Drowning.
It feels akin to suffocating. It's like a pressure you can't control, pushing you down and constricting your lungs.
It's what Damon feels when he's around Bonnie.
Sometimes its dull, like a pressure he can hold back with just enough power of sheer will. And other times, like now, when the sun is shining just right and Bonnie's hair glows an ethereal brown, Damon doesn't think he can stop himself from-
But he does.
(Maybe just an inch closer and his hands would be in her soft hair, and he could make her scream in ways she never knew she could)
"Look I don't have all day," her voice cuts through his submerged state (it's like a hand pulling him out from under the feverish current).
Damon can only muster an imperceptible nod and Bonnie turns her back to him to continue reading through the pile of papers before her. Damon takes her in, drinking in the sight of her; she's humming softly, tapping her foot in beat to her own sound. He turns back to his own pile and feigns interest in words that hold no meaning over him.
What he wants is to push aside the papers on her table and to pull her from her chair and throw her across the bare wood (papers flying in slow motion around them; it's chaos, but that's exactly what they are). He wants to push aside the slit of her skirt and kiss her throat until it's peppered red from his bruised lips. He wants to feel her warmth as he rocks against her, inside her. He wants naked skin, and rushed breaths, and gripping hands. He wants to drown in her scent as moans rip from her throat.
He wants and wants and wants.
"Damon pay attention!"
