#tvd

[duchessripper]

“why do you still use tumblr?”

listen— i have to keep track of my hyper fixations somehow

[knight-in-shimmering-armour]

Vampirism be like "your physical health will be pitch perfect forever, but your mental health is between you and god."

[wholoveseggs]

I have I request/fic idea that’s kind of a flip on the usual. Reader & Elijah are dating and he can tell that’s she’s been holding something back when they have sex and is determined to get her to let go so he really pulls out all the stops. Reader is a biter, especially in situations she needs to be quiet (& maybe even a bit of a scratcher ie kinda claws at his back) but a previous boyfriend told it was weird so she’s super self conscious about it and is always a little distracted during sex fighting the instinct to bite him. Elijah succeeds and she latches onto that area between the neck & shoulder and turns out, not only is Elijah totally fine with it, he really REALLY likes it.

Bites

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!reader} You were afraid to bite him. Until he told you to do it again.

♡♡ hiii anon I love your mind && Happy day one of mikaelson week!! I've missed ya'll ~xo ♡♡

3.2k words - Warnings: smut, praise kink, riding, biting kink (the blood-free kind ... although Elijah absolutely wouldn’t mind...), overwhelmed reader, feral elijah && warm fire...

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering light across all of the ancient books lining the walls. Everything felt still and quiet, that kind of soft silence that only came when you were wrapped in warmth and safety. It was your favorite kind of evening, curled under a soft blanket on the sofa with your favorite person tucked close.

You still weren’t sure how you managed to pull a man like Elijah. You met a while ago, when he walked up to you like he already knew what you would say. All dark eyes and smooth charm, tailored clothes and quiet confidence. He had disarmed you instantly. From the first moment, you sensed something different about him. Though you didn’t know then just how true that would turn out to be.

And now, months later, here you were. Nestled against one of the oldest living creatures on earth, with his arm around your waist like it belonged there. He could have had anyone. And yet, he chose you.

You certainly weren’t going to argue.

A soft sigh slipped from your lips as you pressed in closer, wrapping the blanket tighter around both of you. You looked up at him, studying the familiar lines of his face in the firelight. His hair fell softly across his brow, his dark eyes tracking the lines of his book. But the way his hand moved, slow and precise, long fingers flexing just enough to remind you how they felt against your skin. That was what made your heart flutter.

Your gaze moved up to the column of his throat, the curve where neck meets shoulder. A place you kissed before many times, gently, reverently. But tonight, you didn’t want to kiss it. You wanted to bite it.

The thought hit fast and hot. You swallowed hard, shifting under the blanket as heat pooled between your thighs. It wasn’t the first time you had felt it. That deep, aching urge always crept in during quiet moments like this. When you felt content and safe around him, overwhelmed by love and want and intense feeling.

But just as quickly, shame curled through you like smoke. You shouldn’t want that. Not like this. It was too much. You were too much.

The last time you followed that instinct, let it slip past your lips in the heat of the moment, your ex hadn’t understood. He laughed. Pulled back. Shut down. Called you intense. In that tone people use when they mean something else. When they mean weird. When they mean wrong.

You pretended it didn’t hurt, but it stuck. It lived in you. Ever since, you kept that part of yourself locked away. Bit your own lip instead. Dug your nails into the sheets instead of skin. Avoided the feelings that threatened to swallow you whole.

And now here you were, held in the arms of the most perfect man you had ever known. Still too scared to show him the whole of what you wanted.

Elijah turned another page, but he hadn’t read a single word in the last five minutes. He could feel your body pressed against his side, warm and restless, your breaths coming shallower now. And he could practically hear the thoughts racing behind your silence.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched you from the corner of his eye, taking in the way your gaze lingered on him a little too long, the way your lips parted like you might say something, then thought better of it. Your breath caught.. just barely. But he noticed. He always did.

There was a flush rising beneath your skin, a certain tension in your frame that made his chest warm. You were trying so hard not to let it show. He could feel it in the way you tucked yourself a little closer, like you needed him to notice without asking. He found it very sweet.

He didn’t know what you were holding back, not exactly. But he could feel it, some small ache just beneath the surface. Something you thought you needed to hide.

He could wait. He would wait. But it was hard not to smile when you got like this. All quiet and shy…and clearly about two seconds from climbing into his lap.

His book was forgotten. His eyes were on you now, wearing that unreadable expression he saved for when he was studying something closely. Not judging. Just observing.

"W-what?" you asked, trying not to squirm. "You’re very distracting, you know that?"

Elijah gave you a small, amused smile. "I haven’t done anything."

"Exactly," you said, returning the smile. "You sit there looking like that and expect me to concentrate on anything else?"

He hummed, low and content, and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. "I was under the impression we were just reading."

"I was trying," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brushed your skin. "Then your hand turned a page and my brain completely stopped working."

"That sounds serious," he said, voice dropping just a little, all low and velvet-soft as his fingers slipped beneath the blanket. "Should I be concerned?"

You giggled breathlessly just before he caught your mouth in a soft kiss. His hand trailed up your thigh, pausing just beneath the hem of your dress. Then, with careful ease, he dipped under the fabric. Your pulse quickened, but you didn’t pull away.

His palm slid higher, warm and steady against bare skin. He smiled into the kiss, then shifted, lifting you effortlessly into his lap. The blanket slid down, pooling around your waist as your knees braced on either side of his hips. He only broke the kiss long enough to lift your dress over your head, leaving you in nothing but your panties.

He hadn’t expected his evening to go like this. Elijah had planned to read, maybe kiss you once or twice and fall asleep with you curled against his chest. But now you were in his lap, bare and radiant, and all he could do was stare. The way your skin flushed under his palms, the way your fingers trembled as they touched him. It always undid something in him.

Your hands moved to the front of his shirt, fumbling slightly with the buttons. He didn’t rush you. He liked watching you like this. A little nervous, focused, so clearly wanting him. You got halfway down before he leaned in and kissed your jaw, a whisper-soft encouragement. You pushed the fabric back off his shoulders and down his arms, quickly tossing it aside.

His hand slid down your back, firm and possessive, pulling you tight against him. He was already hard, and the pressure of it beneath you made your breath hitch. He guided your hips with slow, deliberate movements, coaxing you to grind against him. The friction stole your focus, made your fingers tremble against his skin as the heat between you deepened, hungry and sweet and impossible to ignore.

You let your hands roam across his chest, drinking him in. His skin was warm under your palms, his muscles carved and defined. Your fingertips traced the ridge of his collarbone, slid up the curve of his neck, tangled in his hair. He felt like something meant to be worshipped.

You reached between you, breath shaky, and undid the fastenings of his pants. He let you, his eyes never leaving your face. You pushed the fabric down just enough to free him, and the second your hand wrapped around him, he groaned, the sound rumbling through his chest.

You stroked him slowly, deliberately, savoring the feel of him in your hand. The way he exhaled like you were undoing him. The way his fingers dug into your thighs, the ways his pupils dilated, making them somehow even darker.

The firelight flickered across your back, casting the two of you in molten gold. He leaned in, breath warm against your throat, and you tipped your head back as he kissed along your neck, his mouth open, tongue teasing. His hand moved between your legs, slipping beneath your panties and pushing the fabric aside.

His fingers teased you gently, not enough to satisfy, just enough to make your hips shift, seeking more.

"Go slow for me. Let it ache a while," he murmured. "I'll take care of you."

Your body trembled with anticipation, with need, and you bit your lip, stifling a whimper. He kept his touches light, too light, just barely brushing the surface, then a little deeper, circling and coaxing until your legs began to shake.

You tried to stay in control. Tried to hold back the part of you that wanted to claw, to bite, to take. The part that always felt too hungry.

But then he pulled away, slow and deliberate, and shifted beneath you. He pressed the head of his cock right where you wanted him most and held there, unmoving, letting the need twist hot and sharp inside you.

You held your breath as he pressed against you, and then, slowly, you began to sink down. You let out a quiet moan, savoring the stretch and the way his hands tightened around you, steadying you.

You started to move, slow and careful. Lifting just enough to feel the pull before sinking down again. Every motion was thick with wet heat, achingly slow. Sweet friction that built fire with every pass.

Your muscles burned with the effort of staying in control, and your heart pounded like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest. Your nails digging into the sofa.

His hands slid along your spine, grounding you as he let you set the pace. But it was not enough to hold back the rush building in your blood.

It was too much. The pleasure. The pressure. The unbearable fullness of him, deep and steady, everywhere.

And still, you tried to hold it together.

Still, you held back.

He felt it in the hitch of your breath, in the tremble that started in your thighs and worked its way through you like a current. Your heart was a wild, beautiful thing beneath your skin. Fluttering against your ribs, echoing in his ears like a siren’s call. And your scent… god, the warmth of it, the way clouded all of his senses as you eased down onto him. It nearly undid him.

You were trying so hard to stay composed. He could see it in the tension at your jaw, the way your fingers dug into the leather behind you instead of into him. It made something sorrowful ache in his chest. You were holding back. Still afraid. Still unsure if it was safe to fall apart with him.

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to be. That he could take it. That he wanted it. Wanted you to be hungry, wild and unrestrained. But he didn’t speak. Not yet. He didn’t dare interrupt the soft, sacred rhythm you set.

One of his hands slid across your shoulder, fingers trailing down your arm until he found your wrist. He brought it forward, pressed your palm to his chest, his skin hot beneath your touch.

“Touch me,” he said softly, steady as a heartbeat. “You don’t need to hold back.”

Your pulse jumped. The warmth of his skin, the steady thump under your palm, was too much. Too intimate. Too good. Your other hand followed, splayed flat over his heart. His hands returned to your waist.

You moved again, hips rolling deep and slow. You arched into him, nails dragging red down his chest. The pleasure built and built. And still, it wasn’t enough.

Your body trembled, caught between the instinct to take and the fear of being too much. You kissed along his jaw... that beautiful jaw. Just a little bit of stubble, sharp enough to cut. You kissed along it, slowly, breathing him in, afraid and desperate in equal parts to sink your teeth in.

Your mouth lingered there. Open. Wanting. But not daring.

His fingers flexed at your hips.

"Take it," he murmured, voice wrecked. "Whatever you want. Take it."

And finally you gave in.

You sank your teeth into the curve where neck met shoulder. Not enough to break skin, not on someone like him, but enough to hurt. Enough to shake him.

Elijah’s groan was guttural, the sound of a man utterly undone. His head fell back, and hips jerked beneath you, a sudden, uncontrolled thrust, and your body clamped down around him so tight it made your breath catch.

“Fuck.”

He swore under his breath, more primal than polished now and his hands squeezed your ass, guiding your hips.

“Again,” he hissed. “Harder.”

Your chest clenched. No one had ever enjoyed your intense side. No one had ever asked for more. The shame that always curled beneath your ribs was gone, burned out by the raw need in his voice. He wasn’t tolerating it. He was loving it.

And you were helpless to resist.

You bit him again, harder, and the strangled sound that escaped him sent a thrill down your spine. Your hands were shaking, fingers pressed tight against his chest, and your heart was pounding, but everything else felt perfectly, blissfully clear.

"Yes," he breathed, and his hand slipped between you, his fingers stroking over the spot where you were joined, and then up, rubbing in insistent circles over your clit, "Yes, love, yes..."

You moaned against his neck, the sound muffled. It was too much. The feel of him moving beneath you, the smell of his cologne, the taste of his skin, the press of his fingers, his hand against your back. The sounds he made. That beautiful, wrecked voice saying yes, over and over again.

Your mouth was everywhere, rabidly moving along the line of his jaw, the sharp ridge of his throat, the flushed skin you already marked once. You bit down over and over, teeth dragging just enough to make him groan, filthy and low. You felt drunk on it, dizzy, like the whole world was spinning around you and he was the only thing that could keep you upright.

Your hips bucked hard, your rhythm lost, and he began to bounce you, lifting your hips and bringing them back down with a punishing force. Every thrust drove a ragged sound from the both of you.

“Elijah,” you gasped, already breathless, fingers curling into his shoulders.

“Again,” he growled, voice sharp now. “Fucking bite me.”

The command in his voice hit like a punch to the gut. A moan tore from your throat as you did, harder this time, the taste of his skin flooding your tongue. His pace increased, his whole body shuddered, and his cock twitched deep inside you as he cursed under his breath. He started moving you even faster, every thrust hit something perfect, something devastating, and your moans turned into broken little sobs.

Your hands scrambled for his skin, digging into his chest, his shoulders, holding on as you bounced in his lap, thighs burning, body slick with sweat and slick and spit.

“Look at you,” he gasped, voice gone completely hoarse, his dark eyes wide and wrecked. “So fucking sweet like this. Look at how you ride me…wild fucking thing-”

You didn’t even recognize the sound you made. You were too far gone.

It wasn’t even sex anymore. It was heat and hunger and something feral. You bit him again, just under his jaw this time, and he groaned, his hips losing their rhythm, and you didn't care. You didn’t care how loud you were, how your teeth tore at his skin, the way your nails left angry red marks down his chest.

The ache in you was so deep. It had been there for months, burning like an ember in your core. And now, finally, the fire was burning through you, scorching everything else away. There was nothing but this moment.

You came with a cry, body clenching down around him in waves, your whole body shaking, lips still pressed to his skin. You couldn't stop. You didn’t want to. You kept licking, kissing, moaning into his neck as the pleasure overtook you completely.

He followed you, voice wrecked and raw, hands still guiding you through it as he spilled inside you with a shudder that wracked his whole frame.

Slowly, the world came back. The crackle of the fire, the cool leather of the couch, the heat of his body, and the gentle press of his lips against your cheek, your neck, your shoulder.

Your limbs felt like lead, and all the air left your lungs in a shaky exhale.

"Holy shit," you managed, still gasping for breath.

"That is," he murmured, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "One way to put it."

You laughed, still dizzy, and collapsed against his chest. He pulled the blanket back up around the both of you, his hands smoothing along your spine, soothing you as your breath came in pants.

The fire had burned low. Most of the room had fallen into shadow, and the chill of the air was starting to creep back in. Without a word, Elijah shifted, carefully disentangling himself from the mess of limbs and blankets.

“No,” you mumbled, arms wrapping tighter around his middle. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He chuckled softly. “Nowhere far, sweetheart.”

You let him go reluctantly, flopping onto your side as he stood. And then … well. You definitely didn’t regret letting him go.

The firelight kissed every plane of his body in soft orange-gold. You watched as he moved to the fireplace, unhurried and utterly unbothered to be naked, every muscle flexing as he bent to adjust the wood in the hearth. Strong shoulders, defined arms and the curve of his back… he looked like he should be carved into stone. He didn’t even have to look at you to know what you were thinking.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking back.

“You’re naked,” you shot back, pulling the blanket up to your chin, flushed and smiling.

He gave the fire one last nudge and turned, smiling in that infuriatingly composed way. “So I am.”

He crossed the room with slow, easy steps, the light catching the curves and ridges of his torso. Your gaze drifted lower, and he laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “You alright?”

You nodded, blushing.

He climbed back onto the couch, leaning in to kiss you, long and languid. When he pulled back, you were grinning, and he looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Was that alright?” you asked, voice small. “I know I can get… in my head. And the biting thing, it’s…”

He shook his head and kissed you again, gentle and certain, as if to hush every doubt before it could reach your lips.

“My love,” he said, brushing a knuckle down your cheek. “You are speaking to a vampire. You think I’d be scandalized by a few enthusiastic nibbles?”

You giggled, a little fluttery in your chest. He pulled the blanket closer, settling in beside you. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the tip of your nose, then down to your jaw. He continued like that, peppering soft kisses all along the line of your jaw until he reached your ear. “I meant what I said. I want all of you. Even the parts you think are too much. Especially those.”

Your heart clenched.

You peeked up at him again, shy. “Even if I want to bite you like… all the time?”

He grinned. “Especially that.”

[myfictionalcorner]

Vampire Diaries Preferences - you get jurt❤️‍🩹

A/N: i'm working on a bunch of requests at the moment, but I'm currently rewatching Vampire Diaries and had to do this 😊❤️

Damon Salvatore, Stefan Salvatore, Jeremy Gilbert, Enzo St. John, Kai Parker, Klaus Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson, Kol Mikaelson

Tvd Masterlist Masterlist

Damon Salvatore

🖤Damon doesn’t panic easily - he’s seen too much, lost too many. But the second he smells blood and realizes it’s yours, the calm is gone. His whole world narrows to you

🖤“no, no, no…” he mutters, hands already pressing against the wound, movements jerky and desperate. His voice breaks in a way it rarely does. You’ve never heard him sound afraid like this

🖤anger is his first instinct - anger at whoever hurt you, at himself for not stopping it. The fury simmers under his skin, but right now, keeping you breathing is the only thing that matters

🖤he pulls you into his arms, muttering sharp words half to you, half to himself. “You’re fine. You’re going to be fine, sweetheart. You don’t get to check out on me, got it?”

🖤the sarcasm and charm are gone. All that’s left is Damon - raw, pleading, terrified. He presses his forehead to yours, whispering your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded

🖤when he brings you to safety, his movements are a blur of panic and precision. He’s done this before, but never with someone he couldn’t bear to lose. Every second feels like a lifetime

🖤once you’re stable, the rage returns. His voice goes cold, his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. “Tell me who did it.” It isn’t a question - it’s a death sentence waiting to be carried out

🖤he doesn’t leave your side after that. Not for food, not for rest. He stays close enough to feel your pulse, needing proof that you’re still here

🖤when you finally wake, he’s quieter than you expect. No jokes, no bravado - just a low, rough voice: “You scared the hell out of me”

🖤you try to reassure him, but he shakes his head, jaw tight. “Don’t. Don’t pretend it’s fine. I almost lost you.” The vulnerability in his tone hurts worse than any wound

🖤his hands tremble when he touches you, even if he hides it. He keeps brushing his thumb along your wrist, tracing your pulse like he’s memorizing it

🖤later, when you’re resting, he steps outside. No one sees what he does next - but there’s blood on his hands when he returns, eyes calmer, voice soft again. “No one’s going to touch you ever again”

🖤he doesn’t apologize for what he’s done. He never will. Protecting you, even violently, is the only way he knows how to love

🖤when you confront him about it later, he just smirks faintly, masking the fear behind his words: “You can hate me for it, but at least you’re still here to do it"

🖤that night, he holds you tighter than he ever has. No words, no teasing. Just Damon — silent, watchful, his hand tangled in yours. Every time you stir, he whispers softly, “i’ve got you.” And he means it — for the first time in his long life, he truly means it

Stefan Salvatore

🤍the moment he sees the blood, Stefan freezes for a fraction of a second. Then every trace of calm vanishes and the ripper instinct claws at him—but love wins. He forces the hunger down, every muscle shaking with restraint

🤍he’s at your side before you can blink, voice low but steady. “Hey, hey, stay with me, okay? Look at me.” He keeps your eyes on his, using his calm to keep you conscious

🤍he presses his hands over the wound, careful, measured. His control is terrifyingly precise, but his eyes are pure panic

🤍if you’re slipping in and out of consciousness, he murmurs small reassurances—stories, memories, anything to keep you tethered. “Remember the first time you made me laugh? You’re still the only one who can do that”

🤍when he gets you to safety, he’s already covered in your blood and doesn’t notice. Damon has to tell him to clean up; he refuses to move until he knows you’ll live

🤍once you’re stable, guilt hits hard. Stefan’s convinced it’s his fault—he should’ve been faster, stronger, better. He whispers, “I promised I’d protect you,” like it’s a vow he’s broken

🤍he sits by your bedside through the night, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Sometimes he talks quietly, sometimes just watches the rise and fall of your breathing

🤍when you wake, he’s instantly alert, leaning forward, voice trembling just slightly: “Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe now.” Relief floods his face, softening every line of worry

🤍you reach for his hand, and he exhales shakily. “You have no idea how scared I was,” he admits, brushing your knuckles with his thumb

🤍if you try to downplay it, he shakes his head. “Don’t. You don’t have to be strong for me. I’d rather you let me be strong for you”

🤍Stefan isn’t violent by nature, but when he finds the person who hurt you, his control fractures. The calm disappears, replaced by something cold and lethal. He won’t kill them recklessly, but he’ll make sure they’ll never come near you again

🤍afterwards, he hates himself for that flicker of darkness. He returns to you quieter, more tender, needing to remind himself that you’re the light that keeps him human

🤍he insists on taking care of everything—bandaging you, making tea, staying up until he’s certain you’re sleeping peacefully

🤍when you wake later, his head is resting beside you on the mattress, fingers still wrapped around yours. Even in sleep, his grip doesn’t loosen

🤍the next morning, he’s gentler than ever—soft voice, faint smile. “You scared me, you know.” There’s no lecture, no dramatics, just Stefan’s quiet honesty: “I can’t lose you. Not again. Not ever"

Jeremy Gilbert

❤️the instant he realizes you’re hurt, Jeremy’s stomach drops. It’s like the world just stops for a second — every sound dulls, every heartbeat feels too loud

❤️his first instinct isn’t anger, it’s fear. He’s been through too much loss to handle the thought of losing you too. “No, no, you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay,” he repeats, as if saying it enough will make it true

❤️he’s shaking as he lifts you into his arms, whispering, “stay with me, please,” over and over. The way his voice cracks when he says it would break anyone’s heart

❤️once he gets you somewhere safe, he doesn’t let go — one hand keeps pressure on the wound, the other holds yours like it’s his lifeline

❤️if someone else tries to help, he bristles instantly. “I’ve got her!” It takes a firm voice (probably Elena or Stefan) to convince him to let the others help

❤️when the danger finally passes, the adrenaline wears off and he’s left trembling. He sits beside your bed, blood on his hands, staring blankly until you stir

❤️“You scared me,” he admits when you wake, voice hoarse. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes

❤️Jeremy blames himself completely — even if it wasn’t his fault. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you.” The guilt eats at him quietly

❤️when you try to reassure him, he just shakes his head, eyes full of tears he’s too proud to let fall. “You don’t get it. You’re… you’re my person. I can’t go through that again”

❤️that night, he refuses to leave your side. He stays sitting on the floor next to the bed, head leaning against the mattress, just listening to you breathe

❤️if you move or wince in pain, he’s instantly awake, panicking: “Hey, hey, are you okay? What hurts?” His worry never turns into frustration — only care

❤️he kisses your forehead softly when you finally fall back asleep, whispering, “i’ve got you. I swear, I’ve got you”

❤️later, when you’re better, he’s still protective — walking you home, checking on you constantly, making bad jokes to hide how scared he still is

❤️“You’re stuck with me now,” he teases one day, but there’s truth beneath it. He never wants to feel that fear again, and he’d do anything to keep you safe

❤️deep down, he realizes that loving you means accepting that fear — and he does, because to Jeremy Gilbert, love is worth the risk every single time

Enzo St. John

🤎the second Enzo smells blood or hears you cry out, he’s gone. Everything else—logic, self-control, even his usual wit—vanishes. The vampire in him takes over, fueled by fear more than rage

🤎“Where is she?” His voice is low, dangerous, the kind of quiet that makes everyone else in the room flinch. He’s already halfway to you before anyone answers

🤎when he finds you hurt, something in him breaks. His bravado crumbles, eyes wild and desperate. “No, no, no, love—stay with me. Look at me.” His accent thickens with panic

🤎he cradles you like you’re made of glass, muttering under his breath—half curses, half pleas. “Who did this to you?” comes out more like a growl than a question

🤎if someone hurt you on purpose, there’s no negotiation. He’ll hunt them down later. Right now, all his focus is on you. “I’ll deal with them. You just breathe, alright?”

🤎when he presses his hand to your wound, his touch is trembling but gentle. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t you dare give up on me now"

🤎once you’re safe, his hands don’t leave you—one on your cheek, one gripping yours tightly. He talks to fill the silence, mostly to keep himself from spiraling. “Knew you were trouble the moment I saw you, but didn’t think you’d try to give me a heart attack”

🤎even when the worst has passed, he’s not himself. The sarcasm fades; he just watches you breathe, eyes soft but haunted

🤎“You don’t get to scare me like that again,” he says quietly, brushing a thumb over your skin. The words sound like a joke, but his voice wavers

🤎he blames himself, of course. He always does. “Should’ve been faster. Should’ve protected you.” You tell him it’s not his fault, and he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes

🤎when you try to comfort him, he pulls you close—almost too tight. “Let me have this, yeah?” he murmurs. It’s his way of saying he needs to feel you alive in his arms

🤎later, when you’re resting, Enzo sits nearby, pretending to read or hum a tune, but his eyes never really leave you. Every time you move, he glances up instantly

🤎“You know, love,” he says softly one night, “i’ve lost enough people in this world. Don’t make me add you to that list.” His tone is teasing, but there’s raw pain underneath

🤎he kisses your hand—slow, reverent. “You’re safe now. Long as I’m breathing, I’ll make damn sure of it”

🤎afterward, he’s even more protective than before. It’s not suffocating—it’s devotion disguised as teasing. “You and I are a package deal now, love. Try not to get yourself killed, yeah?"

Kai Parker

❤️‍🩹at first, Kai reacts with denial. He cracks a joke—too loud, too sharp—because humor is easier than fear. “You? Hurt? Nah, you’re way too stubborn for that,” he says, voice catching on the last word

❤️‍🩹the moment he realizes it’s real, the mask shatters. All that energy, all that chaos that usually fuels his magic, redirects into sheer panic. His eyes dart everywhere, searching for what he can fix

❤️‍🩹he talks too much, pacing, muttering to himself—half spells, half apologies he’ll never say out loud. “This isn’t supposed to happen. Not to you. Not to the one person who—” He cuts himself off before the confession escapes

❤️‍🩹Kai’s hands shake when he reaches you, though he tries to hide it behind a smirk. “Hey, open your pretty eyes for me, okay? I’m not done annoying you yet”

❤️‍🩹when you stir, relief hits him like a punch. His breath leaves in a harsh laugh—half sob, half disbelief. “See? Told you. You’re fine. I totally knew that”

❤️‍🩹if anyone caused it, they don’t get a chance to gloat. The playful smirk disappears; the room goes cold. That dangerous calm settles over him, and his magic hums in the air

❤️‍🩹but when it’s just you again, that fury fades into something softer. He sits beside you, awkward, unsure how to handle the quiet. “You scared me,” he mutters, staring at his hands. “I don’t… get scared. Not really"

❤️‍🩹his touch hovers before it lands—a hand brushing your arm, tentative but steady. “You’re okay now. I made sure of it"

❤️‍🩹when you wince from pain or discomfort, Kai freezes for a split second, then grips your hand a little tighter. His voice goes low, insistent: “Hey, don’t do that. Look at me. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” The worry in his tone is raw and unguarded

❤️‍🩹every few minutes, he checks again: a pulse, a breath, a twitch of your fingers. He pretends it’s clinical, but the tremor in his voice gives him away

❤️‍🩹later, when you can talk, he jokes again—but the humor is gentler. “Next time, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap. Can’t have you giving me a heart attack”

❤️‍🩹if you thank him, he waves it off, eyes darting away. “Don’t make it weird,” he mumbles, but his shoulders loosen like the words mattered more than he expected

❤️‍🩹that night, he stays close—too close—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. When you tease him about hovering, he shrugs. “Guess I kinda like knowing you’re breathing”

❤️‍🩹the next day, he’s back to his chaotic self. But whenever he looks at you, there’s a flicker—something gentler behind the grin. A reminder of the fear he won’t admit to feeling

❤️‍🩹and if you ever bring it up again, he’ll smirk and say, “You’re fine, see? Totally not dramatic.” But the truth hides in his eyes: he’d burn the world down before letting it happen again

Klaus Mikaelson

❤️‍🔥Klaus doesn’t just react—he erupts. The instant he realizes you’re hurt, his control snaps like glass. “Who touched her?” is the first thing he says, voice calm in a way that terrifies everyone else in the room

❤️‍🔥he appears beside you in an instant, the hybrid rage burning behind his eyes but his hands impossibly gentle. “Stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with trembling fingers

❤️‍🔥the sight of your blood nearly drives him mad. It’s not hunger—it’s fear. For someone who’s survived a thousand years, the idea of losing you unravels him in ways he didn’t think possible

❤️‍🔥if someone caused this, Klaus won’t rest until they’re destroyed. “You have my word,” he growls, voice low and sharp, “they’ll beg for mercy long before I grant it”

❤️‍🔥but with you, he’s careful—so careful. “Look at me, love. I need to see those beautiful eyes,” he says, holding your face as if keeping you conscious by sheer will

❤️‍🔥he orders everyone out of the room. “No one touches her but me.” It’s not arrogance—it’s panic masked as authority. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else near you when you’re this fragile

❤️‍🔥he tears at his own wrist to heal you, forcing his blood past your lips even if you resist. “Drink. Now.” The command shakes, desperation leaking through

❤️‍🔥when it’s over and you’re safe, he doesn’t leave your side. He just sits there, head bowed, blood on his hands, whispering apologies to no one in particular. “I should have protected you. I should have been there"

❤️‍🔥when you finally wake, Klaus is silent—his usual smirk gone. The relief in his eyes is almost painful. “You frightened me, love,” he admits quietly, his voice rough. “That doesn’t happen often"

❤️‍🔥he presses his forehead to yours, letting out a shaky laugh. “You see what you do to me? You make a monster feel fear”

❤️‍🔥later, when you’re recovering, he hovers—pretending to sketch, but every few seconds his eyes dart to you. You tease him for it, and he scoffs, “I merely wish to ensure you don’t repeat your reckless tendencies”

❤️‍🔥but when you fall asleep, he finally lets himself feel it—the guilt, the rage, the bone-deep terror of almost losing you. He whispers softly, “you are my weakness, love… and my salvation”

❤️‍🔥if anyone even mentions what happened, his tone goes sharp, defensive. “It’s handled.” He doesn’t want to talk about how scared he was

❤️‍🔥he starts drawing you more often after that—peaceful, safe, alive. It’s his way of keeping you close, of remembering that you’re still here

❤️‍🔥and when he finally kisses you again, it’s slow, lingering, almost reverent. “No harm will come to you again,” he murmurs against your lips. “Not while I still draw breath"

Elijah Mikaelson

💕he moment Elijah sees you injured, something inside him fractures — but you’d never know it at first. His composure doesn’t break; his voice remains steady, though his eyes are wild with restrained terror

💕“Stay with me, my love,” he says, tone calm but urgent, kneeling beside you and pressing his hand over your wound. His jaw tightens, but his touch is feather-light

💕he moves with purpose — no wasted motion, no panic — yet every muscle in his body vibrates with fear. He’s centuries old, but in this moment, he’s just a man terrified of losing the one person who makes eternity bearable

💕if anyone else caused your injury, his wrath is quiet, deliberate, and absolute. “You’ve made a grave mistake,” he murmurs, voice calm enough to chill the room before he disappears to handle it

💕his first instinct, though, is to save you himself. “You will not leave me, not like this.” He opens his wrist with no hesitation, pressing it to your lips with a gentleness that almost breaks him

💕“Please,” he whispers — a word Elijah rarely uses. “Take it. For me”

💕when your breathing steadies, he sits beside you, hands trembling for the first time in centuries. He stares at his blood-stained cuffs and laughs softly, bitterly. “I’ve spent lifetimes cleaning up chaos… and yet, for you, I would drown in it”

💕he doesn’t leave your side. Not for food, not for rest. He sits in silence, eyes never leaving you, fingers occasionally brushing over yours as if to reassure himself you’re real

💕when you wake, the relief that floods his face is quiet but unmistakable. “You had me rather concerned,” he says softly, though his voice carries a crack he can’t hide

💕you try to tease him, to lighten the mood, but his hand comes to rest against your cheek. “You may jest, but I have never known fear like I did today”

💕when you reach up to touch his face, his control slips. He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to your palm. “You have no idea how deeply I care for you,” he murmurs, every syllable thick with sincerity

💕aftterward, he’s even more protective — not smothering, but quietly vigilant. You’ll catch him watching you from the corner of the room, expression soft, almost reverent

💕if anyone brings up the incident, his answer is brief and sharp: “It won’t happen again.” There’s a finality to it that brooks no argument

💕he tends to your recovery himself — bringing you tea, adjusting blankets, tracing his thumb across your wrist when he thinks you’re asleep. It’s his way of grounding himself after nearly losing you

💕when you’re finally healed, he takes your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and says softly, “you have my word — as long as I draw breath, no harm shall ever come to you again"

Kol Mikaelson

💙the second Kol sees you hurt, the playfulness drains from him instantly. The smirk, the teasing — all gone. His voice goes low, shaky. “No. No, no, no, love—what happened?”

💙his first instinct is panic. Not anger, not vengeance. Just fear. His hands hover helplessly over you, afraid to touch in case he makes it worse. “Talk to me, darling. Please"

💙then it hits him — the scent of your blood, the way your pulse falters — and something in him snaps. His entire body tenses, and the air practically hums with rage

💙“Who did this?” The question isn’t really a question. It’s a promise. His voice trembles with fury, and his fangs flash before he forces himself to focus back on you

💙he tears his wrist open immediately, pressing it to your lips. “You’re not dying on me. You hear me? Not you.” It’s not a command — it’s desperation

💙when you try to push his hand away, he shakes his head violently. “Don’t be stubborn for once in your bloody life,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it. Just fear

💙the moment your breathing evens, he collapses beside you — head in his hands, shaking with silent relief. “You can’t do that to me, sweetheart. I’m not built for that kind of heartbreak"

💙he stays with you while you’re unconscious, pacing, muttering to himself, occasionally punching walls just to release the tension. Every second you’re still, he feels like he’s unraveling

💙when you wake up, the first thing you see is his face — wide-eyed, tear-streaked, hands trembling. “You scared the hell out of me,” he breathes, voice cracking halfway through

💙you try to smile, to joke, but he just shakes his head. “Don’t you dare make light of it. You almost died, love. I don’t think I could’ve survived that”

💙once the panic fades, anger fills its place. He hunts down whoever hurt you, no hesitation, no mercy. “You touched her. Now you pay for it.” There’s no stopping him until he knows you’re safe

💙but when he returns, blood still on his hands, he softens immediately the moment he sees you. “It’s over, darling. You’re safe now.” His thumb brushes your cheek, careful, reverent

💙Kol doesn’t sleep for days after. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find him sitting on the floor beside your bed, staring at you just to make sure you’re still breathing

💙when you call him out for worrying too much, he laughs weakly. “You think I’m dramatic now? Imagine what I’d be if I actually lost you”

💙later, when you’re healed, he holds you close — tighter than usual, like he’s still afraid you’ll vanish. “You’re stuck with me, you know,” he murmurs against your hair. “Because I’m never letting anything take you away again"

Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment, it means more than you know! 🥰💕

Thank you for stumbling onto my Blog, enjoy reading 💫

[lottienats]

KAT GRAHAM as BONNIE BENNETT The Vampire Diaries, Season 1

[vampirediariesdaily]

Nina Dobrev as Katherine Pierce S2E11 ‣ By the Light of the Moon

[cazshmere]

Astrology Observations Pt.10

materialist🏷️

DISCLAIMER: These are just my personal observations and are meant for entertainment purposes only; it may not resonate with everyone due to the nuances of astrology. Please respect my work and avoid copying or stealing it. Enjoy reading!!

🩸 scorpio mars people cannot do the “no feelings sex”. the feeling doesn’t necessarily have to be love or passion. it could be lust, jealousy, revenge, or obsession that drives them into hooking up with someone… after all, these are feelings as well🔥

🩸 also i noticed that scorpio mars have extremely sharp reflexes. vampire like reflexes 😭

this is literally how I picture their reflexes 😭:

🩸 there’s a lot of discourse online that pisces placements could fall into the addiction trap (not just substances but any sort of addiction), but i think virgo placements can take the brunt of that too. they can become obsessed or addicted to things in an unhealthy way, be it a “good” habit such as exercising, eating healthy, organizing, journaling, or meditating, or a “bad” one like smoking, drinking, overworking, or obsessing over perfection. the gap between the extremes can get hard to find.

🩸 venus square saturn and getting the ick when you remember that you got intimate with someone… and the things you did lmao💀

🩸 i think having virgo and leo in the big 3, especially the shadow side (low vibrational energy) can make a person extremely nitpicky, stubborn, and critical of others. they could come off as dogmatic individuals.

🩸 scorpio moons, scorpio venus, moon in the 8th house, venus in the 8th house, moon-pluto aspects, and venus-pluto aspects experience love and heartbreak… so intensely. breakups can literally feel like death. but somehow, no matter how much it hurts, best believe they always find a way to rise again. the transformation is so fucking beautiful. so so inspiring. pheonix energy fr 🐦‍🔥

🩸 mercury retrograde/sagittarius mercury/ pisces mercury🤝 and forgetting to clip their nails often 😭

🩸 mutable personal placements (gemini, virgo, sagittarius, pisces) have a tendency to say little white lies. sometimes for exaggeration, sometimes to make themselves look a bit better, and sometimes just cause they don’t remember what actually happened, so they make it up 😭 esp the mercuries.

🩸 i feel like saturn in the 1st housers rarely gets asked about their life or themselves. they’re always the ones people vent to, the “mature” friend who listens and gives advice, but no one ever checks in on them. if you know anyone with this placement, please reach out to them and ask them how they've been and show them you care and are there for them. it might genuinely make their day <3

🩸 water moons and capricorn moons 🤝 mistaking trauma bonds for love💀

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