A/N: I wrote this sometime last week, so, as far as Rose goes, there are some minor discrepancies. Just ignore them ;) Thanks.

It's wrong, it's wrong, and he doesn't care.

He can get sex from anyone. He doesn't have to resort to this, and he hasn't-not in nearly a hundred and forty-five years, he hasn't. But, as of late, he's gotten this conscience, and this conscience, he's sure, will be his end. He had a conscience once, and Katherine took it away from him; it would be Elena that brought it back.

So now that he's got this conscience, he knows, he knows it's so wrong, it's wrong. But he hasn't completely lost sight of who he thinks he is, so he doesn't care. Even so, the wrongness of it all keeps him from depending on anyone else for this: It's something he has to do for himself.

He starts out slowly. Stefan isn't home; he's with Elena, of course. He lies back on his bed and gently traces the seam of his fly with a single finger. He unbuttons his jeans. He exhales. This is stupid. This is wrong and stupid and he should just find someone, anyone, to get off with because he can, he knows he can. He can have anyone in the world. Anyone. Anyone but the one he wants, and isn't that how it's always been for him? Isn't that how it's always going to be?

He unzips his fly.

Using Rose was almost working. But she, even through her occasional misjudgements, was too wise to keep it up. Even if she wasn't dead, he's not sure if he would have been able to continue with her. It was all getting too wrong, too weird, and too hard to pretend any longer. Her hair was too short, her body too broad. It was all wrong.

He hasn't actually done this himself since becoming a vampire, which, now, he thinks, is pretty weird because as a human he used to do it all the time. That is, until he started being able to better seduce women, of course. He smirks to himself.

His nimble fingers slip inside his (very expensive, he likes to add) silk boxers and he remembers instantly the feel of his own fingers against his cock. A century has evidently done nothing to erase the complete muscle-memory of what feels good and what doesn't. And even though it's wrong, it's so, so wrong, he slowly slides his fingers around himself, presses in his palm, and jerks gently up and down. He groans softly, remembering what it felt like to be weak. As a human, he knew very well what it was like to be weak. He deserted his cause; he gave into temptation; worst of all, he'd fallen for Katherine Pierce. Yes, as a human, he had been so, so weak and it was that weakness that had killed him. His weakness for seeking his own free will, his weakness for power. His weakness for Katherine. It had been all that which had undone him in the end.

Not that he's been much better as a vampire, he thinks idly, twisting his wrist sharply and jerking his hips upwards. He tries to be, he pretends to be, but he isn't. He's still weak. The only difference is that Katherine had known. She had known all along how weak he was, and she used that, she used him. But Elena. Elena is different. Elena doesn't know about his weakness because he'd made her forget. It was true that she was not Katherine, as she had feared, because she trusted before she doubted. Katherine's life had made her bitter, and Elena's hadn't. That was the difference.

And yes, he still believes that he truly had been in love with Katherine-but perhaps only with the Katherine who he'd thought to be human. Once he knew, he thinks, about who she was and what she was, he's pretty sure he was only in love with the power she could bring him. It was, after all, one of his weaknesses.

He's going faster now, probably faster than would normally be possible for a human. He pushes up into his hand, not caring, not caring, that this is wrong, it's so wrong, because he loves her, he loves her. He - fuck - God - loves her so, so much. He doesn't want it to have to be about this. It's not about sex, he doesn't want sex. Well - shit - Jesus - he wants sex but he'd rather just have her - fuck - beside him. He just wants to be able to hold her there, to know that nothing is going to hurt her, ever, because he'll always be right there protecting her.

Shit shit shit - but he knows, as his one consolation, that she will be safe. Nothing is going to hurt her - fuck - ever, because Stefan will always be right there protecting her. She'll always be safe while Stefan's there.

But he knows, he knows, he - fucking hell - he knows, that if anything were to happen to Stefan, there would be nothing to stop him from snatching her up like a child would a left-behind toy on a playground. But he wouldn't. He - fuck - shit - he wouldn't. Because he fucking cared about her more than nearly anything in the world. More than Katherine; more than Stefan; more than... himself.

All it takes is the thought of her smile, and he cums hard. It's not that he wants the sex, he knows. It's just that the sex is the only way he knows how to vent his reality of not having her. If he could sit there at night by himself and simply love her to death until he felt a little better, he would. As he can't, this is all he has. He wipes his hand on his sheets and lets his breathing steady. In. Out. In. Out. Elena. It catches on an In.

All his life, Damon has been weak. Nothing has changed; nothing at all. Nothing, except perhaps the single most important thing there is: Elena is in danger, and she needs all the protection she can get. And he knows this. And he will protect her. Because through his weakness, he will never allow himself to not be strong for her. No matter how wrong it is.

THE END