lazypeachx💋

im sorry this took so long :( also whoever reads this, please tag some bamon fics u love. i adore anything by the authors lapis love & swamy on ff. full story on my fanfiction profile but here’s a snippet xx happy bamon day!

Between the antiquated pages of Wuthering Heights, Bonnie Bennett hears the sound of rain. A steady sprinkling so lulling and mesmerizing and absolute that it almost frightens her to see that it is still May 10th, 1994.

When she peaks through the blinds the beaming sun is slowly starting to wane, sunset is soon, the same hazy orange, the same undying heat.

Here, there is no such thing as anything else but somehow she’s managed to trick herself with this growing longing for change. Everyday away from the real world is another day for her to forget what possibility feels like- she craves not only rain, but snow too, a cold, snowy winter, that makes her excited for summer all over again. In an obsessive way, the feeling of something new is always on her mind, she’s in desperate need of a surprise.

Bonnie sighs distantly. Once she makes it back home, (because somehow she always does), she vows to stand in the middle of every storm and drink the raindrops as they come. Just to remember. Just to never forget.

The sound of rain. Laughter bubbles up in her throat at the silly little thought, she may very well be losing her mind, but it’s fine. Everything’s fine. She returns to the novel with hopes that she’ll be distracted from how fine everything is, trapped in the story of a boarding house and lost love and ghosts.

But the boarding house makes her think of home and the lost love makes her think of home, and the ghosts, (especially the ghosts,) makes her think of home.

It’s a great story, evocative, she’s just too sensitive right now. Reading page after page where the plot thickens and the scenery changes is the one thing she can’t relate with, it makes her sore. Envious.

Bonnie nearly drops the book in agitation, flips a few pages forward and sees calligraphy here and there in random margins. Stefan’s.

Perhaps it’s his footnotes that prompt her olfactory hallucinations earlier- the smell of wet asphalt is not unlike that of dried ink on aged pages. Chemically natural. Pungent. If she closes her eyes, it does smell like a downpour.

Or a blizzard.

Or a skin scent; anatomy mixed with the faint smell of soap or salt or leather.

Naturally, she thinks of Damon.

Funny enough, he recommends this book to her one morning as she’s browsing through the home library. Bonnie grabs Wuthering Heights by accident, she has already studied it in high school and is quick to put the novel back in its alphabetical place, only Damon suggests that she read it a second time. At her hesitance, he insists. She’s never pegged him to be an avid reader.

“It won’t be the same story you read for literature,” Damon Salvatore, who’d more or less die than reveal that he thinks, is sharing story suggestions. The same Damon who prefers to lead with looks then blindside with depth later, sometimes never. But here in their prison world, he has nowhere to run and she has nothing better to do than observe. She’s beginning to know him better than Caroline; he’s starting to gain on her friendship with Elena.

“I’ll take your word for it.” This prison has also made her weary to fight back every now and then. She takes his recommendation without question and she wishes she gives him more resistance because it isn’t like she trusts him or something.

“Oh Bon, Bon?”

One thought of him and now he’s calling, she doesn’t miss the irony.

“Damon,” she calls back, feigning aggravation “So much for peace and quiet.” Her actions speak louder than words, though, already, she’s bookmarking her page, leaving the study for the bar where two glasses of bourbon await him to her one.

This has become a sacred space for her, her little hideaway. Whisky is as much a friend as Damon at times. To have both spoils her.

“There you are.” He’s wearing his signature lazy smile. “I knew the only way to get your nose out of that novel was to make myself useful.”

“And that you did.” Quickly she taps her glass against his outstretched one, the gentle clink relieves her from fixating on what it is that secretly makes her feel enthused about being in Damon’s company. “I must admit, you weren’t wrong about rereading,” she says, back to using that poor book to distract herself from her own inner wonderings.

He hums a sound of approval. Without much thought, Damon drapes his arm around her barstool, it’s a habit for him to make her personal space his own, so much so, she’s starting to smell leathery and spicy and woody too. “When am I ever?”

“What, wrong?” She nearly guffaws before adding quickly, “It’s a very long list. Shall I drop the scroll?”

“Hilarious.” Damon says facetiously, downing his first glass. His hand is already cupping the next tumbler. “You wanna talk about yesterday?” He watches her then, no hint of mirth in his expression, in as little words, he’s worried about her. Damon Salvatore is worried about her. It’s absurd the way he cares now; honest concern is blatant in his eyes. This place is an alternate reality that molds and twists and reshapes the world she once knew to outlandish proportions.

“I don’t know,” she begins, taken aback by his seriousness. Maybe a little startled by his beauty, too.

He’s so easy to look at and difficult to hold eye contact with at the same time but she forces herself to face the flame just this once.

Bonnie settles on, “What about it?” Guiltily.

Yesterday is a blur, she remembers finding her sloth in warm sheets and the early morning sunlight filtering through them, she has no idea what time it is, only knows that when he wakes her up she asks for five minutes which turns into five hours and before she realizes it, it’s well beyond midnight. Damon comes back in to check on her and she tells him nothing even mattress instead of matters and can’t stop laughing and laughing and laughing…

Again, she is most likely losing her mind because she has to be insane in order for her entrapment to make sense.

“First you lose track of the days we’ve spent here, no dice on your magic after all this time, now you’re sleeping until night and laughing like a lunatic because apparently, nothing even mattress.” Lightly he taps her shoulder as if he’s doing a quality check. “My Bonnie is malfunctioning.”

He’s joking but it’s the words themselves and the ideology behind them that’s cruel. Immediately she takes offense, the image of a sacrificial lamb flashing in her mind. “God forbid I stop behaving in my normal, resourceful manner.” She says tightly.

Damon brushes her shoulder with his thumb while he speaks, a small and innocent gesture that’s coaxing nonetheless, sympathy in his voice. “You know I didn’t mean it like that, Bon,”

“No.” She says to his touch, disregarding the fluttery feeling inside of her in order to focus on indignation. Bonnie shifts away from him. “You did mean it like that and while it’s completely unfair, I’m not even surprised. Leave it to you to have expectations of me in a literal hellhole.”

“Bonnie Mikaelson.” Damon has the urge to do something with his hands. They were occupied before, too busy warming his glass of dark red O-positive and bourbon cocktail but he’s lost his appetite. “That doesn’t even sound right.”

“I think it does,” Elena’s viewing, no admiring Bonnie’s fancy wedding invitation on the weighted paper specifically destined for special occasions. There’s a picture of witchy and her fiancé together, so possessed by one another that their eyes are on each other instead of breaking the fourth wall and smiling at the camera.

Dreadful.

The Niklaus Mikaelson is staring at Bonnie like nothing else matters and her face is a reflection of his. It’s unsettling; two of the most guarded individuals he’s encountered in his lifetime have dropped every defense with their wide, honest smiles and knowing gazes.

Is this a practical joke, Damon wants to ask but Elena is here- if he even gives life to the words, there is a strong possibility that she will deny the absurdity of this unfortunate event, blindly in favor of whatever decision Bonnie makes even when it’s the wrong one.

For now, he chooses silence. On the inside, he is shouting.

Damon sidles up next to his girlfriend, not because he’s feeling romantic, but because he must investigate this picture. He’s already stared for an indefinite amount of time, yet the urge to pick apart and criticize hasn’t left. It’s stronger than ever.

The picture is intimate, as if they are laughing at some joke no one else hears, or speaking telepathically the way couples do. They’re both saying the same thing: I love you.

And Damon thinks it’s deplorable.

Still, there’s a tug inside of him because he could’ve sworn she looked at him just like that, after he’d said something completely inappropriate, and Bonnie, she doesn’t want to laugh, yet he always seems to strangle the sound out of her without much effort on his part.

And sure, they might’ve been living the same day eternally and, yes they might’ve been the last two people on Earth, (or so they thought,) but it still counts for something… right?

“Right about what?” Elena’s brown eyes are on him, a small glimmer of concern.

He’s beside himself so much so that he’s talking without his own permission. This event to bear witness to, this marriage might just be the thing that makes him… Insane, probably.

“She looks so happy,” Elena sighs in content, staring at the Save the Date affectionately. “I can’t help but feel the same way. Her smile is infectious, isn’t it?”

He’s not even hearing her.

The date of the wedding is a year from now, give or take a few days, on Sunday, May 5th.

Why they would choose a destination such as hot, stinky, swampy, bad roads, boisterous streets Louisiana, is beyond him- they’ll have to plan in advance to attend. He’s been looking so intently that Damon can recite the RSVP number in reverse.

The colors for the wedding are complicated and impractical, but Klaus, Bonnie’s soon-to-be-husband knows about color theory…apparently when he isn’t being a terrorist, or getting on one knee for Bennett witches after a measly eight months of dating, he dabbles in art.

Yeah, well, so did Hitler.

“What alternate universe are we in?” He speaks again, unable to hold his peace. “I mean, how in the hell does someone like him get to marry Bonnie? It’s Klaus.” He shrugs. And then he snorts, rolls his eyes to the ceiling, “That’s like me proposing to her.”

“Is it?” Elena is using her therapist voice, a tone she’s returning to more often than not when Damon mentions anything concerning their best friend. Before, she used this tone of voice sparingly, mostly to help comprehend the shift in their relationship dynamic when Bonnie returned from the prison world, but now, it’s all he hears.

Damon shrugs again, going out on a limb to say, “Maybe it’s worse.”

“Or maybe you’re just bias. You know, a lot of people didn’t understand how we worked either, once upon a time.” She lifts the invitation, her index finger extended. “But these two obviously adore each other. Klaus accepts nothing less than her being up under him at all times, and Bonnie is more than happy there. She barely comes out for drinks anymore.” Elena giggles at what she’s just remembered. “Now that I think of it, the last time I called her, I was interrupting. Apparently they were very…busy.”

“Busy?” He shudders. (It isn’t jealousy that runs down his spine.)

Her brown eyes are on him again, gentle, imploring as if she’s reminding herself she’s not chatting with Caroline. “I know you’re super protective over Bonnie, I get it, me too, but Klaus is perfect for her. She probably hasn’t been this happy since…since….” at first Elena thinks, then it turns into a full on falter and he realizes she’s about to say since before the Salvatores came into town and ruined her bubbly little Sabrina-the-teenaged-witch life.

Elena abandons the sentence altogether.

Damon clenches his jaw. His mind is on the wedding invitation again, a wiry impulse to do everything he’s capable of to prevent such an on occurrence, for fear that bearing witness to it might unleash an ancient curse.

Something like indignation moves through him because yes, he looks closer with squinted eyes, a year ago, he was on the receiving end of Bonnie’s bleeding heart stare.

He wonders how could he have been dense enough to not notice that she was whispering her love without moving her mouth for so long.

He wonders why it’s so clear now that she isn’t looking at him.

“Just look at them,” Elena gushes, she’s been sold since the script typography, “We have to find a frame. ”