title: no rules, no limits, no guilt
series: it's all worth the fight (when it's you, dear)
category: vampire diaries (tv)
genre: angst/romance
ship: bonnie/damon
rating: high-teen
word count: 2,175
prompt: "Come over here and make me." – absentlyabbie (Tumblr)
summary: (set in 1994 prison world) Damon encourages Bonnie to stop living life by the rules which leads to exploring the tension between them for one night only.

no rules, no limits, no guilt
-1/1-

"Bonnie… I'm serious," he complained, frowning at her from where she sat, perched atop the dining room table, while he was left in the bed of pillows she'd made in front of the fire. "You can't hoard all of the good stuff. I don't want to go back to the store. Now give it! Share with Damon!" He waved his hand demandingly at her, but she merely shook her head, tipping the bottle back for a sip. "Great, now you're getting all your witch cooties on it."

Coughing a little, she wiped the back of her mouth and reminded him in a strained voice, "I'm not a witch anymore."

"Fine. Your Bennett cooties. Whatever. Just share with me."

Placing the bottle in her lap, she shrugged. "This is what you get for cheating."

"I wasn't cheating. I was… raising my odds of winning."

She glared at him. "By stealing money from the bank. See! This is why you're not supposed to run the bank."

Damon rolled his eyes, making a 'talking' motion with his hand. "Every game you have something I'm not allowed to do."

"Yes, because you cheat!"

"I can't be blamed for thinking outside of the box," he defended, rolling onto his side, head propped on his hand. "You know why you're mad? Because you always play by the rules."

Bonnie shook her head, affronted. "A) No, I don't. I think the entire time I've known you can attest to that. And B) even if I did, what's wrong with playing by the rules?"

"Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie…" he sighed, clucking his tongue at her. "The only times you didn't play buzzkill were when you were forced. Or when you were manipulated into going semi-evil, but that's totally different. And the problem? Come on. It's obvious…"

She stared at him, raising an eyebrow. "Then please, share with the class." She waved the bottle around to their empty surroundings.

He smirked at her knowingly. "The one who plays by the rules never really wins. It's the equivalent of nice guys finish last. You'll always stay in the box, play it safe, do the right thing, and get the short end of the stick, every single time. And you know why? Because you never push back. You never force the world to give you better."

"That's not true!" she told him, raising her voice. "Just because I play by the rules doesn't mean I'll lose. It means I won't feel guilty about it when I get what I want the right way. Through hard work and dedication and by not giving up who I am and what I value."

He snorted, rolling his eyes. "And what's that gotten you so far? Huh? You died for your friends, for your little boyfriend, and now you're stuck here, with me, one of your least favorite people. Not that you should be complaining, you could do a lot worse. But, the point is, none of them are coming to save you, you've got no magic, and the only thing you get to complain about, as you so like to do, is that I cheat at the outdated board games we play to pass our time in misery." His smile was empty as his mouth stretched for her. "So please, tell me what you've gained from being good and righteous and judgy to the core."

Bonnie stared at him, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. A beat passed, tense and thick. Between gritted teeth, she told him, "Take it back."

Damon's eyes narrowed. "Come over here and make me."

Bonnie swallowed thickly, contemplating him and his words and the situation they were in. And then, slowly, she placed the bottle of bourbon aside, a clink filling the silence as glass met the table. She unfolded her legs and pushed herself off the table, walking toward him slowly, watching the firelight play over his features as he laid on the bed of pillows. She stood at the edges, her hands opening and closing in helpless fists.

She could have asked what he meant. She could've called him a few choice names and stomped off. She could've stolen the good bourbon and escaped to her own house or to her Grams or even just to the room upstairs that she spent fewer and fewer nights in. Most nights, she fell asleep right here, curled up beside him, a throw blanket laid across her at some point in the middle of the night. She never asked, but she knew it was him. It could only be him; there was no one else stuck in this prison world with them. So at some point during the night, he went out of his way to find a blanket and tuck the frayed edges in around her to keep her warm. Because in a way only Damon could, he cared. He cared about whether or not she ate or slept or stayed warm. Even when they were fighting, when they were sick and tired of being the only other people to talk to, he cared. So she spent less and less time in her room or away from him and more and more time within reach. And at time, she fell asleep listening to steady sound of his breathing, watching firelight dance across his face. When she woke in the morning, sometimes she'd find his sleeping face just inches from hers, finally at peace, and other times she would find him already in the kitchen, making more of those hideous pancakes he loved so much.

She could have, maybe should have, let this 'thing' between them go unanswered. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was always there; waiting, building. Maybe it was nothing at all and she was just reading into it.

But as he stared up at her, sprawled out on his back now, his hand atop his chest, long fingers stretched over his heart, she found herself stepping onto the pillows, kneeling on them, just inches away from him. Damon had always been attractive in a devil-may-care way. Never the type she saw herself going for. She'd expected someone sweet and kind and gentle, someone with morals and limitations and rules he would never break. Damon was not that. He was possibly never that, and she couldn't see him changing any time soon. But there were times where she liked that, even envied it. His lack of restraint, his ease at taking life as it came at him and taking from it what he wanted, discarding the rest. Her father raised her to be someone who saw an obstacle and fought through it, someone who met a challenge with strength and integrity. Not someone who found ways around it, but who worked to overcome it. But there were times when she wished she didn't have to be so unyielding; where she wished that her hard work was rewarded better; where she wondered when all of her sacrifice might pay off.

Damon watched her, his eyes searching her face as she bit her lip, knelt down, and leaned over him, putting a hand to the pillow just to the right of his shoulder. It gave under the pressure, feather-insides bowing under her hand, and she moved closer, slowly, looking back at him with that same searching gaze. She waited for him to flinch or pull away or laugh in her face, but he didn't. He simply waited. He let her move as she wanted to, let her linger and hesitate and talk herself in and out of whatever it was she was doing. What was she doing? Coming or going. Winning or losing. Playing fair or cheating.

"What are the rules?" she asked him, leaning her face down, so they were just close enough that she could feel his cool breath on her lips, some of her hair falling to tickle his cheek.

"Keep your distance."

She lowered her face a little more, let the tip of her nose brush against his.

"Don't touch."

Her free hand slid over his chest, her thumb playing with a button on his plaid shirt.

His voice became a little thicker, heavier, "No kissing."

He hummed as her mouth slanted over his, let out a panting breath as their mouths parted and her tongue flicked the underside of his top lip.

"Definitely no kissing," he rasped, raising his head to meet her mouth once more, sucking on her bottom lip, his teeth tugging gently.

Bonnie slid a leg over his waist, her knee at his hip, and her body hovering atop his. She moved her hand from the pillow, tucking it in his hair, tangling it around her fingers. His hands found her hips and brought them down to meet his own, her body rocking against him, their stomachs and chests rubbing together. Her hand fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, pulling them apart, giving the fabric a yank until his shirt opened completely. His fingers found the bottom of her tank top and pulled it up, stretching it over her head and throwing it away.

"Lots of clothes. Always clothes," he muttered against her mouth. His hand slid between them, cradling her breast, a thumb stroking around her nipple. "And bras," he groaned. "So many bras."

She laughed lightly, kissing the corner of his mouth, and she felt him smile, the stretch of his mouth not into a grin or a smirk but a real, genuine, soft smile.

And then she paused. She stopped and she opened her eyes and she stared down at him, lit up by fire and dressed in shadows. Damon. Damon who was Elena's. Damon who was her enemy? Frenemy? Something of that variety. Damon who cheated at literally every game they played and who goaded her into arguments when he was bored and who enjoyed getting on every single one of her nerves. Damon who she should not be kissing or touching or rubbing herself against like a cat in heat. And yet… here she was. Breaking those rules. Putting aside loyalties to friends she'd known her whole life. Ignoring the very real fact that this could end in complete and utter disaster.

"And thinking. Lots of thinking," he said. "That's a big one. Smart, logical, self-sacrificing thinking." He stared at her searchingly.

She stared back at him, caught between who she thought she should be, who she was, maybe, and what she wanted, who she wanted.

"One night," she whispered, like saying it too loudly could ruin everything, could break that tentative openness between them. "One night where there are no rules or expectations or other people." She brought her hand down from his hair, cradled his face in her palm, let her thumb trace the curve of his mouth as the tops of her fingers hinged on the sharp angle of his cheek. "And then we don't talk about it and we don't do it again and we don't throw it in each other's faces. Ever. Okay?"

Maybe it was a cop out, maybe it was complete and utter denial, and maybe it was foolish to believe it could actually work, but she was willing to lie to herself if that was what it took.

"One night," he said, stretching a hand up her back, his fingers softly skittering over her skin as they reached the nape of her neck, twisting her hair around them. He drew her down, their mouths just an inch apart. "Okay."

She could have clarified, could have pushed the singularity and secrecy of it, but at this point, with his mouth moving over hers, she didn't much care. She let him turn them over, watched his head duck down, dark hair messy from her fingers, his lips smoothing down her body, the paleness of his skin in stark contrast to her own. She watched him, leaned up into his mouth and his hands, and she let herself go. Let herself loose from the ties of responsibility, of right and wrong, of loyalty. She let herself free and she felt him catch her.

Maybe the landing later would hurt, when reality smacked her in the face come morning. Or maybe it wouldn't. What she knew was that it felt good now. And maybe, in the universe's own twisted way, this was her payback, this was her return for being so good and moral and sacrificial. Maybe this was as close to peace and happiness as she would ever get, layered in pancakes and snark and bourbon and fireside pillow beds. Damon wasn't perfect, he wasn't the moral prince she'd once thought would share her life with her, he was the dark horse to her white knight and maybe all they would have was one moment, one night, in an afterlife of isolation. Stripped of their clothes, cradling him in her legs, leaning up into his kiss as his mouth hovered over hers and his eyes met hers, she decided she would take it. The good, the bad, the questionable; she would take all of it.

author's note: so, this is a oneshot. it will likely not be continued unless a future sentence fits with this 'verse. this whole story will be 50 chapters of oneshots to fit with a list of sentence prompts found on Tumblr.

i hope you liked this one as much as i enjoyed writing it.

thanks so much for reading. please try to leave a review; they're my lifeblood!

- lee | fina