AUTHOR'S NOTE: AH! There's always more room in the fanfiction world for Bamon, right? I'm sure there have been tons and tons of these kinds of prompts, but I've always wanted to write this kind of seven-shot for these two feisty characters. I've already gotten all the chapters written, so it all depends on you guys' reviews if I ever upload 'em! Hope all you fellow Bamon shippers enjoy :)

The overwhelming desire for more.

Damon Salvatore was greedy.

He didn't just want some of her. He wanted all of her.

Some may have blamed that on his nature, Lord knew Elena did. Hell, for a while, Damon even thought his being a vampire and having to deal with his undying need for more and more of what he could not have – or who he could not have was all in relation to his… greater purpose.

He, of course, concluded that that was bullshit.

Though he cringed just thinking about the year 1864, he often reminisced about his human life. When he'd fallen in love with a woman who was more in love with his brother. He thought about how much he was smitten with Katherine Pierce, how much he had wanted her. All of her.

He chuckled darkly to himself now when he thought back to the days when he had desired such a cruel, heartless creature. The irony of how the tables were now turned on him now that a certain goody-goody witch completely consumed his mind, and she couldn't stand the sight of him because he was exactly how Katherine had been, enraged dark feelings within his soul.

Damon was cruel, heartless – a soulless killer. A powerful, hungry, brutal being.


Not all the scotch, vodka or Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey in the world could satisfy the intensifying, longing ache buried deep in the pits of his stomach. Not enough blood of random, easily seduced fraternity girls or the very few residents of Mystic Falls he was still able to compel, could sedate his hunger the way she could.

Bonnie Bennett should not have given him a taste.

She shouldn't have allowed her warm, spirited, intoxicating blood to pass his lips and make a home on his tongue.

Because now, sitting in the study of the Salvatore mansion, head thrown back on the couch, dangerous blue eyes sweeping across the ceiling, a glass half-full of weak amber liquid, Damon decided it was time for a real drink.

The glass made a clinking noise when he set it down harshly on the coffee table, leftover alcohol splashing on the worn cover of one of, he supposed, Stefan's journals. He got up; heading for the door, a primal look descending upon his features as he blurred his way to the witch's home.

He'd be sure to force his way in, invited or not.

And if she dared to protest, he'd shut her up with the sensation of his lips, the way he'd done so many times before.