A/N: Hi! If you're new, this is a rewrite of my fic Blood and Bourbon, and I'm thrilled to have you. If you're returning, this is different from the old b&b, so keep any eye out for any differences!
I'm so glad to be back!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the TVD (or TO, if any) characters, any celebrity, or any brand name mentioned in this fic.
Warnings: Language and crude humor (?)
1/?
Beginning
Word Count: 1230
Prompt: "Listen, you may be a famous (and extremely attractive) guitarist, but that gives you no right to practice on the electric at 2 a.m. when we live right next to each other." (slightly altered)
Bonnie Bennett is, by no means, a short fuse.
She patiently guides her friends through easily avoidable life dramas. She helps mothers of screaming toddlers whenever she stumbles upon on in the grocery store. She volunteers at retirement homes and hospitals. She even spends weekends house-sitting or pet-sitting-for free.
Who knew it would be the wailing guitar solo in the early and delicate hours of the morning that would more than shred her last nerve.
She spent more than half of her day—a beautiful summer day—in her apartment, cramming for a Civil Rights exam, amidst a running-like-a-faucet kind of cold with a long-lasting, delirium-inducing fever. At one forty-five, she decides to turn in for the night. She sinks into her full-sized mattress like a coin in a well, wishing for a good night's rest. It feels like a hug from some cosmic being. Good job, little one, it whispers, you may rest now.
Her neighbor, however, has different thoughts.
She prays for a full five minutes, that the blaring noise would stop. She bargains with any god with ears on-she'd fail the test tomorrow, she'd give up law, she'd sacrifice her firstborn, she's become a nun-but no god was in the mood for bribery. With a sigh encompassing defeat and pure aggravation, she pulls herself out of her comfort, shoves her glasses onto her face, stumbles through her dark apartment, out the door, and slams her small fist against the apartment door one over.
The apartment adjacent to hers has been empty since she moved in her first year of law school. It was a bless, a blessing-until two weeks ago. This mystery man moved in without any fuss, and while he shouted obscenities at his loud video games ate into the night, that was the extent of the noise. She'd seen him once, staggering into his apartment, but never his face.
Finally, the distorted sound of angrily strummed guitar strings stops, and Bonnie sighs contently. Ready to pivot and march right back to her bed, she stops when the door opens and a god appears. Maybe that's why her prayers were unanswered-the closest god is the one causing havoc on her beauty rest.
Porcelain skin. Ripped jeans hanging low on his hips. Perfect abs peeking through an open black button-up shirt. Disheveled ebony hair. Cold, sharp blue eyes.
It is Damon-fucking-Salvatore.
The Damon-fucking-Salvatore.
He is in one of the hottest bands of the century with his brother and two others. Bonnie isn't really into her dark, edgy music, but she also doesn't hate it. In fact, she recognized the song he was playing, Immortal, but didn't think anything of it. Her best friend, Elena, has been a fan since day one and would die if Bonnie told her the lead guitarist of Blood and Bourbon interrupted her sleep.
She would also die if Bonnie told her she murdered the lead guitarist of Blood and Bourbon for interrupting her sleep.
"Cute onesie, little bird."
Bonnie's pajamas, a red bird onesie, has a small beak on the hood that covered her wrapped hair and scalloped wing/sleeves. She crosses her arms, tired eyes barely staying open as she glares.
Is this a fever-induced dream?
"Did you come for an autograph or something?" The rock star disappears into his apartment before she can deny or decline. "Come in," she hears within, "I just have to find something to write with..."
Bonnie tentatively steps into the one-lamp-lit apartment. She doesn't know anything about musicians or celebrities in real life, but based on made-for-TV movies, they are notorious for drugs, sex, and well, rock-n-roll. She doesn't know if she wants to get tired up in any of that. She follows the sound of his mumbles, dodging objects he rejects from his still packed boxes.
"I'm not here for an autograph," she finally blurts. Damon spins around with a permanent marker and wild eyes at the same time, ready to defile her onesie with his name. His eyebrows drop as he frowns, her words finally impacting. "I came to-"
"Take a picture!" he guesses incorrectly and way too enthusiastically. "Let me just...!"
He leaps over something she can't see, and she begins to protest but a flood of light invades the room and her eyes. She swears loudly and screws her eyes shut.
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"
"She's-" Bonnie pries an eye open painfully. "Listen, Mr. Salvatore-"
"Mr. Salvatore is my brother," he smirks, proud of his witty sleight at his brother, "you can just call me Damon. Or Sex God of Blood and Bourbon. It's a mouthful, but so am-"
"Okay, Damon-"
"What's your name again?" His hands tuck into his back pockets, his shirt opens more, and he leans closer to listen to her nasally voice. He's quirky-and probably wired on something stronger than the empty energy drinks littering the carpet-but she'd be lying if she said his proximity and good looks aren't laboring her breathing.
"Bonnie." She sniffles. Maybe the labored breathing is the cold. "Listen, Damon, I-"
"Bonnie," he repats with a thoughtful smile, and Bonnie deflates with a sigh. "Like bonbons. God, I love bonbons. They're like filled with ice cream or cream or something, right? God, they're just so-"
"Shut up!" With her cold, her voice reduces to a growl. His perfect teeth clamp together. She breathes deeply. "Look, I'm sorry. I-"
"It's okay."
"-just came by to ask you to turn down your music."
Suddenly, his face contorts like she shoved a lemon into his mouth, and his mood darkens.
"Turn down my music?" He is genuinely offended, but his dramatic hand-to-chest gesture is too comical. "My music is my living! I shall never turn it down!" "It is a masterpiece! It is-"
"Obnoxious as hell when you're trying to sleep." The theatrics so early in the morning is nauseating. 'Shall', really? Why the hell is he living in her scanty apartment building in the first place? Aren't there plenty of penthouses in the city? "Listen, you may be famous-" and extremely attractive "-and whatever, but that gives you no right to practice at two a.m. Not while I'm living next to you."
"Then, move." Her eyebrows rise lazily. He folds his arms and sticks his nose in the air-like a damn toddler.
"Don't be ridic-"
"I'll pay for your new place."
Bonnie pauses before anger replaces her consideration. "I will not be bought."
"I'll have you evicted," he counters immediately.
"Right..." she drawls sarcastically. He's grasping at thin air now. "Well, until then, shut the hell up."
"I'll just crank it louder."
That grabs her attention, and in return, she grabs the lapels of his open shirt. The insanely attractive man's confidence wavers. He blinks as she glares into those half-lidded eyes, now at her level.
"You may be famous, Salvatore, but I am a law student. I can kill you and easily cover it up."
The air between them is charged and kind of stuffy. Or maybe that's just Bonnie's poor nose. She needs some medicine and sleep.
"Damn, that's hot."
"I'm running a fever," she jokes pathetically. She releases him and starts to leave. "Just let me sleep. I promise I'll be kinder tomorrow."
"Don't bother, Bonbon," he calls after her. "I kind of like this... witchy side to you."
Slightly different, slightly the same. Let me know what you think!
Thanks for reading,
xo
Cassandra
P.S. If you have a prompt/scenario you'd like to see our beloved Bamon in, leave it in a review! Any Bamon song suggestions, please share them! Your reviews and thoughts give me life!
