CJ @seejayseattle - Tumblr Blog

Nov 20, 2025

Between Labored Breaths

Elena Gilbert x fem!reader

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

series playlist

summary: It takes a few years and a few near death experiences, but somehow you finally end up on Elena Gilbert's radar.

warning: !Vomiting/Gagging!, angst, language, violence and gore, underage drinking

word count: 16.k (and I ain’t even sorry)

Stefan Salvatore is a nice boy. He is handsome, well-dressed, well spoken, and above all else, he is kind. He takes care not to run into anyone whilst walking through the crowded school hallway. When going past women, he says Excuse me and waits patiently; he does not take them by the waist to move them.

He smiles at people when they make accidental eye contact, he holds the door open for men and women alike, and he pays rapid attention when someone is speaking to him, whether he wants to be a part of the conversation or not.

Stefan Salvatore is perfect, and you hate him.

It is not his fault, the golden boy who could very possibly sweat liquid diamonds; it is not his fault that your hatred is wildly demented and clings to his beauty through your emotional whirlwind. It kills you a bit, how guilty you feel after his smile goes unreturned, or when he laughs at your off-handed joke in an attempt to win favor.

All of this also proves your own deprecating analogy that you are simply not good enough for Elena Gilbert.

You mull over this thought while nursing a Long Island iced tea. The Mystic Grill is vacant in its few minutes before closing, but because the establishment is still technically open, the doors remain unlocked.

Disgruntingly wiping down bar countertops of sticky sugar-diluted alcohol is not how you would like to spend your Friday night, but Matt asked if you would take his closing shift. Truthfully, you would not have said yes, considering you didn't want to, and because he had cornered you in the alley where you go to have a smoke break.

But he had gotten on his knees before you and mimicked a sickly Victorian child begging for coins. And by god, it was hilarious. The alley was damp, and he had wet muck on the knees of his nice work pants, so you said yes and then offered to cover his tables while he dried his pants under the hand-dryer in the employee bathroom.

The glass sweats under your left hand as your right hand absently clicks through songs on your iPod. Bethany, or as the employees like to call her, the bitch demon manager from hell, does not let anyone touch the speakers. But she is not here tonight, nor is anyone. So you connect the audio cable and swirl around the aisles.

A peaceful wave of calm settles over like fire-sprinkler rain. Glancing at the clock, you catch it flicking to the next minute. One more minute until closing, sixty seconds until you are allowed to lock the doors. Walking over, you slip behind the bar and leisurely pick up the keys to the front doors.

You are halfway between the bar and the entry when the door opens silently. You pause, watching with wide eyes as a leather-coated man walks into the grill. The man has unruly raven hair and sunglasses on, but you recognize that sharp-featured face.

Damon Salvatore.

His pretty face scrunches up when he sees you in the middle of the room, like he had not expected you to be there at all. That slightly mystified look melts into an easy grin and steps towards you.

“You’re Elena's little friend, right? I'm Damon.” His smirk is equal parts charming and unsettling.

It is very strange that this man, who seems to have something insidious lurking under his skin, is the older brother of a boy whom you have comfortably let give you a ride home after a football game. Elena was in the car too, but her house was first, so half the ride was you and him alone.

Your dislike for him slightly waned when he let you choose the radio station on the way to your house.

Stefan accidentally brushing your knee with his hand when he reached in the backseat to grab his phone does not make your skin crawl the way Damon’s presence currently is.

You give him a customer service smile. “Nice to meet you. Look, I'm really sorry, sir. But we are closed.” Shrugging guiltily like you are the one who came up with the dumb rules.

Damon’s icy eyes roam over you like some sort of wolf admiring its rabbit. “Come on.” He pouts rather petulantly in your opinion, “I just want one teeny, tiny, minuscule, little drink.”

He puts on a show of his ‘sorrow’ with a pleading voice and drawn eyebrows. His hands come up to his mouth in a praying stance. You cross your arms, smile becoming something mean and sharp in your annoyance.

“I already cleaned all the glasses.”

“I'll take a to-go cup, the ones you put coffee in. I'll even throw it away in the trash can next door.” He gestures lazily behind him where the door opens up to the world.

Licking your lips, you sigh heavily, “My manager will write me up and-”

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”

”And I hate her, so what will you be having?”

Damon throws his head back and laughs, throat constricting with the silky sound. There is something about the Salvatores that unnerves you. Maybe it's their sharp beauty or the strange smoothness of their skin or the calculated way they speak. You wave him over as you make way towards the bar once again.

Very hastily, you dump out the Long Island in the sink and reach for the to-go cups. The man behind you settles down on a barstool and slumps over against the table.

”Bourbon, I beg.” He says against his folded arm. It’s very kind and oddly considerate not to breathe fog against the place you just wiped down. You pour the amber liquid into the paper cup and slide it in front of him. He reels up, taking the cup in his ring-cluttered hand and takes a big loud gulp.

“You are a saint.” He sighs into the cup, and you are mildly curious if he is talking to you or the alcohol, but you do not ask. He glances at you over his drink, icy eyes surveying every movement.

It is not the normal look you receive whilst on the job. Lustful men who forget how to count after a few drinks, and suddenly, your ripe high-school age could be legal. Or at least forgotten.

Damon Salvatore has no lust or longing in his expression, but it makes you want to cower all the same.

He sets down the cup idly. "That's a nice bracelet." Nodding to the silver around your wrist. It’s dangly, with charms and locket-like things scattered around it almost tackily. You hold up your wrist and shake it, making it jingle.

“Thank you.”

”Elena give you that?” He asks with creased eyebrows. The question is innocent enough, boring enough to be casual. To mean absolutely nothing, but something in you tenses. It’s a visceral feeling, something deep-rooted and planted back in biblical times when people could feel the hot breath of a hungry lion a mile away.

You swallow down the odd urge to flee and carve a plastic smile on your lips. “Yes, sir.”

Damon groans, throwing his head back, exposing an extremely pale throat. “Sir. God, what am I? Fifty? Just call me Damon.” He licks a drop of liquor off his bottom lip and sets down the cup with a strange sort of finality. You watch with carefully suspicious eyes as he stands up.

And suddenly, he's not across the bar anymore. A swish noise grazes the hollows of your ears. You jerk around, shoulder bumping into something firm. Taking a gasping breath, you come face to face with the man who has single-handedly ruined the closing night vibes.

You have the feeling he's only about to make it ten times worse, too.

“How the fuck did you do that?” Comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. You are too confused and bewildered for the fear to catch up to your consciousness. He tilts his head like a puppy. A clearly sinister and cocky puppy. Those bright blue eyes are boiling over with amusement as he watches you.

“I like you.” He chuckles, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Unfortunately for you though, my baby bro and his little girlfriend are suckers for innocent eyes.” Playfully waving his pointer finger in your eyes as he speaks.

Your body is frozen, the fear seeming to catch up with your mobility because you don’t think you could move if you tried. Breath shaky and heartbeat hammering, you try to put together the genuine danger of this situation. This man is obviously not human, and he is obviously going to do something to you, but you don't know what.

The realization that you have no idea what he could possibly want from you is even scarier than anything you have ever experienced.

Damon Salvatore reaches forward; his hands are ice-cold and strong around your biceps. He tugs you up to meet his eyes. Those horribly inhumanly blue eyes stare into your own, and you wish that you had never found Matt’s display of desperation so amusing.

You wish Matt Donovan were dealing with this fucking psycho bitch because you get the feeling that he would handle it much better than you. He would probably do something brave like smash a glass against Damon’s face.

The realization that he was most likely looking for Matt tonight is almost enough to scare you out of your immobile state.

Almost.

His pupils do something odd when he forces eye contact; they constrict like a camera lens trying to focus on a small object.

“You are going to do whatever I say.” He tells you slowly, deeply, like he’s trying to massage the words into your muscles. It’s a statement. There is no question in his tone, and a full-body shudder racks through you as you try not to hyperventilate.

Nodding your head frantically, you swallow down a sob, but the power of it still makes your voice quiver. “Okay. Yes, okay,” the words are all jumbled together. A sentence overrun with half-sobbed words and trembling lips. You can smell the bourbon on his breath, and you gag so violently that his pretty face flinches back a tiny bit.

He grimaces, “Alright, try not to do that. Please and thanks.” The hands that are holding you ease from their iron grip, but his thumbs rub light, almost absentminded circles into your arms. It reminds you of someone trying to soothe a scared animal.

If you could not taste the vodka and lemon starting to come back up your throat, you might laugh at how freaked out he seems by the possibility of you vomiting on him. Can demon serial killers have emetophobia? His fingers have yet to stop the rotating shapes on your skin.

“Well,” He sighs, sounding mildly annoyed. “This would be a whole lot less painful for both of us if I could compel you, but Elena just had to meddle.” The pity in his tone is so utterly fake, a horrid imitation of how parents speak to crying children.

One of his hands lets go completely. The other one tightens, feeling again like iron, holding you in place.

There is power in his grip, and you know, deep in your chest, that you cannot outrun this man. You will not get away. This is how people who are killed by polar bears must feel. The hope of making it out alive floating away from one's soul, as if it were never there to begin with.

Because you know.

His free hand lifts up to caress the side of your face. You flinch away, huffing a sound so distressed that you hardly recognize you made it.

His hand drags against your cheekbone. “Listen honey. All you have to do is exactly what I say, and I won't kill you. Capeesh?” You nod your head silently. He smiles happily, and you jerk against him as he pats your cheek a couple of times.

“Okay, good.” And with a dry, humorless sort of playfulness lighting up his tone, “Now, we are going to my car, and if you scream, I'll tear out your tongue."

You gulp and watch as his eyes trail the roll of constricting muscles in your throat. His tongue peeks out to lick the inner corner of his lips, and his eyes darken with something you can’t quite call lust. Your heart pounds hard enough to bruise the bones that cage it. He must be able to hear it, because his jaw snaps shut.

He smirks.

The song Nightmare By The Sea plays through the grill speakers, and you know that you will never be able to listen to it again.

He turns, walking around the bar and tugging you along with him. You might just die of a panic attack before he gets you into the parking lot. So, in a desperate attempt to calm down, you try to breathe in steadily through your nose and out your mouth.

In through your nose and out through your mouth. In through your nose and out through your mouth. In through your nose and out through your mouth. In through your nose and out through your mouth.

Again and again, until suddenly you are staring at a baby-blue Camaro.

Damon drags you towards the passenger side, opening the door with the hand that's not holding onto you. Licking your lips, you glance between him and the open car door. He raises his eyebrow and then rolls his eyes. He shoves you into the car and slams the door behind him.

Heart beating wildly, you take in the car decor and hate how normal it seems. Stefan's car is eerily similar to his older brother's, same music CDs, same random little old-timey knick-knacks.

A brand-new sick feeling settles over you.

Both of these cars are old; antique Elena would correct you and Care, but antique is just a pretty word for old and expensive.

Damon Evil Demon Salvatore’s car is strikingly identical to his little brother, and you realize that Stefan might not be made of gold after all.

And what the fuck had Elena meddled with? You glance down at the charms on your bracelet. You are not completely sure what is going on or what is going to happen, but you have a feeling that Elena Gilbert tried her best to protect you.

Your heart constricts for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.

The driver's side door opens, and you sit up straighter. He slides in, putting the key in the ignition, humming something unintelligible as he pulls out of the parking lot. You are still trying to handle the rhythm of breathing when he starts to hum louder.

Out of pure habit, you glare at him in annoyance; Only to find him already watching you. You turn away quickly, watching the road and trying to memorize exactly which roads he's taking.

“What?” He questions, finger tapping on the steering wheel. “Not a Nirvana fan?”

You swallow and answer without looking back at him, “Nirvana’s fine,” you whisper. He makes a ‘psh’ sound and glances at you.

“I've been watching you, you know.” He states casually, like that's not just about the scariest shit he could possibly say to you while driving you to some unknown location. This freak must not take your silence for terror because he continues.

“Let me guess, Scissors Sister fan?” He laughs, lifting his hand like he's going to playfully push your shoulder. As if you and he are sharing a joke. His hand stops, mid-air, and he drops it back down with a shake of his head.

You pause. Your mind is trying to catch up with what he said, and when it does, you look at the car door handle because getting your tongue torn out as well as getting road rash, doesn't seem as bad as staying in a car with this man who knows your secrets.

He must read it on your face, or maybe he can read your mind because he locks the doors. He does not rip your tongue out or pluck out your eyeballs, but he does scoff.

“Relax, honey. I'm not Tony Perkins.”

Dread coils in your chest as you resist the urge to ask who that is. Although confusion and impending doom are coursing through you like blood, you're somehow nodding your head like you completely understand what the fuck is happening.

It's not like you can do anything; you have already accepted that you cannot escape him. Might as well accept that he knows about your little crush. You stare at the dashboard ahead, and you feel your eyes zone out as the calm-shock takes over your nervous system.

Completely void and numb, you find yourself responding in kind. “The Scissor Sisters are too electroclash for my taste.”

Damon cackles, throwing his head of shiny raven hair back against the seat. The car comes to a harsh stop in front of the cemetery. It's not the newer side where all your great-grandparents are buried, but the old ivy-grown section where the tombs start with 17 and 18 instead of 19.

He does not get out of the car immediately; instead, he stares at you. Watches your trembling hands and walking-corpse stares.

“You know, I am kinda sorry it had to be you. You seem like a nice girl.” The tone of his voice is something you refuse to call atonement. The words themself make a muffled cry crawl up your throat.

I'm about to get Jennifer's Bodied. And with that horrific notion, you feel him open the car door and yank you out with more brutality than necessary. Certainly more force than he used back at The Grill. He drags you to the gate, and out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of a red Porsche parked a few yards away.

Somewhere between the rusted metal gate and the thick forest trees, shock wears thin and fight plants a seed in the center of your soul. Without thinking of consequences, or really thinking at all, you reel back and punch him across the face. The action must take him off guard because his grip loosens before it tightens.

“Damit.” He whispers. You can see frustration in his expression, dipping into the only crease on his brow. The rest of his face is jarringly smooth, like marble. It only makes you fight harder, kicking your feet and using your free hand to hit and claw at him in a desperate attempt to not get murdered in a graveyard. Nonetheless, you grow closer and closer to the gate.

“Hey, hey! Will you quit?!” He takes hold of both your wrists, completely immobilizing your upper half. You continue to kick him, but he positions his body out of reach. He says your name a few times, but you can scarcely hear it over the adrenaline in your ears.

Apparently, Damon has had enough, because he dragged you close, your back pressed completely against his chest. Struggling does you no good, but damn all, you're still going to do it.

Breath tickling the top of your ear, he leans down and whispers, “I am not going to kill you, but I will break your arm if you keep this up.” It’s so menacing, but you get the strangest feeling that he is telling the truth. He has no reason to lie about his intentions.

So, with a defeated breath, you stop. Limbs going completely limp like cooked noodles. He huffs, and continues to lead you deeper into the graves. Not too far ahead, there is an orange firelight bouncing through the dark forest. That must be his destination because his steps become faster and angrier. You can feel the bruises forming under his fingers.

You inhale the brittle scent of ash and dirt as you come face-to-face with a nightmarish sight. Stefan Savatore is waist-deep in a freshly dug grave, holding a giant book between his hands.

Elena Gilbert is crouched down in front of him, holding a flashlight in one hand and a shovel in the other.

“Well, what do you know?” Damon taunts as he pulls you into the light. You are actively trying to keep down the liquor that's still in your stomach, but it almost comes up as you read the name that is engraved on the tombstone.

Giuseppe Salvatore.

Oh, what the fuck.

Elena's big brown eyes are wide with shock as she stares at you. Her mouth opens, and the flashlight drops from between her fingers.

Damon presses his nose into your neck, breathing in profoundly before saying, “This is an interesting turn of events.” Your face twists into a grimace as you feel his lips say the words.

You watch as Elena flinches so hard, it shakes her entire body. Stefan has not looked away from you, or maybe Damon, you're not sure; his face is too close to yours to tell. Not-so-golden-boy hauls himself out of the grave, knuckles ghostly white against the book in his hand.

Stefan steps in front of Elena, raising his hand when she tries to step forward with him. Damon's hold on you tightens.

“Damon,” He greets slowly, like he's speaking with a wild dog that might spook at any moment.

“I can’t let you bring her back. I'm sorry.”

“So am I, for thinking for even a second that I could trust you!” He snarls back, his arm becoming more and more suffocating. A wheeze is pushed from your lungs, and you thrash against him. He must realize that he's choking you, but he only barely lightens the pressure.

Stefan takes another step forward, concern written all over his pretty face.

Tears are shining in Elena's eyes.

Stefan starts talking about trust with a nasty grin on his mouth. You have no idea what they are really arguing about, nor do you care. All you can think about is how Elena and Stefan just grave-robbed, which is so gross, and how the super-human freak is about to strangle you.

Elena must know what and who they're speaking of because her hands shake with every word the boys say.

“You.” Damon turns to face Elena. “You had me fooled.” The fire's heat licks at your legs as Damon lugs you around as a protective shield. He grabs the back of your neck and jerks you around like a doll. It hurts like hell, but you try not to yelp out of pure stubbornness. Elena gasps as if she's the one getting thrown around.

“This is punishment.” He smiles against the skin of your cheek.

“Damon, stop it, please!” She yells, stomping forward. Only to get stopped by Stefan snagging her wrist.

Ignoring her completely, Damon pivots to his brother. “So what are you going to do now? Huh? Because I'll rip her heart out.”

The boy in front of you goes perfectly still as Damon's hands move over your chest. His palm is right over your wildly beating heart, and your breath stutters, coming out of your mouth in shaky, terrified tremors. You can’t breathe, you can't breathe, and you are going to vomit. Stefan licks his lips, gaze never leaving your face.

A crippling sort of despair shakes through you as Stefan's hand tightens around the book. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that getting your heart ripped out doesn't actually hurt that badly.

“Let her go first.” Comes the deep voice of the boy you unfairly loathe. Damon shakes his head and asks for the stupid book again. Stefan clenches his jaw and tosses the book to his older brother's feet.

Not even a second later, you are getting thrown to the ground in the same fashion.

Breathing in dry dirt and grass has never felt so fucking relieving. Your fingers dig into the warm earth as you sigh. You hear Elena before you feel her. She's crying as she gets on her knees beside you, tugging you up so her eyes meet yours. She's a beautiful crier, it's ridiculous.

Her hands envelop your face as her eyes flutter around, looking for damage you suspect. “Oh my god! Are you alright? Did he hurt you? Oh my god!”

“I’m-” You start, but the truth is you have no idea what's going on, and you're still in shock and have been running on adrenaline for an hour, and you are just so scared. Putting that all into words seems too exhausting.

You must pause for too long because Elena lets out another sniffle and drags you into her lap. She has your head pressed into her neck, soothingly petting your hair.

“I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.” She whispers. Holding you tight. “I tried to keep you safe, I tried.”

“I know.” You whisper back, moving your hands to hold her back just as tightly. You do not know how much time passes before you notice Stefan’s hovering. He’s hesitantly watching from a few feet away, looking startlingly like a dog that feels guilty for biting.

Elena pulls away, wiping her face of tears as she goes. “I know this must be confusing, but we can explain.” She glances at her boyfriend, and a sweet smile lights up her face. “You don’t need to be scared of Stefan. He’s different from Damon, he only drinks animal blood, and he doesn’t hurt people-“

”Lena.” You cut off sharply. Her head snaps back to you. You pull away, the lack of warmth making you feel alone. “I would like to go home.”

Her face twitches, pulling into a frown. The same frown she uses when she doesn't get her way. Elena and Caroline used to bicker all the time during cheer practice, and you remember how Elena would get this confused, condescending look that made everyone feel dumb for disagreeing with her.

She's making that face now, and for the first time, you don't feel the need to soothe it.

Shaking her head, she tries to lean closer. “No, look, it will all make sense, okay? Just let me explain,” she says, reaching forward to take your sore wrist, but you jerk away. Stefan starts to come forward slowly, pity prominent on his features.

“I don't want you to explain, I want to go home.” You repeat, trying to be firm, but it seems the night is catching up to you because your voice sounds a touch away from breaking into sobs.

Elena retracts her hand, looking more startled than annoyed now.

“You can't tell anyone.” She says softly, like a light wind against tall grass. The fire is roaring beside you. It pops unapologetically in the silence of the night, shooting a hot piece of ash onto your shoe. You do not copy the flame, your burning stays contained as your mouth stays shut.

The crunching of grass makes you turn to Stefan. He is cautious as he comes forward with his hands open, waiting for you to take them. You really shouldn’t, but you do. You let this freak of nature, blood drinker, lift you from the ground and hold you steady when your legs buckle.

You're only standing for about eight seconds before you double over and vomit. Elena gasps somewhere to your right, but Stefan doesn’t even flinch.

Damn him. Damn him because even though you have been so awful to this boy, he is being extremely gentle with you in a way one of your best friends can't seem to muster. It’s not her fault, you try to reason. She’s just scared that you're going to expose her boyfriend and his demon brother.

But you’re scared too, and you need her to be the gentle one. But she's not because she doesn’t love you the way you love her. She doesn’t want you the way you want her. It’s the whole reason she's willing to put your trauma aside to make sure you don’t put Stefan in danger.

Because he’s the one she loves.

How ridiculous you’ve been.

The walk to the car is quiet. None of the three said a word. You walk without support to the backseat door, opening it with a shaky hand. The other two hop in the front without a word, but they do exchange some loud glances.

It’s about five minutes into the drive when Elena starts talking. She talks about everything. She tells you about Stefan and Damon and how they are vampires, which you will have a meltdown about later. She tells you about the tomb and some bitch named Katherine. She hesitates before saying that Bonnie is a witch.

When she tells you that Damon killed Vicki Donavan, tears start to roll down your cheeks. You had complained for weeks about having to pick up that junkie's shift because she decided to run away to Bangkok or some shit. You and Ben had started a running joke about it. Saying ‘Damnit Vicki’ every time something annoying happened on a shift that would’ve usually been hers.

Matt had even laughed and agreed a few times.

The car comes to a halt outside your house. The lights are all off; your parents must’ve gone to bed already. You swallow down all of your emotions and try to think of this situation from a purely logistical standpoint.

If you tell anyone about the Lost Boys returning sequel, Damon will kill you or your parents. And even if you tell someone, what would they do? How could they overtake two vampires who are strong as fuck, fast, and have mind control powers?

So, you open your mouth and say, “I won’t tell anyone.” Elena's face lights up, and she starts rambling happily.

“Thank you, I know that's such a big ask, but now I don't have to lie to you anymore, and you can help cover for me in class-“

“Elena.” You snap through gridded teeth, “I said I wouldn’t tell, but I don't want to be a part of this.”

Her face falls, and you can see from the corner of your eye that Stefan’s face hasn’t changed.

You bet he had already guessed your apprehension towards this whole mess. You look away, unable to handle her grief-stricken expression. Guilt itches at your skin, or maybe you brushed against poison ivy at some point tonight.

It’s not that you don't want to help her, but you can see that she is taking your fear towards the violent unknown, as apathy for her and the boy that she loves.

You sigh, leaning forward to pat her arm, “People who play with fire always get burned eventually, Lena.” You tell her with no infliction, flat and factual and true. She sniffs and turns away, staring down your mailbox like it personally wronged her. You try not to be upset with how idiotic she's being.

Doesn’t she understand that you don't want to get burned? Doesn’t she get that her love for Stefan does not outshine all other? Clearly not. That girl would rather lose you than a boy she’s known for a few months.

Opening the door, you climb out as your heart breaks into jagged, unfixable pieces.

The welcome mat is rolled up on the top right corner. Out of habit, you bend down to fix it, only to see three perfectly pressed one-hundred-dollar bills under the scraggly rug.

Laughing, you shove the bills into your pocket and pray to whoever might be listening to let you finish high school without losing your life.

Just another year. Just one more fucking year and then I'll leave and never come back, I promise. Don't let the monsters kill me, don't let me become the monsters.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you unlock the front door without looking behind you to see if that ugly red car is still there.

°°°

The knock on your front door is soft. So soft you almost don't hear it over the music. Pausing your iPod, you walk to the door with a pounding heart. There are three people in the town that you very adamantly do not want to speak with at the moment. Two of those people have the last name Salvatore.

You've been avoiding them, staying home from school for the last three days, because the idea of seeing Stefan Salvatore sitting at your lunch table is sickening. And Elena is a whole other problem that you are not mentally prepared to deal with.

Glancing through the living room curtains, you let out a sigh of relief as you see Bonnie Bennet standing nervously at your front door.

Her fingernails are being anxiously bitten at when you open the door. Her face freezes, staring at you like a deer in headlights instead of a girl who willingly knocked on your door. Her big hazel eyes watch your face, openly gauging your reaction to her presence.

“Hi, Bonnie.” You smile. She takes her fingers away from her mouth and rests them at her sides. She doesn't seem to know what to do with herself.

“You haven't been at school.” Is her hesitant reply. You sigh and open the door wider so she can come inside. Her nervous posture melts off as she walks through the door with a soft grin. She takes in your house, staring pointedly at the scattered cleaning products.

She raises her eyebrow at you, “Stress cleaning?” she asks, her tone just on the cusp of teasing.

“Rage cleaning.” You correct with a snort.

Her pretty face twists uncomfortably, the tension in her shoulders building back up. You are very suddenly hit with the notion that Bonnie is uneasy because you were told about her witchiness.

You had kinda forgotten about her in the sea of murder. One of your best friends being a witch is exciting in the face of evil vampire whores.

Not that it doesn't freak you out, because it totally does, but it's nothing to cry about.

“Bonnie-” You start, only to be quickly cut off.

“I'm a witch.” She says quickly. “I'm a witch, and I have magic. I can feel power in the Earth, and I can control it.” Her eyes roam around restlessly until they land on a potted plant in your kitchen window. You watch curiously as she runs over to the half-dead plant.

Bonnie dips her fingers into the soil, closes her eyes, and whispers something unintelligible. You gasp as the brown, dry leaves fall off and rebloom into deep purple petals.

It is happening right before your eyes, but it's still so difficult to believe. Raising your head away from the radiant flower, you come face-to-face with Bonnie’s timid gaze.

Running your fingertips over the stem, you whisper, “It’s beautiful.”

It's all so beautiful. The flower, the magic, Bonnie Bennett. She huffs in delight, and you now know that your acceptance meant more to her than you thought. She puts the pot back in the window, delight turning to dread on her face.

“It is.” She agrees. “But it’s also scary.” You watch tears start to pool in her lashes. Sniffing, she reaches up to wipe her cheek with the sleeve of her shirt.

“I’m scared.” She admits shakily, so sadly that you dive forward. Wrapping your arms around her and holding her tightly.

“I’m scared too.” You say into the wisps of her hair.

She hugs you back immediately, crying into your shoulder. Bonnie smells like coconut and floral perfume, and you cling to that in your fear. She's a witch, but she's still your Bonnie. The lovely girl you've known since kindergarten. Nothing is different, not really. This has always been a part of her, even then.

The only thing that has changed is that she knows it now.

Before she leaves, she promises to keep you in the loop because even though you don't want to be an active member of the Scooby Gang, she thinks that keeping you ignorant is more dangerous.

You try not to bring up the fact that Caroline is oblivious, and nobody seems to care about her well-being.

The door closes behind her, and you promptly burst into tears.

°°°

You go back to school and pretend that it's normal that Bonnie and Elena are missing from their classes. Caroline has been too occupied trying to win Matt's love to notice the weird things that've been happening. You're glad for it.

They should all be doing regular teenage girl shit rather than chasing two-hundred-year-old men who fetishize seventeen-year-old girls.

When Ben doesn't show up for his closing shift, you blow up his phone—calling no less than thirty times and texting incessantly. You don’t feel bad; he once called your fucking mom because you were late.

You're angrily typing out another ‘Get your ass here. I wanna go home.’ message when someone comes up to the host stand. Sighing, you slam your phone down and plaster a big fake customer service smile on your face.

“Hi! Welcome to the Mystic Grill. How many in your par-” Your mouth snaps shut as Stefan Salvatore stands in front of you.

He smiles grimly, or maybe that's just his face.

“Uh, Hi.” He says, awkwardly rubbing his hands together.

“Hi.” You respond flatly. Instead of grimacing or looking more incongruous, he chuckles. A quiet thing, but familiar to you. He has always seemed to find you funny. It used to piss you off because you felt like you and he were in some insane competition for Elena's love. Which you understand is crazy.

Now, it's just nice to know that it was not fake like everything else about him.

“Elena wants you to know what's going on. She thinks it will keep you safe,” he explains whilst raising his hand hesitantly. You are more shocked than scared when he places it on top of yours. “And so do I.”

Staring at his hand covering yours, you make a decision. It's a rather stupid decision, but you've never claimed to be the most level-headed person around. Tilting your head, you look at his patient, dark green eyes, and say, “Thank you, Stefan.”

He immediately brightens. Ears perking up like a dog who spots a car to chase. You smile back, maybe for the first time. You’re choosing to trust him. It might be the worst thing you've ever done, trusting a killer, but there is just something compassionate about him that reminds you of Elena.

So, when he tells you that Ben won't be coming because he is dead, you hold in the cry that crawls up your throat and let him explain that your coworker, who became your friend, was a vampire. He kidnapped Bonnie and Elena and threatened them while holding them captive.

He watches you wearily as he speaks, like he's waiting for you to crumple over.

You don't. You simply nod and swallow the acid that's building in your mouth. This news does not hurt that much, surprisingly. Ben was a friend, but he's been acting sketchy recently, and now you know it's because he became a vampire.

It could have been Elena and Bonnie. He could've killed them. Better him than them. Your mind supplies the words like a mantra.

After he leaves, you pull out your phone and stare at Ben’s contact. There's a black hole pit in your stomach that is difficult to ignore. You delete the contact and think about how nobody will take the nightshifts now. Ben has been taking them for months because you and Matt have school.

Your break consists of you sitting in the walk-in freezer. Hoping the icy cold will numb more than just your fingertips.

°°°

It's only a few hours later, when you're curled up in bed half asleep, that your phone starts ringing.

You ignore the first three calls, muffling them by drawing the covers over your ears. By the sixth call, your brain is semi-functioning, and you blindly smack your hand around in search of the loud device. You don’t look at the caller ID, foolishly.

“Hello?” You croak, rubbing the blur from your eyes.

“Hi.” A small familiar voice responded. You pause, tearing the phone away from your face to glare at the bright greenish screen.

Elena, in big bold letters, stares back at you. Sighing, you bring it back up. You've been dodging her calls since the whole ‘her boyfriend's older brother kidnapped you’ debacle. There were only a few calls in the beginning anyway. Elena may be stubborn, but she knows how to take a hint.

You open your mouth to ask what she needs, but she cuts you off with a choked sob.

“I- I don’t know what to do.” She cries into the phone, and you can hear the despair.

“Elena-”

“Grams is dead.” Her tone suddenly calms, and you feel anything but. You sit there, in the darkness of your bedroom, listening to her breath heavily. The words haven't quite pierced your consciousness yet, but it shouldn't be long now before your head replays all the memories of Bonnie’s lovely Grams, who made the best tea.

Biting your lip, you adjust the phone. “Grams is dead?” you ask quietly.

The dam seems to break, and Elena starts to sob so hard that it sounds like static.

“She's dead and it's my fault.”

“I’m sure that's not true.” It's all you can think to say, because it's true. How could Elena kill an old witch with the stubbornness that rivals a rock? You have a suspicion that it's more the Salvatore brothers' fault, but voicing that opinion might only make Elena more hysterical.

Before you can ask about Bonnie, she sucks in a loud breath, “I gotta go, but I’ll- can I- um, can I call?”

“Yeah, of course." You whisper.

With a noncommittal noise, she hangs up, leaving you alone in the darkness. Staring at the outlines of your furniture, you place your hands in your lap and just stare. Your head is fuzzy, your eyes are blurry from sleep rather than tears. Not for the first time, you wonder if the last week has been a dream.

A nightmare. A horrible play directed by your subconscious. But you know it's not, this is real, and you can’t escape it.

You don’t cry yourself to sleep. And in the back of your mind, the lack of tears worries you.

°°°

Sheila Bennett, the fresh and spotless tombstone reads in swooping carved letters.

Bonnie stays quiet the entire funeral, switching her hands between yours and Caroline's. You and Care glance at each other from behind Bon’s head, both of the girls trying to figure out if Elena was late to a fucking funeral.

It's very unlike her, so you distract Bonnie long enough for Caroline to pull out her bedazzled cell and shoot her a text.

Elena Gilbert was not invited.

Bonnie goes home with one of her cousins, and Caroline takes you home. Before you can get in the car, she tugs on your arm and pulls you into a bone-crushing hug.

“You have bags under your eyes.” She says softly in your ear.

Laughing, you lean into Care's pretty blonde hair and pretend that your world isn't falling apart. You mumble that you're tired, which makes her coo dramatically over you. Pinching your cheeks while baby-talking about being a sleepy girl.

She doesn't let you pick the radio station on the drive back. She plays something loud and gritty. Like if the colors pink and black made music together.

Neither of you mention that Elena was not invited. Neither of you mention Lena at all, and you think this is progress. Progress for moving on from your crush, for becoming accustomed to ignorant bliss being ripped away.

The car turns a corner, the golden sun shining through the windows. In the light, you catch a scar right over Caroline's collarbone. Ghostly pale and glaringly similar to teeth marks.

Progress is suddenly torn away as you jerk open the car door to throw up in the road.

Caroline shrieks, swerving the wheel in her confused panic. She almost crashes the car, but once she has calmed down, she's more concerned with the fact that you won't stop shaking.

You don't stop shaking, not even when you get into bed that night. You don't know if you'll ever stop shaking.

°°°

“I'm coming!” You yell while running towards the front door. The person who's knocking seems to be extremely impatient if the way they are absolutely pounding on the door is anything to go by.

In your hurry to stop the noise, you neglect to look through the window to see who is knocking.

Yanking open the door with an annoyed huff, your heart drops as you stare at inhumanly blue eyes. Damon stands before you with his lips twisted into an awful little smirk.

It reminds you distantly of Jim Carrey’s faces on Unnatural Acts. I should tell him that, you think, almost smiling. Then, you blink, startled by your lack of self-preservation skills and the severity of your impulsive thoughts.

Scratch that, you should tell Stefan to tell him that.

“Hi, honey.” He leans forward, his nose not quite crossing the threshold of your doorway. “You miss me?”

”No.” You deadpan. His lips pull into a pout, the same one he wore that night in The Grill when you said no to serving him. Elena had somewhat explained that vampires could not come into one's home without some sort of invitation. She had asked you to tell your parents not to invite anyone in.

You thought it was a strange warning. Why on earth would your parents invite a stranger into their home? Maybe Jenna Sommers is just a fucking idiot and invites random people inside, or maybe Elena is the dumb one because you doubt Jermey even opens the door when somebody knocks.

You've got to start doing that.

“Stefan’s in trouble and I need your help.” He explains casually. A flippant air to his stance. It’s clearly a farce if his twitching hands are anything to go by.

It’s almost shocking how dumb this man is. Does he think that you are going to help him and Stefan? You don’t hate Stefan, but a two-hundred-year-old man should be able to handle his own shit without the help of a seventeen-year-old girl. Pushing your luck, you hum and tap your finger against your chin in mock deep thought.

“Hmm. No.” You chirp, reaching for the handle to slam the door. Unfortunately, the evil blue-eyed man jams the tip of his shoe in between the doorway.

”Come on.” He huffs, looking extremely annoyed with your rejection. “I thought you and he were all buddy-buddy now. He thinks very highly of you. Which is totally crazy cause you want to kiss his girlfriend.”

Rolling your eyes, you give him an unimpressed frown. The two stare at each other for a few seconds. Slowly, a smug smile lights up his face, and he waves his finger in your face playfully.

“And…you wouldn’t want me to tell her, would you?”

Petulant anger starts to bubble under your skin, a familiar feeling of middle school embarrassment and childish tears. But you are no longer thirteen and terrified of everything. Do you want the evil man to tell Elena? No, obviously not. But considering all the shit that you’ve put up with the last couple of weeks, Elena finding out about your crush would not be the end of the world.

So, you shrug, “I’ll take metaphorical death over physical, thanks.”

He makes a funny sound in the back of his throat that might be a laugh as you slam the door in his pretty face.

°°°

“I touched her hand. I touched her hand.” Caroline cries hysterically over the phone. Your hand shakes as you hold the device to your ear.

Vicki Donovan's body was found. Her corpse had been brought out of its shallow, unmarked grave and tangled in a mudslide. As if the girl had just been a crooked tree caught up in the storm, not a person. Not a girl with a life. Unimportant, unremarkable, irrelevant. Buried in the middle of the woods like a dead fish being tossed into the open ocean.

The black hole of despair grows bigger in your soul, swallowing up all the joy and happiness that's ever sunk through your skin.

A drug deal gone wrong, the officers say. But you know that this gaping wound won't be covered by a band-aid for much longer. It will bleed through, eventually.

Whatever happens, you hope Damon dies first.

°°°

The chilly air nips at your cheeks, a teasing bite that doesn't quite break skin. The smell of hairspray and powdery floral perfume is nauseating. Worst of all, your wrist is aching from holding a curling iron too long.

With a sigh, you twirl the last piece of Caroline's hot hair around your finger. Making sure the strands curl in the same direction as the others.

“I’ll comb it out and spray it after makeup.” You tell her whilst rummaging through her things to find her makeup bag. She hums, her blue eyes roaming critically over herself through the vanity mirror. If she could not see you, you’d roll your eyes at her baseless insecurity.

It's a losing battle, really. Caroline Forbes is made up of blonde hair, pink ribbon, unexpected intelligence, and raging envy. It’s a trait you have tried to shake out of her since childhood, but comparison has taken root and won't be ripped away so easily.

It will dwindle eventually, you think to yourself as you unscrew a tube of foundation. She stays perfectly still while you doll her up, eyes not so much as twitching when you apply false lashes. A month ago, you might have joked that she isn't human. Laughed at her supernatural ability to be a perfect statue under your hands.

But now, under the violent fluorescent lights, you push down the sick building in your throat at the mere thought. You don't know if you will ever be able to joke about what lurks in the darkness. Maybe one day, when the blood isn't wet, when the grave isn't freshly dug.

When the wound isn’t gushing.

You shake your head, as if the action will expel turmoil. The whole reason you're here, helping Caroline get ready for the Miss Mystic Falls pageant, is to forget about all the other bullshit. To pretend that monsters are not real and all your stress is caused by too much homework. That, plus Caroline asked you to come.

At some point between blush and lip gloss, Elena Gilbert walks in. A royal blue dress slung over her arm. Jenna follows with a bag full of beauty equipment.

Elena looks up the same moment you do, her doe-like eyes staring at you through the mirror's reflection. She raises her hand, waving almost shyly. You smile back before quickly breaking contact and going back to Caroline.

“You’re going to win, you know.” You find yourself saying after you watch her pretty face grow solemn by the minute. Elena’s presence always seems to bring her down. You hate her jealousy towards your mutual friend; it's ridiculous. But then again, you used to wish Stefan would go back to Italy or wherever the fuck he came from, out of pure jealousy.

To call Care out on it would be the pot calling the kettle black. The blonde bites the inside of her cheek, mulling over your words before answering.

“She’ll win. She always does.” She murmurs just loud enough for you to hear.

You can't help but scoff, “She won’t. Carol Lockwood would never give someone a pity win.” As much as you hate to even think it, the only real upper hand Elena has in this competition is her mother's previous win and her dead parents.

She does nothing for the community. She is inactive in clubs and only participates in mandatory school functions. Elena is no Miss Mystic Falls. Nor do you believe she wants to be.

“Doesn't matter. She always wins everything.” Bitterness is direct in her voice, but her shoulders shrug with the casualness of someone who doesn't mind.

“Everything isn't a competition.” You huff, putting the finishing touch of hairspray on her glossy blonde locks. “And besides, that's not even true.”

She looks at you for a moment, really looks. Like she's seeking something. The feeling of her eyes trying to seep through the cracks of your face makes you tense. Caroline has never been a person you felt the need to hide from; you have been too close to her for too long. Cowardice has never been in your nature.

Lying, though, lying is something sewn into your body. A virus that simply cannot be cured.

You're not sure when that happened. Maybe it was the first time your heart sped up in Elena's presence, or maybe it was the day you smiled through fear.

“Isn't it?” She whispers, still staring at you. You feel the moment your face falls. Her implication makes you freeze. Gritting your teeth, you glare at her. I'm right here, aren't I? You desperately want to yell in her face.

Your anger simmers as someone shouts your name. Turning, you come face-to-face with a relieved-looking Jenna. She huffs, smiling.

“Hey, can you come finish Elena’s hair? I'm no good at this kinda stuff.” Her voice has an easy lightness to it. Jenna Sommers is a woman who belongs in a Garry Marshall movie, and it's difficult to say no to her.

“Yeah, sure.” Your smile is tight, but she hardly notices. Handing you the comb and hair-pins like they've exhausted her. Caroline catches your eye, ‘told you so’ practically written in the black ink of her pupils. Ignoring her, you stroll over to Elena's station. Jenna mutters something about the dress and scurries off.

Elena's face is gentle and open, watching you with a soft sort of fondness that makes you flush. Carefully, you pull at the curls around her face. Finger brushing her temples, her olive skin is warm beneath the iciness of your hands. You try not to linger, try not to melt. Her hair is silky, and it feels like a crime to ruin the rich texture with crunchy hairspray.

The silence is not comfortable, but it's not quite awkward either. Somewhere in between. You glance over only to find that Caroline is gone, along with her dress.

“You look pretty,” Elena says, quiet and sweet like she's afraid of spooking you.

You can't help it, you laugh. The clothes you’re wearing are not even yours. Caroline had come over to your house yesterday, excitedly shoving a dress and heels into your arms before leaving. You might have taken extra care with your appearance this morning, but that is between you and the bathroom mirror.

Nudging her shoulder, you grin. “Thanks.”

She scoffs playfully, a pout on her dark pink lips. “Aren't you going to tell me that I'm pretty?” and for a moment, just the smallest moment, the air does not feel so heavy. Elena is just your friend whom you have a massive, embarrassing crush on. Just two teenage girls with frivolous problems that can be solved with cookie-dough ice cream and a re-watch of Pride and Prejudice.

But the moment does not last, and this is what it is.

“You're always beautiful. You don’t need to tell you that, Lena.” You respond to her almost absently, your mind half on the dumpster-fire that is life and half on pinning her hair up perfectly.

The feeling of her swallow lingers on your knuckles, the knobs on the back of her neck rolling with the movement.

“No,” She agrees, “but it's nice.”

Humming, you reach for the hairspray. “I bet it is.”

Surprisingly, she giggles at your deadpan rebuttal. And then her face goes still as stone.

“I miss you.” She says, so hopefully it makes you want to cry, because you miss her too. Really, you do. You miss casually texting her about the stupid thing Alyssa Blake said, or about how much you want to stab your manager. You miss her calling you to complain about Jeremy, to whine about anything and everything.

It's a nice idea that she tells you things simply because she wants you to know.

The door opens behind you, and Damon Salvatore walks through the threshold with an air of entitlement that is suffocating. Both girls tense, muscles bunching like a coiled snake ready to strike.

That same ugly fucking smirk stretches across his face as he glances between you and Elena.

“Well,” He drawls, “As much as I'd love to be a part of this porno cliché, I need to talk to Elena in private.” Those inhuman blue eyes are giving you a pointed look that makes you want to shy away like one of those plants that shrivel up and die when a person pokes them with their fingertip.

“Damon-” She starts, sounding resigned in a way that reminds you of when she was dating Matt and miserable because he wasn't exciting enough for her. That's what she told you at least. You've always sort of liked Matt. He's not rude or a creep; he respects people, and he is a hard worker. Never once have you had to clean up after his shifts or do his side work.

He also does not make his girlfriend dig up his father's corpse because of some weird fucked ritual.

Does that excite you, Elena Gilbert?

“It's okay.” You hear your voice say. It's dull, a shiny marble rolling against smooth mahogany wood. Your body moves without your mind. Your hands put the finishing touches on Elena's hair. “I’m done anyway.”

Elena is watching you with her big, sad Bambi eyes, looking as though she desperately wants to say something. But she doesn't; her mouth stays firmly shut throughout the entire exchange. Idly, you wonder when her stubborn backbone fractured into the rubbery morals that hold her up now. She used to be mean, and it kills you a little that she seems to have turned into a meek creature in need of saving.

Spinning away, you walk towards the door in hopes of finding Caroline or Tyler, but a hand reaches out as you pass and traps your arm in an iron grip. A cool metal ring stings against the skin of your bicep, and bile threatens to crawl up your throat. You might be having some PTSD from the night he dragged you around like a doll.

Damon leans his neck to your ear, his breath warm as he speaks, “Avoid Stefan if you can.” Is all he whispers before letting go and sweeping into the room fully with an elegance that doesn't quite suit him.

You would scoff if he didn't sound so viciously serious. Instead of voicing your humor about him telling you to avoid the nice one who lets you copy his history homework, you just nod and walk out into the hallway without looking back. Heals clicking, you practically sprint down the hall and down the stairs. Somehow, you don’t fall and bust your face on the floor.

Small miracles.

In the corner of your eye, you see the uncomfortably acquainted silhouette of Stefan Salavtore. It only takes a few seconds to register that he is walking directly at you. It's not his usually docile strides, with his neck slightly bowed in a way that makes him look like a schoolboy who spends too much time hunched over a book.

There's a certain swagger to him right now. Like a playboy who doesn't believe in getting lucky because luck has nothing to do with his game. His eyes look darker than usual, and his smile is a little too sharp.

“Hey,” He grins, looking akin to a hungry wolf in human skin. You bite the inside of your cheek and try to return his casual attitude.

“Hi, Stefan. Elena’s still getting ready. I just finished with her hair.” Your tone may be light, but the steady drum of your pounding heartbeat is heavy enough for a mere human to hear. Stefan must feel like he’s in the pit at your heart's concert.

Swallowing the urge to flee, you keep a placid smile while speaking. “She seems kind of anxious. You should go talk to her.” Go upstairs with your bitch-ass brother and away from me, you think.

His face twitches- spasms, and his eyes seem to become fixated on your throat.

There is silence, all the bustling people forgotten in your dread. It feels like minutes even though it can’t be more than a few seconds before someone is shouting your name from across the hall. A sigh of relief escapes you when you catch sight of Tyler's bodybuilder form speeding through the crowd, a silver flask clutched between his fingers.

You barely glance at the Salvatore as you're shuffling away, throwing a quick, “See you at school,” over your shoulder.

“Yeah.” He answers, sounding completely dazed, and you can not get the fuck away any faster.

Tyler is grinning like an idiot when you reach him. Without thinking, you fling your arms around him with a bruising sort of ferocity. He stumbles a bit, but hugs back with an ease of familiarity that makes you want to cry.

His chuckle puffs against your ear, not caring or merely not noticing how harshly your nails are digging into the back of his nice suit coat.

Pulling away, you blink aside tears and hope he’s buzzed enough not to notice. Tyler's fingernails graze against the zipper on your dress, and you can feel the cold chill of the flask pressed against the fabric along with his hand.

“What's wrong?” He asks quietly. You just shake your head and tug at his sleeve.

“You haven't shared any of whatever's in that flask with me, is what's wrong.”

He laughs at that and hands it over. You have absolutely no idea what the drink actually is, but it definitely tastes like shit and burns all the way down to your stomach. If Tyler's carrying it around, then it must be expensive. He yells at you for hogging it.

The liquor starts to settle in, and you squint at him, “Did you really make out with Matt's mom?” You can’t keep the pure disappointment out of your tone, or the ridiculous giddy curiosity. A strange combination that makes him roll his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“What was that like?”

He makes a face that can only be consideration.

“Like I stuck my tongue in an old ashtray.”

The pageant starts, and you convince him to bully and shove a pathway to the front for a better view of the beauty queens. One girl is missing, but you don't pay much attention to that as Caroline and Elena walk out in their dresses. They look so lovely that it pulls at your emotions.

But the moment is ruined as Stefan's name is called and he is nowhere to be seen. Your breath catches when Damon takes his place, holding his hand out to Elena. Looking like a painting of Hades and Persephone, leading her down the staircase of life and into the underworld.

“This is like…weirdly incestual,” Tyler whispers in your ear as the girls are led outside for the traditional dance. You would laugh, but you feel so sick that you doubt anything will be funny for a good long while.

°°°

It's only a few days later that someone knocks on your door. Not the front door, but your bedroom door. It's been a quiet Saturday. Matt had asked to switch shifts because he had something to do tomorrow.

So, now you have ample time to do your homework.

The knock on your door is so soft that you almost don’t hear it over the Cocteau Twins song that is blaring into your ears. Thinking it's one of your parents, you just shout a quick ‘come in’ without looking up from the paper in your lap.

A willowy figure slides into your room with the ease of someone who's been in here a thousand times.

Reaching up, you tug the headphones out of your ears and stare agape at Elena. When she notices your expression, she folds into herself a bit, slouching while rubbing her hands together awkwardly.

“Uh, your mom, she let me in.” She sputters out, pointing her thumb at the closed door behind her. Sighing, you pause your iPod and push all the papers on your bed into a messy side pile. She seems to take this as an invasion to sit. It wasn’t not an invitation, but it sometimes irks you how comfortable she is with invading your space.

You smile a little wearily, “Yeah, figured. I didn't think you broke in and beat her to death or anything.”

Elena snorts, shifting around on the comforter. “You’re ridiculous.” Her eyes glance at the pages of schoolwork curiously. “I don't have any of that.”

“The only class we have in common is history.” You shrug. Elena hums at that, still staring at the papers like they've truly stumped her. You are not sure what is so interesting about it, but then again, you doubt Elena is getting her work done, so it may be a new foreign concept.

“You’re in all the AP classes.” Her voice is casual, a statement instead of a question.

“Um, yeah, I guess I am.”

She raises an eyebrow at your response, like it was a silly thing to say. You're not sure what exactly she expected you to say. She knows about your ambitions, or at least she should. You've only talked about it a billion times.

Biochemical Engineering has been the goal since you were a child, and MIT has been the goal since you read the Marvel comics and found out Tony Stark went there. Maybe it's childish, but it's what you want and it's what you've trained yourself to be good at.

She makes another face, “You have more classes than I do.”

“You leave early. I chose to take two extra science courses.” You state, feeling like this conversation is just nonsense going nowhere. Elena still looks a little put-out by all of what you've said, and for the first time in a while, you wonder what Elena is going to do with her future.

She doesn't seem like the vampire type, and yet her boyfriend is immortal and will stay young, with or without her. She could reopen her father's practice here in town, nepotism can always catch her fall.

Personally, you've always imagined her as a writer. Not journalism, that's Care’s forte, but writing books full of love stories and interesting political plots.

It's now that you realize she must be thinking the same thing, and that's why she looks so sour.

Shaking her head, she smiles tightly. “I kinda forget how smart you are.” Then she laughs, a strangely bitter sound. “You’re good at this, you know.”

Feeling a bit uncertain, you hesitantly ask, “Good at what, Lena?”

“Compartmentalizing.” She responds immediately. “I can barely do all this, I can't imagine adding extra classes and a job on top of it.” She says it all in one self-deprecating breath. You are about to defend her, tell her that it's different, but you don't get the chance because Elena suddenly bursts into sobs.

Without missing a beat, you dive forward and pull her against you. She goes easily, leaning into your warmth like she's been freezing for years.

“I-we, me and Damon, f-fixed him.” She cries hysterically into your chest. Her hands tremble as she reaches to hold your arm like it's a lifeline. Like it's the only thing keeping her steady, even though she is just lying on your bed, half on top of you.

“He’s all better now.” She continues, trying to steady her breath. “He’s back on the animal blood, I promise.”

A wave of fresh sympathy washes over you like rainwater. “Oh, Elena.”

You let her cry, running your fingers through her hair and wiping her tears. It takes about fifteen minutes for her to calm down. You've never seen Elena cry like this. Not even when her parents died. She was mostly silent and stoic then, putting on a brave face in front of her little brother.

This must have hit her breaking point.

She pulls back, “I'm sorry.” She chuckles wetly. “I'm just, I was so stressed, and I guess now that I'm relieved, I can cry about it.”

You can't help but stare at her in disbelief. “Relieved?”

Elena scowls slightly, but her face goes back to sadness when she asks, “Can I stay the night?”

“Yeah, of course.” You agree breezily. She smiles, a real one for the first time since she walked into your room. Elena remembers where all your things are, and she has never been afraid to make herself at home in your house. She rummages through your closet, changing into some of your favorite pajamas.

She leaves the room, only to come back with two bowls of ice cream. She lets you finish your homework without a fuss, using your computer to watch a movie while you scribble through the last few assignments.

Finishing your work is rewarded by the bowl of half-melted strawberry sludge and the second half of ‘She’s the Man’.

Elena is slurping at the liquid left in her bowl, eyes fixated on Viola and Duke finishing kiss, when you say, “He’s not broken, you know.” It’s whispered so softly that it does not disturb the atmosphere of peace.

From the corner of your eye, you see her pause.

“You can't fix him, Elena. He is who he is, and he is a vampire.” You enunciate the last word, as if the focus on the species will make her understand.

Throat rolling, probably swallowing down the last bit of ice cream, she doesn't look away from the computer screen.

“I know.” She whispers, just as gently as you had. You nod, even though she isn't looking at you, and settle back down. Uncleaching your jaw and loosening your spine. Neither of the girls mention anything to do with supernatural again.

In the morning, Elena gets up early to help your mom with breakfast and brings you a coffee just the way you like it. It's almost like before. Before the Salvatores and before Elena lost her parents.

When she leaves, she looks like she might burst into tears again. But she doesn't. She hugs you and your parents and leaves.

It's the last time you talk with her for a while.

°°°

The street lamps are an orange hue of fluorescent light. They glow through the evening sky as it grows dimmer. Your shift ended twenty-five minutes ago, but you've needed a cigarette since some douche-bag drunkenly splashed his full mojito on your shirt.

So, here you stand. In the alley behind The Grill. Smoking a cigarette like you're sick and it's the cure. You would simply go home, but your parents don’t approve of smoking, and your nosy-ass neighbors would totally snitch on you if you tried to smoke in the backyard.

The grill is still bustling behind you. The bartender, Jack, is a master at his craft and can make all the customers happy with his awesome drinks and sexy tattoos.

“Hello.”

You jump, dropping your cigarette on the asphalt with a yelp. You turn and come face-to-face with some lady in a trenchcoat. She looks young-ish, maybe early thirties. Her smile is creepy; it doesn't quite reach her cold blue eyes.

Placing your hand on your thundering chest, you inhale raggedly, “Jesus, lady, scared the shit out of me.”

Her smile does not so much as twitch. “I’m sorry, that was not my intention.” Her hands stay in the pockets of her weird, dark trenchcoat, making the woman look like some sort of Disney villain cliche. It almost makes you laugh, but she really is freaking you out.

She takes another step forward, “May I replace that for you?” gesturing at the soggy cigarette crinkled up on the ground. You step forward and grind the thing down with the tip of your work boot. Reaching down, you pick it up and fling it into the dumpsters beside you.

“No, that's okay. My break is over anyway. My tables will be pissed at me.” You lie casually, waving your hand and grinning like you don't have a care in the world other than getting back to work.

“Oh no, I insist.” Her voice is sickly sweet, indulgent like a parent letting a child think they've fooled them. It makes your skin crawl, reminding you of the time Damon came into The Grill. The woman starts pulling a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket. The carton looks newly purchased, like she has just peeled the protective plastic off.

She flicks open the top, and your suspicions are confirmed when you see full rows of untouched cigarettes. She plucks two out with the tips of her fingers and holds them out.

Biting your lip, you very quickly stride forward to snatch them out from between her fingers.

“Thank you.” You rush out, knuckles turning pale as you wait to pull the door handle.

This lady's smile only widens, “Of course." She purrs. She is watching you way too closely for your comfort. Those eyes are roaming over you calculatingly. She must see something she likes, because she makes a pleased sound and says,

“I'm Isobel.”

You jerk open the door, “Alright.” With the speed of light, you shut the door behind you and lock it. Chest heaving, you try to think of all the vampires in town. Elena had told you about the tomb vampires, but she also said most of them were taken care of.

And besides, why would tomb vampires want to make nice with you? You're not a founding family or a vampire hunter or involved in this bullshit at all.

With a sigh, you walk past the trash can and toss the two cigarettes in there.

°°°

“No offense, Lena. But your birth mother sounds like a real bitch.”

Her laugh echoes through the speakers of the phone. It makes you feel satisfied, considering she had called you, sounding so fucking depressing that it made you feel suicidal.

“I’m serious,” You continue, chuckling along. “I bet Miranda could beat her ass.”

“Oh, definitely. You remember my mom during Black Friday? Insane.” She giggles.

The funny thing is, you do remember that. Miranda Gilbert had turned you, Bonnie, and Elena into her little snatchers. She would give the three girls different lists and very heavily encouraged shoving people, taking things from people's baskets, and kicking people in the shins so they would ‘lose focus and drop the merchandise.’

Her words.

Adjusting the phone against your ear, you turn the heat down on the stove. Your parents were out on Date Night- gross, so dinner was your problem tonight. It wouldn't be a problem if you weren’t so busy, but then again, cooking is a good life skill, and you should really get used to it in your teen years.

“I’m sorry she had to be evil.”

A sigh shudders through the static of the phone, “Yeah, me too.”

You do not mention the woman who bombarded you while trying to have a smoke. Elena does not approve of the habit and would most likely harp on that specific piece of information rather than her freakshow bio mom being nice for some unknown reason.

“She said I look like Katherine.”

With a pause, the words slowly register. It's odd that a woman could look at her daughter's face and compare her to a century-old vampire. Elena did say that Isobel has her humanity off, so you suppose any maternal feelings are nonexistent right now.

Sighing, you adjust the phone against your shoulder to make use of both your hands, “Yeah, I saw that picture of her. Btw, that's freaky as fuck and those Salvatores should seek some therapy.”

Elena does not respond to that, nor do you believe she would, letting the static of silence answer for her. It's not nice of you to bring up a subject she clearly hates being reminded of, but the truth sucks sometimes. Sparing her feelings now will only get them more hurt later.

“She said Damon's in love with me.”

You snort, “Yeah, no shit.”

There is a harsh sound against your ear, a breath of frustration you'd guess. “This isn't funny,” she says, but you can hear the twinge of amusement in her tone. For her sake, you muffle your giggles. There is a moment of comfortable silence as you stir the simmering pot.

“She said something about you, too.”

That makes the humor disappear, dissipating as if it was never in your chest to begin with.

“What? What did she say?” You rush out in one big breath.

There was a shuffling sound and then, “Uh, she said that you seemed like a nice girl and that I should keep you around.”

The words ring in your head like a gong. Loud and sharp against the soft skin of your eardrums. A memory perks up from the depths of your mind, something you've tried to bury since it happened.

You know, I am kinda sorry it had to be you. Damon had said that night, you were introduced to true nightmares. The scent of leather and nauseous dread bubbling up with the scene.

You seem like a nice girl.

His tone had been resigned. Atonement, you'd assumed then.

You seem like a nice girl.

She said that you seemed like a nice girl.

Trying to swallow down the tell-tale signs of a panic attack, you turn the stove completely off. Hunger has dwindled into nothingness. An anxious mess that, if fed, will regurgitate.

It's almost funny. No, it is funny. It’s fucking hilarious. You have spent the entirety of your adolescence just trying to get out of this town.

Picking up extra shifts at The Grill, house-sitting for the upper-class, tutoring freshmen for a few extra bucks. All of this, and yet, if you asked anyone what they thought of you, they wouldn't really know what to say.

You have never made a mark on this town, on the people around you.

Parent-teacher conferences have always lasted only minutes.

‘Your daughter is doing very well. She is a very nice girl.’

Nothing is interesting about you. You fade into the background of everyone else's life.

“Oh.” Your voice speaks without permission.

Elena says something else, something about her day or something about Stefan. You're not sure, hardly listening. You only respond when she asks if you'll attend the Founder's Day parade.

“I have homework.”

“You always have homework.” Is her pouty response.

It makes you laugh. It's terribly strained and teary, but it's still a laugh. “So do you. I just do mine.”

“Whatever.”

°°°

You're halfway through an essay for history class when your phone starts vibrating. The greenish screen flashes, Tyler and you answer it with your free hand without ceasing writing in the other.

“Whadoyawant?” You answer absently, trying to keep your train of thought on the Soviet Invasion of Poland. Mr. Saltzman is what you would call a cool teacher. He doesn't take points away for misspelling and punctuation. Every paper is a guaranteed A+ if its contents are interesting enough.

It's a bit difficult to make an essay about War compelling, though.

“Th-there was an accident.” Tyler's voice shudders through the line. Your pencil comes to a screeching halt, dragging a jagged line halfway down the letter Y. The last time you heard those words, Miranda and Grayson Gilbert were in body bags.

“It was an accident,” He seems to be pleading. The desperate tone is certainly heavy enough to be mistaken for begging.

Standing up, you look around the room for some clothes to quickly throw on. “Tyler, what-”

“I don't know- I swear to God, I don't know what happened. There was this noise, and I swerved and-”

“Tyler,” You snap while struggling to tug on a pair of jeans. “I need you to calm down and tell me what's going on.”

“It's Caroline. She hit her head on the dash or something and-”

“And it's not looking good.”

Your body is on autopilot as you dress, as you shove your bare feet into Converse and push your arms through a random shirt you blindly yanked out of the closet. Adrenaline is pumping through your ears, overwriting Tyler's voice through the phone.

He says something about the hospital, and you're already headed out the front door, car keys clutched between your fingers like a lifeline.

“I’m on my way.” And then you hand up, throwing the cellphone into your purse with zero care.

°°°

The hospital smells like lemon cleaning products. A dull acidic scent that teeters on the edge of sweet and rotten. It's making you nauseous, or maybe that's the fear. It hardly matters either way. Impending doom has coiled itself around your lungs, around your heart, and every other organ you can’t seem to name at the moment.

The nurse behind the desk has one manicured finger raised, looking slightly annoyed by your presence as she talks with someone on a big blocky office phone. Her finger stays as she hangs up; it only drops when she starts clicking at the computer.

You lean over the desk a bit, fingernails digging into the white plastic countertop.

“Hi, excuse me-”

Her finger immediately goes back up, clearly trying to silence you. “One sec.” She mutters, not looking away from the computer. Biting the inside of your cheek, you nod once and try to wait without fidgeting.

It's about twenty-five seconds later that your patience wears thin and you open your mouth again.

“Look, I just need to know where-”

Her eyes finally meet yours, and she's scowling at you. Actually fucking scowling.

“I said, hold on. Do you not know how to be patient?” She snips, sounding like the mean girls in a Lifetime movie. You have a feeling that she was a mean girl back in high school, if the hot pink acrylic nails and ugly haircut are anything to go by.

Working in customer service has given you a high tolerance for disrespect, but unfortunately for this lady, you are not at work, and your forbearance for fuckery is nonexistent tonight.

“Listen, you preppy little bitch-”

“Whoa, whoa whoa!” A familiar voice emerges from behind you. Tilting your head, you are met with the imposing form of Damon Salvatore. His hands are held up in a defensive stance, pretty face looking convincingly shocked.

He places his hands on your shoulders, making your tense muscles bunch up even more.

“I'm so sorry.” He stage whispers to the nurse, "It's been a stressful night for all of us.” His fingers pull you close, making you feel every breath his chest puffs out. You watch the lady’s pinched face smooth over into the first sympathetic expression you've seen since walking through the automatic sliding doors.

Batting her patchy lash extensions at him, she simpers, “I completely understand, dear.”

“Uh huh.” He mutters while herding you towards the hallway on the right. After a few twists and turns, you see Bonnie seated in a waiting chair, looking as sick with worry as you feel. Tyler and Matt stand a few feet away, having a hushed conversation.

Bonnie’s head perks up, and her worry morphs into relief at the sight of you.

“Look who I found about to assault a nurse,” Damon says, but neither girls pay him any mind as Bonnie raises and all but collapses into your arms. You hug her back just as tightly, digging your fingers into the fabric of her shirt like she'll disappear if you let go for even a moment.

You pull away first, determined to get information on Caroline.

“How is she?” You ask, hands lingering on Bonnie's arms to keep yourself somewhat grounded in this terrible time. Her hazel eyes are red and glassy, tears building and falling as soon as the words leave your lips. She shakes her head and sniffs.

“It's not looking good.” She whispers, as if she says it too loudly, they will be real. It does not feel real quite yet; hasn't pierced your consciousness quite yet.

The presence behind you seems to get even closer, practically leaning over your shoulder.

“She would be fine if someone had just deactivated the Gilbert device.” He snips, sounding a mix between smug and sarcastic. The urge to turn around and punch him in his perfect mouth is strong, but the knowledge that you would get kicked out of the hospital by the preppy blonde bitch is enough to restrain yourself.

“If she didn't deactivate it, then why aren't you dead?” You practically snarl at him. The implication that you wish he were dead does not seem lost. Damon rolls his eyes, but takes a step away from your personal space.

Bonnie’s bruising grip on your forearm tugs, causing you to look away from him and back to her. She makes a mocking face, an exaggerated frown that conveys a level of patronizing that words could not. It's a familiar expression. You, Bon, Elena, and Caroline all do it.

Jeremy called it the girl groups ‘Bitch face’ and you can't help but agree with the analogy.

Out of the corner of your vision, Tyler comes barreling down the hall. You let go of Bonnie with a comforting smile and a squeeze to her arm.

The hug Ty sweeps you into is tight, and you find all the air in your lungs being squeezed out like a wheezy balloon. He pulls back immediately, clearly fearful he’s hurt another friend.

“It's not your fault.” You say at once, holding him in place so he cannot cringe away from your unyielding stare.

He opens his mouth, but you yank on his wrist and shake your head.

“It's not your fault.”

It's all the vampire's fault. You think while falling into his chest. It's all their fault. Damon, Stefan, Ben, that Anna bitch, and her mother, the vicious tomb vampire, Elena's creepy birth mother.

Not Tyler. Not Bonnie. Not the humans who have only lived seventeen years compared to the vampires' centuries.

Over Ty's shoulder, you watch Matt tap his foot anxiously in the waiting chair. He looks much too old and tired to be a teenager. You hope one day he gets the pleasure of killing Damon Salvatore for what he did to Vicki.

°°°

It's only an hour or two later that you catch sight of Elena’s shiny hair bouncing off the harsh hospital lights. You’re gulping down the end of your second cup of coffee when she stomps into view. She asks the same question you did and Bonnie gives her the same answers. These are the only answers as of right now.

Damon slides up beside the girls, silently handing you a new steaming paper cup to replace the one you've just emptied. You loathe to take it, but desperate times and all that. So, you take it and then thrust the hollow cup into his open palm. He does not even react; his eyes are solely focused on Elena.

It almost makes you laugh. Oh, flame Elena and her simple moth admirers.

The coffee tastes primarily of cream and sugar, but that's how you usually like it when it's not a necessity. It burns your tongue as you drink, but it's nice to feel something other than imminent disaster.

Someone saying your name snaps you out of the rabbit hole of thoughts. Glancing up, your eyes meet deep brown ones. You do not have time to even open your mouth before Elena steps forward and hugs you with a strength that rivals Tyler's.

“You okay?” She whispers, her cold nose buried against the skin of your neck. The words are a warm rush of breath, and the contrast makes you suppress a shudder. There are no words that could possibly describe the current turmoil that you are feeling, so you just shake your head against her.

“Touching.” Damon's voice cuts through.

Elena doesn't let go, but she turns her head to face him again. She bends at an odd angle, and her long hair catches in your mouth.

“Why are you even here?” She demands, halfheartedly pulling her locks behind her ear to remove it from your face.

Damon's sharp, steely eyes glance between your face and hers. It makes you feel a little exposed. Like you're a bug being dissected under a microscope. Elena does not seem to share the qualm, because she does not even flinch under the calculating gaze. Bonnie's lips twitch up, half-amused by the standoff.

He hums, licking his lips, and starts in a low tone. "I could give Caroline some blood.”

Lena tenses, body going visibly rigid. In contrast, you feel the built-up uncertainty melting out of you.

“No.” She states harshly, making you turn to her sharply. You pull away, putting enough distance between two bodies to see her expression. Damon sighs and offers again, and you wonder why he hadn't proposed this earlier. Probably because he wanted Elena to witness his heroics.

You and Bonnie make eye contact through their argument, and you know that she is on the same page as you. Save Caroline, no matter the consequences.

“It's too risky, Damon. I can't let you.”

Bonnie's voice cuts through, “Do it.” She says with an air of authority that no one could argue with. Elena pauses, staring at their shared friend like she has never seen her before. She looks to you then, clearly hoping to see outrage on your face that matches hers. But you can't look at her, can't let her try and guilt you to see it her way.

“Do it.” You nod, ignoring the indignant sound that comes from your left. “Please, Damon, help her.” The words practically fight through gritted teeth, but your pride is easily put down in the face of someone's life.

Caroline’s life.

He looks mildly shocked, and then his face eases back into the cool cockiness he constantly wears.

“Well, since you said please.”

A sigh of relief rattles through you. The silence is suddenly very awkward, so you glance at Bonnie and tilt your head towards the boys. She nods and follows when you walk back over to Matt and Tyler.

The group sits and talks for a few minutes, and in that short amount of time, you finish the third coffee. Getting up makes your body feel like a rusty, un-oiled swingset, and it takes everything in you to walk to the trash can.

“We kissed, Elena,” you hear Damon's voice say in a hushed, angry tone.

You chuck the cup into the bin with zero finesse and turn right around to sprint away. The bubbling nausea in your stomach rises into your throat, and bitterness floods your mouth.

°°°

After hovering over an exhausted and sore but healthy Caroline, Sheriff Forbes gently kicks you out. Matt is snoring in the private room's scratchy armchair, and you have half a mind to make him scoot over so you can stay.

Unfortunately, Liz seems to be under the impression that you will be attending school in the morning. The idea of getting up in a few hours and going to first period like nothing is wrong is absurd. Your parents will understand, and if not, then you will finally allow the bone-deep sickness to overflow.

You've needed a day off for a while, and this is the perfect opportunity. Caroline would be overjoyed at the notion of her being the reason to play hooky. You'll have to tell her in the morning when you come back.

The blonde nurse has been replaced by an old, stern-looking woman. She gives a sympathetic smile when you pass the front desk and head to the parking lot. Digging your keys out of your purse, you're about to click the unlock button when someone says your name.

Yelping, you whirl around. Elena stands a few feet away, her back pressed against the sand-colored brick of the hospital casually. Heart beating wildly, you clutch your chest in a desperate attempt to keep calm and not hyperventilate.

Finally catching your breath, you find yourself laughing half hysterically.

“What the fuck, Lena?” You whisper-shout between giggles. She smiles back, but it doesn't quite look right on her face. The grin is a slow, bordering seductive thing, like a cat amused by the mouse. You have never seen Elena smile like this, and you don’t like it very much.

She slinks away from the wall, her practiced cheerleader grace making the movement seem liquid.

“Sorry, I forgot you startle easily.” She laughs, hand throwing a curly lock over her shoulder. Her tone tells you that she is not sorry at all, but you figured she did it on purpose, considering Elena still hides behind things so she can pop out with a ‘boo’.

She is truly a terror.

“I thought you left a long time ago.”

Elena tilts her head, dark eyes roaming over you in a quick once-over you wouldn't have noticed if not looking directly at her face. For some odd reason, your skin starts to prickle. Chills rack through you as if someone just poured ice water down your bare spinal cord.

Shaking your head, you chalk it up to your nervous system becoming more and more shot.

Unaware of your inner turmoil, Elena shrugs. “I did, but I'm here now."

Grimacing, “Ah, well, visiting hours are over and Liz is being strict about it.” You tell her with a helpless wave of hand and an eyeroll, not quite sure why you feel like you're speaking to a stranger instead of your best friend.

“I’ll have to come back tomorrow, I suppose.” She sighs in exaggerated disappointment. Without your permission, your eyes start to look around for either of the Salvatores or their awful cars. The parking lot is mostly empty.

Fiddling with the keys between your fingers, you glance towards your own car.

“Did uh,” You pause, glimpsing around again to see if Elena’s car is close by. “Did Jenna drop you off?”

Her mauve painted lips press together, and she hums. “No.”

“Do you need a ride?” You ask hesitantly, half dreading her agreement. You don’t know what’s going on, but she’s being fucking weird, and it’s making you feel like you're in a nightmare that you cannot rouse from.

She is silent for a moment, her eyes burning a hole into your face. She is still a few feet away, keeping a nearly purposeful distance. There is definitely something wrong with her, because Elena Gilbert has never known person-space boundaries when it comes to you.

You idly wonder if her strange behavior has anything to do with Damon and their apparent kiss. The thought makes your head spin, so you quickly expel it into the depths of compartmentalizing.

“No, that’s okay.” She finally speaks, sharp voice cutting through a tense silence.

Usually, you would argue with her. Playfully tug her to your car and try to convince her to just come home with you. She would put up a giggling fight, pretending to think on it before huffing, ‘Fine.’

But you don’t do that now. You nod at her once and click your keys to unlock the door.

“Okay, goodnight, Lena.” You voice quickly, turning on your heels to speed-walk to the driver's side.

“Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She calls, her body staying rooted in the same space. Swallowing, you give her a taut smile and open the car door. Locking it immediately.

When you drive off, she is unmoved. Eerily still, not moving a muscle. The only way to tell she isn’t frozen in time is the wind blowing at her curls.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

(a/n): I don't think all the chapters will be this long but....lemme know what you guys think hehehe

series masterlist

#the vampire diaries #tvd #elena gilbert #Elena Gilbert x reader #x reader #Elena x reader #tvd x reader #damon salvatore #stefan salvatore #tvdu #tvdu fanfiction #bisexual #sapphic #wlw #wlw yearning #sapphic yearning #lesbianism #wuh luh wuh #vampire aesthetic #vampirism #tvd fandom #Stefan Salavtore x reader #Bonnie Bennett x reader #damon salvatore x reader

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

CJ