and nerves and this sudden, impossible surge of want in her stomach
that makes her dizzy.
Dizzy enough to let her hands wander, apparently. Dizzy enough that when she
realizes she's pushed Jeremy's shirt halfway up his stomach, she keeps going
past his ribcage, the fabric bundling up under his arm, her knuckles brushing
his biceps. She swipes the pad of her thumbs over his nipples, swallowing the
way his breath hitches, and sways away still holding onto his shirt, drawing
him up with her so she can pull it over his head. He sweeps her into him when
it's off, his forearms taking on most of her weight, and their hips angle like
a pointed reminder that she could put her mouth somewhere lower than his chin.
"You still okay?" he asks. She makes an affirmative humming noise and grasps at
his elbows, pushing so he'll stop holding her and lie back. She follows him
when he does, follows his lips, steals a few more kisses, and then she lets her
mouth fade off towards his jaw. It's not the easiest thing in the world,
gearing up for something new and kind of scary, so when she tries to crawl down
his body, she ends up lingering for a while on his neck and collarbone without
meaning to, grazing his nipple with her teeth on her way down his chest and
tonguing over it. She listens for shifts in his breathing as she brings her
mouth lower; they're not loud, but they're clear when she sits back on his
thighs and leans forward, tracing her tongue along the line from his
bellybutton to his waistband, biting lightly where his stomach meets fabric.
Then, she pulls back, and she runs her hand over his thigh, starting at the
knee and moving upwards until her fingertips are stretched towards the edge of
his pocket and her thumb's skirting around his fly.
"Wait, are you—really—" He stumbles over his words, and Bonnie gives him a look
that's one part confused frown, one part amusement. "Wow, okay."
"You asked," she says, trying on a nonchalant tone. She's not sure it comes
across as blasé as she was going for, but it's not entirely unsuccessful. He
shifts on the mattress, legs falling a little wider between hers, and Bonnie
rubs her palm over the crotch of his jeans, feeling him grow harder. She's not
unfamiliar with this part, at least, with touching him.
"I didn't know we had an ask and ye shall receive thing going here," Jeremy
says, his voice strained. Bonnie smiles again, a small curling of her lips this
time. She likes this. She likes this a lot, how vocal he is, how obvious. It
was weird at first, and even now, because he's still Jeremy Gilbert, still
Elena's baby brother, that kid she's known all her life, and she didn't think
she'd ever hear him whimper, or moan, or growl low in his throat with his hand
between her legs and his mouth on her stomach. She never thought she'd hear him
sound like this, on the verge of wrecked before they even started, but it's—it
feels right that he'd be as intense in this kind of situation as he is
everywhere else.
She offers a one-shoulder shrug. "We don't," she says, running a fingertip
along his zipper, undoing the button carefully. "It's more like ask and I may
grant your wishes if I feel like it."
"Well, that's kind of the unspoken... Kind of goes without saying," he says,
frowning a little. Her ears perk up, wary, because it sounds like the beginning
of one of his little we don't have to do anything you don't feel ready for
speeches, and it's not that she doesn't appreciate those speeches—they're kind
of condescending in theory, but she knows he doesn't mean them like that, and
it's sweet of him—but they also make her feel like a blushing virgin, and she's
already hyperaware of her lack of experience right now as it is. She doesn't
need a reminder. "I mean—"
He trails off, watching her with wide eyes because she just—she just yanked his
pants down to his knees. And his underwear. She suppresses a nervous giggle,
takes a deep breath instead, makes herself blink. She's not sure she meant to
do that. She just wanted him to stop talking.
"Wow," he says, just that. She guesses at least the shutting him up part was a
success.
There's a number of thoughts going through her head right now, and she bites
her lip to keep them from coming out. It doesn't seem like a great idea to
blurt out, oh, God, what am I doing? And she would definitely, definitely
regret it if she asked him to get dressed and let her try again, give her a
chance to think before seeing him naked. It would just be embarrassing.
"Bonnie," he says, questioning, kind of concerned, and she swallows and shakes
her head until she's capable of tilting it up and facing him.
"Yes?" she says, wincing at how stupidly nervous it sounds. His lids carry that
heaviness of wanting something so much you can't focus on anything else, and
she sighs with relief for no good reason, glancing down less shyly. She reaches
for him before she can change her mind.
"Wait," he says, and she pulls her hand back like it's been burned.
"What?" It sounds like a squeak. She tries again. "What?"
He gives her a look that seems to say I know this shouldn't surprise me and I'm
not trying to be condescending or anything, but it's hilarious to me that
you're this nervous, and she shoots him a glare in return. "No, I don't..." he
adds, cutting himself off and shaking his head like any of that meant something
to her, and then he pulls himself higher up the bed until he's almost sitting
and his head is resting against the headboard.
"Okay," she says, quiet and mostly to herself. "You're going to—watch me do
this. Okay."
"That's not," Jeremy begins. Bonnie shakes her head and he interprets it as the
request for him to stop talking that it is.
"It's fine," she concludes, and runs her palm quickly up his thigh until it's a
natural derail to wrap her fingers around his cock.
It is fine. It's weird, too, because she's done this before, but not that many
times, and never with the intention of doing anything else. But it's fine. She
likes to feel him like this, hot and heavy in her hand; she likes the little
gaspy moans he lets out when her fingers slide up until she can spread the
wetness that's already there, make the slide back down easier; and she
definitely, definitely likes the strangled cry she hears when she leans forward
as her hand reaches the base, and engulfs the head of his cock in her mouth.
It's not bad. It's not something she can't handle. She pulls back and swipes
her tongue across the crown and she thinks she could get used to it, with time.
She takes him in again, slightly deeper now, until his cock hits her cheek; she
suckles a little, experimentally, and he says her name in a ridiculous high
pitch that makes her think she may even already like this.
She feels him move before he touches her shoulder, feels where he's going
before his fingers reach her head.
"Don't do that," she says, more of a plea than an order.
He takes his hand back immediately, fingers curling around the bedspread the
way they just did for an instant around her hair. He says, "I won't."
"But you can," she begins, her mind working a hundred miles a minute, "you can
talk me through it. If that's what you were—even if it isn't, just." She
scrunches up her face, apologetic, because grabbing for her head probably had
nothing to do with guiding her anyway. He nods, though, and doesn't say
anything else.
She tries again, and it's easier now, carries somewhat less of the pressure of
this being her first time now she's already taken the first step. It's still
kind of awkward, and she feels a little silly trying to be careful with her
teeth or moving her head up and down, but she does it anyway, and she keeps
listening, and her worries lessen as she goes, as she hears his breathing
continually threaten to turn to panting, as she feels his thigh tighten under
her hand.
Her worries also lessen as time goes by without him openly criticizing her—not
that she thought he would, but most of what he says is along the lines of don't
force yourself, which is a good approach to criticism, she thinks. She kind of
hates that it actually helps; it's not exactly pride—well, it's only partly
pride—but more like this shyness gripping her chest every time she realizes
she's trying harder than she maybe should. She doesn't know. All she knows is
she lets her mouth slide too low at one point, low enough she has trouble
breathing, and he seems to notice before she does; all she knows is she forgets
she still has a hand on his cock until he asks her to use it.
She uses both hands instead of one, keeping one firm around him, pumping along
with her mouth, and reaching the other one lower to cup his balls, squeezing
lightly as she presses her tongue just under the head of his cock. She hears
him swallow loudly and say, "Jesus, Bonnie," just before she feels him move.
This probably still counts as trying too hard, but it's easier to think of it
as experimenting when she's not choking, when all she's trying to do is figure
out what else makes him curse, what else makes him reach down for her before he
remembers she asked him to keep his hands to himself.
She has a bit of a rhythm going now, though, and she's kind of comfortable,
nowhere near as embarrassed as before about letting her head bob, and she's not
sure she doesn't want him to touch her now. She almost tries to talk around
him, and then she pulls off. There's this loud, wet noise, followed by a little
trail of saliva, and she lets out a little whimper in surprise, blushing,
first, and then going back and kissing the head softly, just to keep her lips
there.
When she looks at him, his eyes are closed, and they only open when she speaks.
"You can—you can touch my hair. If you want. Move my head? Just be careful."
He nods at her, looking a little surprised, lids fluttery, tongue peeking out
to wet his lips, and she dodges his gaze by taking him in her mouth again,
trying to stay focused.
She loses a bit of that focus when she feels fingers on her scalp, threading
through her hair; he helps her get it back, pressing her head down a little.
It's not as terrifying as she thought it would be. It's—he starts off slow,
mostly just grabbing her head, holding her in place, and then he starts pulling
her back and forth—slow, so slow, giving her time to get used to it. She
appreciates it because she needs it, because that way, when he starts outright
guiding her head, it's kind of relaxing and kind of a turn-on and even helpful;
it gives her room to lick and suckle without worrying about throwing her
rhythm.
His gets a little less regular after a while, and she picks up where his hand
leaves off, sucking a little harder, tightening her grip. She sets one of her
hands on his thigh, squeezing, and he tugs at her hair, not hard enough to
hurt, but hard enough for her to feel it and moan around his cock. His hips
jerk, and she drags her hand high enough to keep him down. She's not sure why,
but it's insanely hot, having him spread out like this under her, his composure
falling apart, his thighs shuddering. His head is thrown back now and he's
making more and more noise, groans and little half screams as his fingers go
lax on her head. They fall to her shoulder and she only gets a glimpse of them
holding onto the bedspread again, clutching it hard, before there's a loud,
"Oh, fuck," and she pulls back just in time for him to come in her mouth.
She blinks, panicking for a second, but then she just leaves her mouth open,
lets his orgasm spill into it. She doesn't try to swallow much of it; she lets
his come drip back out over him until her mouth's as empty as it's going to be
without spitting out what's left. That much she does swallow, mostly without
thinking, and then she wipes her chin and licks her lips experimentally,
allowing the taste to register. It's warm, a little bitter, but it's not—it's
not bad.
"That is so hot," he breathes, and then, when she looks up, "I'm sorry."
Bonnie shakes her head, sitting up, "It's fine." There's a stretch of silence,
and the she adds kind of stupidly, "It's not like I ever have the presence of
mind to warn you when I—you know."
He cocks his head. "Yeah, but you don't have to—"
"Hypothetically, if I did have to, I still probably wouldn't," she says with a
fractional shrug. "Besides, it could come in handy."
His laugh is brief, startled. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, I guess it could."
She smiles and crawls up his body, kissing him before it even occurs to her to
wonder if it's an okay thing to do, if it's okay to kiss a guy when he's just
come in her mouth. She kisses him before it occurs to her what a stupid thing
to worry about that is; she's tasted herself in his mouth a few times and the
worst thing she felt about it was embarrassment, the first time, belatedly
realizing letting him go down on her meant now he knew how she tasted. But that
was his fault for pointing it out; the taste itself was hardly new to her, and
she liked the way she could taste herself and his mouth at the same time. It's
hard to believe anyone would mind that much.
All Jeremy does is kiss her back, slow and deep and somehow still gentle,
rubbing her back under her shirt, and then he sits up higher, pulls her closer
and turns her around in his lap. She goes with it, but she only begins to relax
into it when he opens her jeans, pushing them down until she props herself up
on her feet and lifts her ass. He pulls them down along with her underwear, and
when she settles down over his thighs his soft cock brushes her skin, and she
tenses up again, momentarily.
"So how close are you right now?" he asks, soft in her ear, and it takes her
way too long to put two and two together and realize he means how close to—to
orgasm. God, she needs to stop stumbling over these things in her own head.
"Right now?" she asks, and his chin tapping lightly on her shoulder. She bites
her lip. "I don't know. But I could get closer."
"Yeah?"
She nods and lets her head fall back on his shoulder, and his free arm comes
around her side, across her chest, until his forearm's holding her close to him
and he can sneak a hand down her open shirt and inside her bra to squeeze her
breast. She relaxes a little more, then, feeling the last hints of shyness in
her stomach fade into little sparks that make her shiver instead of blush.
"You okay?" he asks, for the umpteenth time, and she decides she doesn't want
to deign the question with an answer; she lets her hips speak for her, pushing
into the hand that's only cupping her close, not quite touching her yet. "I'll
take that as a yes," he says idly, and she whines a little when he traps her
nipple between two of his fingers. It's good, it feels good, but that's not the
hand she needs him to move right now.
She's about to complain, but then he does move that hand, brushing his thumb
over her clit like a freaking tease and slipping a finger inside her, and she
gasps instead, her hand flying to his wrist on her chest, and decides
complaining isn't necessary.
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