Disclaimer: Je ne le possède pas.

Author's Note: Firstly, I apologize, but this chapter may be shorter than what I was promising by a bit. I had an alternate version of this chapter written out that literally had nothing to do with this one, and it was pretty much six pages long by the time I was done with it. But looking back at it, I realized that it was something I could use for a multi-chapter story, so I decided to save that one and write something that made a little more sense for this series. So sorry that this is so short (really, it's a good four pages, but whatever); I hope that I don't disappoint anyone with this, the last installation of a wonderful writing experience for me.

Secondly, I would like to thank each and every one of you who has read and reviewed this story and given me feedback. I really appreciate you taking the time to do so, and it really means a lot to me that most of you have been following Cardinal Sins since the beginning. And so, as we come to a close, best wishes to all and hope you guys will read my future Bamon fics! I hope that Lust does not let you down. Keep it real, guys.

Rated: PG17 for language because our Damon's a little pottymouth and loves his f-words, doesn't he? :3

Word Count: 1737



It's 3AM and he's standing outside her door.

He's already rehearsed what he's going to say, only every time he goes over the words in his head, they keep changing. He can hear her pacing around up there in her bedroom (the one he's kept an eye on for the past three weeks), even though the light is off and the blinds are shuttered.

He tries tapping into her thoughts, but it's as if he's the AM tuner and she is on FM… he can't pick up her signal, even though he senses its presence. It frustrates the hell out of him; he's never had trouble hacking into that pretty little mind of hers before.

She's purposefully blocking him.

Fine. He'll just have to do it the old-fashioned way, since he still hasn't been invited inside the Bennett residence. There are no trees near her window and he doesn't really feel like pulling a Spiderman, even though he could do it easily. It's not like her father would try to play the Daddy-Hero card; she made the mistake of telling him a week ago that her father would be out of town on a business trip and she would be all alone.

Instead, he raises his fist, fully prepared to pound on the door like the apocalypse is really fucking nigh. But something stops his fist from making contact with the door… he's not really prepared for what—or who, for that matter—will be waiting for him on the other side.

And he certainly has a few choice words to say to little miss Sabrina the Teenage fucking Witch. He just wants to make sure that he has them fully rehearsed before she gets her adorable little self to open the door and invite him inside.

He'd tell her how she was foolish—no, the stunt she pulled was actually borderline dumbassery—for running away in the middle of the night, with god knows what roaming around out there, waiting to chow down on some tender seventeen-year-old witch meat.

He'd tell her how he's fucking tired of her and her righteousness, always treating him like he's a commodity with no soul or no fucking purpose in life other than to act like the bad guy and go around eating people, mauling babies and kicking puppies or whatever. That part's only 80 percent true, and he highly resents that.

He'd tell her how, if he could breathe, it wouldn't matter, because he wouldn't be able to breathe around her. How, if he wasn't dead, he would have a heart, and it would be beating solely for her. How, every day, he wakes up and the first thing that comes to his mind is her. How, every night, he goes to sleep and the last thing that leaves mind is her.

He'd tell her how much it hurts, physically hurts, to have her gone for too long. He chalks it up to the amount of blood-swapping they've done with each other, some sort of connection forged by sadistic ritual, but deep down he worries that something more permanent is to blame.

But it's not like he can say any of this, at least to her face. After all, how can he say these things when all they would be are empty words? Damon Salvatore doesn't exactly practice what he preaches.

He raises his fist once more to knock but before he gets a chance the door flies open and dear Lord there she is as if she sensed his presence all along. Her eyes are all bleary and hair rumpled, her sweatshirt baggy and ripped and barely enough to cover those ridiculous short shorts girls call clothing nowadays. She looks miserable and tired.

Good. She looks how he feels.

"I'm not inviting you inside," she says firmly, hand resting on the doorknob. The porch light is not on, but with his predatory senses Damon can see every shadow of her face, can make out how her lips are pursed into a thin line and her eyes are hard as she looks anywhere but his eyes.

"Bonnie," he says, and he opens his mouth but the words die in his throat because really, what can he say? He can't even tell where she ends and he starts anymore, and it's really fucking tragic because he's starting to sound a lot like those cheesy soaps that he gave Stefan hell for watching back in the seventies.

"Bonnie," he tries again, softer this time, and he searches within himself for the words, even though he knows he's too much of a damn coward to vocalize them. Or maybe he just likes to say her name. "Bonnie, I can't… I'm not…" How anticlimactic is it when he can't even finish a sentence around her?

He falls silent. Bows his head.

Turns to go.

A hand shoots out to grip his arm and he stops dead.

She grabs a handful of his shirt and pulls him back towards her, and he obeys silently, stopping when she places a careful hand on his chest. They are inches apart, and Damon wants nothing more than to kiss her, touch her, taste her, but he knows Bonnie. She'll want to be the one to make the first move.

"Bonnie, I can't," he pleads, and he's almost disgusted with how whiney his voice sounds. It's as if he's taken voice training from Caroline. "I can't. It's not something that I'm…"

She places a finger on his lips and he quiets.

"I know," she whispers, and she is the one comforting him now. "I know," she repeats, a barely audible tone, and she nuzzles his lips with hers. "It's okay. I know."

And his knees practically give out when he realizes that he's forgiven.

They're like two heavy masses orbiting each other, fated to perpetually dance an elliptical tango before eventually, finally, at last crashing into one another in an explosion of heated atmosphere. And when their lips meet Damon feels the same sense of relief, because this is a language he is fluent in. Instead of telling her, he shows her. His hand slide around her waist and she is already lost in him.

She makes a broken sound, half whimper, half sob, and if he had his eyes open he would see the fresh tear tracks streaming down her face even as she smiles into his mouth. But he doesn't open his eyes, opting for exploring the sensation he feels, like the way her mouth tastes of Ben and Jerry's Brownie Batter (her favorite flavor, he happens to know) and how her hands tangle themselves in his hair just the way he likes, and how her body presses flush against his, molding together perfectly, and Jesus Christ, this is what kids call 'epic' these days, isn't it? he thinks as she does that thing with her tongue that has him shuddering with want, backing her against the frame of the door as he grinds into her hips. She gasps into his mouth and he thrusts his tongue deeper into the warm recess of her mouth, a no-holds-barred kiss that tells her exactly what he'd like to be doing to her, with her right now.

He eventually realizes that his hands are unusually idle for such a situation and he runs them along the waistband of her shots, trailing his fingers lightly along that thin strip of skin between drawstring and sweatshirt. He delights in her shivers. He can't help himself when his hands go through the familiar motions, sliding his fingers under her shirt to cup one breast with his right hand while working the clasp with his left. Her kisses are distracting, as evidenced by the ridiculously long amount of time that it is taking him to figure out her bra clasp, so he detaches his mouth from hers (he ignores the indignant sounds she makes) and instead makes a beeline for her neck, a somewhat less distracting area of ministration.

He hooks her leg over his hip and pushes her roughly into the paneling of her front porch, kissing her so forcefully that it hurts, it has to hurt. She arches into him and his fangs have descended and though he tries to hold himself back, but it's beginning to get hard, very, very hard, especially when she's shaking beneath him, whispering in her mind to do it. Damon. Y-yes. Do it.

He rears back his head, eyes shadowed with bloodlust.

A dog barks in the distance and the noise shatters the night, startling Bonnie and totally, completely breaking the mood.

Damon tosses a furious look over his shoulder in the general direction of the cockblocking mongrel and feels Bonnie slide out of his arms, her agility surprising even him. He turns in time to see her sweep over the threshold of her home, out of reach.

He traces the arch of her doorway with his hands like a restless tiger, damning the wooden thing for separating them, but his feet are glued to the Wipe Your Paws mat beneath them and he cannot take a step further, something she knows is killing him. So she turns back, flashing him a smile that makes him hunger for things of a base, primal nature. He'd forgotten what her smiles were like.

"By the way, Damon, you're no longer a Salvatore." She smiled at the quizzical look on his face, half amused and half bewildered. "The next few weeks, your last name is Whipped. Got that?"

She stands there with a hand on her hip, coy smile tracing the curves of her lips in challenge and he knows he deserves it, but it's kind of pointless to tell her that he already is, so he just lets her go along with it.

She turns and walks further inside, and he cocks his head to the side. The door is still open, her voice calls out to him from within.

"Oh, and Damon? You can come in, if you want."

He can hear the laughter in her tone and for some reason, it makes him feel… content. It's symbolic, practically a metaphor, what she's inviting him into, he realizes. He just needs to make sure he doesn't screw it up again. He smiles, staring after her before he walks inside, closing the door behind him.

And so Damon Salvatore took a small, careful step, over the threshold and into her heart.

. fin .

Postscript: It's cheese. Pure, fluffy, air-whipped cheese. But you know what? I think these two deserved it. After all the angsty whatnot I've put them through in the past six chapters, who's to say that they can't end on a happy note? So bah to any haters, and yes they were OOC, but I enjoyed writing it and only wish that there were more sins that I could explore with these two. Well, folks. That's it! Review and I suppose I'll see you around.