A/N: written for my 5-ships Christmas writing challenge, but also because what the hell, I love these two in any iteration and I'm always thrilled when folks request my babies. Enjoy!

my honey I know
with the dawn
that you will be gone
but tonight
you belong to me

patience and prudence - tonight you belong to me

The clock on the bedside table shows midnight.

Bonnie yawns, lifts the book off her chest. She has been chasing sleep for the last few pages.

She turns off the light and settles down in bed. Her body feels heavy with exhaustion. It sinks against the mattress like it wants to be submerged. She obliges. She just wants to have a dreamless night without magic. These past few days have exerted a terrible strain on her resources. She's been pouring over spells, trying to lock down the ebbing flow of dark magic within her. No one can know that she has lost a sliver of control. None of her friends or family can find out she has been toying with Expression. She can handle it, she can fix it. She just needs time to heal, to recharge, to become someone new…

Bonnie heaves a weary sigh. Her youth is slipping through her fingers. She stares at her hand in the dark. She can see its spindly outlines. It looks fragile, almost bloodless. Consumed from within.

She blinks. There is a darker shade of dark swirling between her fingers. Normally, she would chalk it up to remnants of flagging magic. But the wisps of dark mist are both dense and fluid, churning like living things.

When she looks about her, the dark curls and twists. It spreads its slick tentacles, slowly filling up the room to the brim. Even the streetlights stop reflecting in her window.

Bonnie looks up. Instead of the ceiling, there is only a whirling, yawning chasm, waiting to swallow her.

A person unfamiliar with such phenomena might thrash or scream for help. They might even pass out.

But Bonnie only grumbles. "I hate it when you do this."

Her voice does not betray the quickening of her pulse. She tries to be brave but unimpressed. She lies still, waiting for him to show himself. He always does…eventually. Some nights he makes her wait until dawn, shifting in the dark like a restless animal. Some nights he doesn't come at all. But he will drop in for a visit regularly.

Minutes pass in relative quiet while the gaping maws of a black hole enfold her and make any sudden movement dangerous.

In theory, she could get up and leave the room. In practice, she might be splintered to the bone.

Then she feels them. Smoky fingers tugging at the cuffs of her knee-high socks.

"Bon Bon…" he clicks his tongue, voice pregnant with darkness, shifting and melding with it. Little tenebrous engines clack between his teeth. "I swear you wear these on purpose."

Bonnie shakes her head on the pillow. It's not her fault she gets chills in the middle of the night.

"Chills?" he echoes with a hiss. "Silly rabbit…you're not fooling anyone."

The figure emerging from the dark folds is grinning. In fact, the grin is the first thing she sees, bodiless, like some hellish Cheshire Cat. Then his brilliant eyes, filled with mirth and boyish evil.

He leans his chin against her kneecap and she feels the weight bearing down on her. "Admit it…you just like it when I take them off."

He lowers his mist-born mouth and his teeth scrape against the cuff, dragging the fabric down her leg while he holds her other leg down.

Bonnie's breath hitches. She clutches the sheets painfully. Her hips quiver. She can feel the Expression pulsing within her like a second heartbeat. She feels a manufactured excitement for the presence before her. It's the dark magic within her that sings at his touch, not her.

"If you didn't like it…" he drawls, pausing in his disrobement, "you wouldn't leave yourself so…open to me. I mean, have you never heard of pajama pants?"

His laughter is like a tongue of fire, tickling the shell of her ear.

Bonnie feels her cheeks burning. It's the middle of May. The humidity alone makes it hard to wear any clothes. That's why she's only wearing an oversized T-shirt to bed. But she can't help the socks. The chills have been with her since she was a child. The bastard knows this, knows too much about her. He can dip into her mind and drink from the pool of her essence because it has been sullied and muddied with Expression.

No one ever told her that this was the aftermath of playing with bad magic. Shane was certainly happy to conceal it from her.

"Still, you could make an effort…to be less…appetizing…" he purrs and Bonnie gasps when she feels that demonic tongue licking the sensitive spot inside her knee.

"Don't," she rasps, legs sliding into him, sliding into his solid yet fluid darkness.

"Mmm…I don't know….You're giving me mixed signals, Bon."

His fingers slide against her bare thighs like blistering claws. It should be painful. She should abhor it. She should move.

But she's so tired and his touch feeds the Expression, keeps it at bay.

"That's right…you need me," he purrs, kissing the inside of her thigh.

"I just need sleep," she says, breathless, sleepless. Fully awake.

"But I can't help you in your sleep," he whines, claws slipping under her shirt, scratching against her belly, sinking in, tearing at the flesh like a loving Freddy Krueger. It shouldn't feel good to get stabbed repeatedly, to feel yourself cut open and disemboweled, but she curls her toes to keep from moaning.

"You're not… helping," she pants, as his fingers carve lower and snag the band of her underwear.

He grins between her thighs, smoldering darkness made material.

"No? Well…someone has to eat up all this excess magic pouring out of you."

And he licks his lips like the cat who found the cream bowl.

"Can you feel it? It's…just begging me to…take care of it."

His sharp talons cut down to the apex of her thighs and her hips jolt. Darkness is pouring in instead of out. No human fingers will ever feel like this and she hates it, hates the singularity.

"I can already taste it," he rasps, mouth of doom ghosting over the sensitive flesh.

Bonnie can't help opening her thighs for him, but the demon grips them and pulls them shut against him. He is both a solid body and a mist cleaving to her damp skin.

"You always forget," he hums right against her core, and she twists her head into the pillow. "I don't want you to spread. I want you to grip those thighs until it hurts. Until it really hurts."

Bonnie groans, clamping around the pulsing nothing of his being, picturing the strength of her thighs reducing him to ash, picturing her thighs decapitating him, head rolling off the sheets like a trophy.

The thought makes her shiver all over. Wings of Expression unfold inside her.

"Ohhh, naughty girl," he purrs, tongue slipping between her folds, latching onto her clit like it's the goddamn fountain of Expression. His teeth make a godless meal out of it, grinding and teasing, shredding nerve endings, cresting over the nub again and again while her thighs rub against each other, while he's there and not there, inside and out, and everywhere. He quaffs every drop of magic leaking out of her, groaning at the taste of her, this little heedless witch who even now reaches out with shaking hands and sinks them in his hair, in a vain attempt to remove him…or bring him closer. After a while, it doesn't make a difference. She tugs at the immateriality, she wraps it around her fingers. He loves her curiosity, her instinct for exploration, despite everything. She wants to know him, no matter what she says. She wants to delve deeper into Expression, she wants him to delve deeper too.

Ah-ah…not yet, he chuckles, knowing exactly how to string her along. He eats her cunt until it begs for mercy, until it bleeds into his waiting mouth.

He tells her, "fuck yourself with the dark," and she moans wantonly, her pussy clenching around him as she comes right into the black hole.

One day, he'll fuck her properly and she'll take his cock and love it and she'll scream his name to hell and back. In fact, the day he tells her his name is the day he'll baptize her. He'll drag her down into the waters and make her taste him. She'll choke on the corruption, but she'll drink his seed happily and her eyes will finally open. From there it's a short journey down into his lair. He'll have her riding him on the throne until she is so full with him, so weak and robbed of pleasure that she won't even hear the choir chanting Ave Satana in the wings.

Malachai, once an angel more beloved than Lucifer, a true warlock of heaven, drinks her essence, claiming that future. She will be his one day.

Bonnie feels bruised as she comes down from the high. She bleeds magic everywhere.

There's smoke inside her mind.

In the morning, there are claw marks on the sheets and a few drops of virginal blood, but nothing like the gushing she felt in the night. Her body is untouched, unblemished.

She looks for signs in vain. She almost wants to find them. She wants his brand there, just so she can say, this isn't my mind, this isn't me doing it, I'm not – I'm good, I don't want this.

The room is empty and she is alone. She must rise and return to her duties, but she lingers there, caught between nightmare and reality, wondering which she prefers.

She knows that she will still wear knee-high socks the next time he comes.