Talula Jones Fanfiction

[godiva-duchess]

 Klonnie Appreciation Week | Resurrection by thescribemc

To contend with Marcel and his witch, Klaus visits Mama T for insight into his future.

“You just gon’ need a witch too,” she says and bends over the water and looks up at him with a conspiratory grin. “And you gon’ have the most powerful witch there is.“ 

*I was too inspired not to gif  a part of this fic by the amazing TheScribeMc.

[chele7gone1outrageous2ly]

Always reblog because this is perfection and gorgeous and any other synonyms that describes this beauty

[talulajones-stories]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

She goes looking for that drink.

She slips on the new silk robe over her cotton tank and panties because she doesn’t want to put on real clothes, but she also doesn’t want to scandalize Claude if he happens to catch her pilfering alcohol from the kitchen.

She tiptoes down the staircase, feet sure without a light, deciding if it will be the chilled vodka kept in the freezer or a bottle of wine from the butler’s pantry.

Reaching the landing, ready to turn towards the kitchen, she sees a faint glow on the floor, creeping from the opposite hallway.

She peers down the hall, at his study door open, wide and bright, and she steps onto the cool marble, one hand on the polished finial, biting her lip.

She appears to him from the dark, “Hello,” she says softly, her voice a swell in the stillness of his study.

He looks up from all the open books scattered on his desk, a hand resting at his temple, caught mid-thought, caught now staring at her standing at the threshold in her short silk robe and bare legs.

He stands, sleeves rolled up, like he had planned to continue his night poring over these texts in solitude and she gets it, she had a similar plan before she took this turn.

She crosses her arms. “I can leave you to it,” she says, jutting her chin to his work, but there is a warmth in his eyes at her company as he shakes his head.  He picks up an empty glass buried between the books and heads to the bar cart. “I was intent on another drink. Will you join me?”

She nods, walking over to his desk, “I was just on my way to raid your wine collection,” she says, letting her finger run down the spines of a stack of books, “What’s all this for?”

“Insurance,” he states. “In the event Marcel has a change of heart about your initiation.”

She sighs, cracking one of the books open, the brittle pages beautifully written and diagrammed in Aramaic, “So joining his little gang wasn’t enough to convince him I’m not a threat?”

“Dahlia informed me that Marcel was not entirely convinced about you joining the circle,” he says, his voice measured as he peruses the bar cart, and not seeing what he wants, moves to the walnut cabinet built into the wall above it. He picks up bottles, reading the years, before continuing, “But she and I felt the aftermath of the explosion presented the strongest argument in your favor.”

Bonnie wonders when he and Dahlia had that conversation. “That’s where you were? With Marcel?”

“Before we depart for Vacherie tomorrow, I thought it prudent to touch on his concerns.”

She snorts and snaps the book shut, already thinking what the ever-loving fuck it might take to turn Marcel to her side.

He pours two fingers, finishes the drink in one clean swallow, and moves to refill it. “What is done, is done,” he says, looking up at her, at her anger sparked under her skin. “And what you did was magnificent.”

His praise is weighted, and she feels it all over, her hand lifting to her neck, shaking out her hair, trying to release the tension coiled there. “I know it was,” she agrees as she crosses to the chesterfield and sinks into it, folding her legs under her. “But it also screwed us.” She pauses. “Someone couldn’t have tried to bomb us after he was on board with me?” she murmurs. Then she lets out a soft laugh and looks up at him. “I just want to make it clear that I know the plan was ‘get him to like you, Bonnie,’ not, ‘get him to imprison us at his country estate and fold yourself into his coven, Bonnie.’

He pours another glass. “Taking you to Vacherie is, in fact, something he and I are aligned on. The initiation will take place there; you do not need to remain in New Orleans.” He adds, his voice lowering, “And Marcel read me accurately earlier. He knows I would never allow the woman at my side to stay in a city where she was nearly killed.”

She raises an eyebrow and bites back saying something else, because they already had this discussion last night about her wanting to stay and fight, and she was resolved.

“What else are you two aligned on?”

He hands her a well-poured scotch. She mouths a thank you, and he nods, loosening his tie. “I told him once the initiation is complete, they have to lift the boundary spell on Klaus and permit him to return home. He agreed.”

Her eyes widen, and she tucks her hair behind her ear. “Wow,” she murmurs, feeling like he named the impossible as she takes a burning sip. “You’re telling me I can be back in Mystic Falls by next week?”

He nods, gently tugging the tie free from his neck. “Safe and sound.”

She snorts at that thought, looking over the study. “Got any suggestions for what I should do with all the money you and Klaus owe me?” she jokes, but her heart isn’t in it.

The tie dangles in his hands before he drapes it over the back of a chair. “What had you planned before coming here?”

She sits back, threading her hands into her waves, “If I had any, I wouldn’t have ended up here, Elijah,” she says with a lopsided smile, taking another sip. “I don’t know… fix up Grams’s house,” she shrugs, remembering where she was then but not wanting to touch any of it “Finish school, maybe.” She looks over at him. “I also thought maybe I’d go to Paris, you know… live out my sad girl dreams there, but you know, aesthetically.”

He picks up his drink. “I have a pied-à-terre there near the Sacré-Cœur,” he starts.

“Well la-di-da,” she teases, earning a real smile from him as he twirls the glass slowly in his hands.

“I was going to say it is available to you whenever and for however long you want it.”

She eyes him, and raises her glass. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He settles on the couch opposite her, and then there is the quiet  between them, her imagining what is waiting for her back in Mystic Falls, a town probably in crisis, a Damon who doesn’t want her to know about it, which is new, and a house falling apart, and then, she glances up at him, and, her mind goes to what is waiting for him here.

“Well, your brother will be home,” she smiles, and then adds smoothly, “...and I’ll be gone, and you’ll have your life back, Elijah.” She says it all like he should be celebrating, but his dark eyes don’t perform for her. She gulps the last of her drink, and the next line slips out before she thinks better of it. “And your girlfriend will get hers back too, I guess. She won’t have to see you pretending with another woman anymore.”

The light is warm and dim in his study, creating shadows across their faces, so she cannot see the genuine amusement flicker across his face. “She would rather be burned at the stake than be referred to as such,” he says, becoming thoughtful as he reaches for his drink, before leaning back into the couch. “Dahlia and I…” He begins, then pauses. “Dahlia and I are creatures of the same world, and we have a deep respect for one another. In that, we have an understanding.”

“An understanding,” she repeats, tasting the word, wanting him to split it open for her and show her the core. “How does that understanding work?”

He is silent, fingers at his collar, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt, his eyes holding her in place.

“Why.”

It is not a question; it is a demand for her to explain, and she bites her lip and tilts her head. “Curious?” she answers, and then adds, “I’ve been… impressed. She’s been good. Really good at being okay with…” Bonnie lifts her hand, gesturing between them. “This.”

She then looks down into the empty glass, not sure what she is trying to say, isn’t sure what she even wants from him. “I just know I wouldn’t have been okay if it were Enzo. Even if it was fake. Even if it was to save a brother.”

When she finally looks up, he is staring at her, and she thinks she’s said too much, maybe pried too far.

He answers her softly. “What you had and are describing is something else. Dahlia does not belong to me, and I do not belong to her.”

She circles the rim of the glass, her neck growing warm, flush with want, and it is new, and delicious to feel want again, even if just for a little while, even it’s only that. “And that’s how the understanding works?”

His dark eyes narrow on her, and he takes a sip before settling the glass on his knee.

“Would you like me to show you how it works?”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Heart pounding, betraying her as she remembers how he demonstrates things when she’s obstinate.

“Stand for me.”

His voice leaves no room for her to retreat.

She slowly unfolds her legs from beneath her, drawn to obey him and see what is on the other side, the balls of her feet sinking into the plush Persian rug as she rises.

 She steps to the other side of the table to where he is seated, and he watches her as she presents herself in front of him. There is the soft clink of crystal as he sets his drink down, and he tilts his chin for her to turn toward the closed blinds.

She follows.

Then he stands, positioning himself so she now stands exactly where she had the first time he ever touched her in this room.

He towers in her periphery, “I am going to touch you,” he says, his voice warm and low, “and you will tell me when you feel something.”

[elejahfanfic]

Klaus x Bonnie_

[elejahfanfic]

Klaus x Bonnie_

[mikinobuko111]

Guess only you and me now

[talulajones-stories]

Elena ploughs through the lineup of alcohol scattered across the marble kitchen island. One of the perks of being a vampire? Alcohol hits harder, and it keeps the cravings dull. She and Caroline are doing their part—actually their civic duty, by killing the alcohol before these teens get to it.

Lime jello shots that don’t taste like any real flavor, just green, and burn with Everclear. Jungle juice, which is just cranberry cocktail, orange concentrate, and way too much Everclear. And trash-can punch, spiked with cheap vodka, clear rum, and you guessed it...Everclear.

Not a barrel-aged bourbon or decent whiskey in sight. Teenagers don’t have discerning alcohol taste. They have whatever-they-can-get-their-hands-on taste.

Some rich kid’s parents are off skiing in Vail and left him behind to play house DJ and host a rager.

Elena keeps glancing over her red solo cup at anyone who spills in from the foyer. Caroline notices, steps in, and steadies her with both hands on her shoulders.

“She’s not coming. “Her eyes getting Elena to focus on the moment, “She has to study and told us to have fun.”

The kitchen fills up fast with bodies. Happy ones. Sad ones. Wild and quiet. The ones dragged here by friends, the ones who came to blow off steam. The hot guys. The hotter girls. Her and Caroline, in the middle of it, floating. And it’s a test. Standing there, drinking through the pulses and pheromones, breathing them in. They’re all so beautiful. So unaware.

Caroline is in her ear, wistful, smiling, “It’s  our senior year, Elena. We need these memories, before we all go off to college, and.. “

College. Before going over that bridge, she’d been waiting for acceptance letters, anxious to see which schools chose her. They’re probably stacked with the junk mail at her house, Jeremy passing them in the hall. She hadn’t thought about college since. She doesn’t even think about it now as Caroline waxes poetic about them sharing a dorm.

Elena grabs another jello shot and lets it wriggle down her throat, shaking her head. Caroline hands her two more, then laces her fingers into Elena's and pulls her through the hallway toward the living room—now a dance floor, dark, pulsing, and crowded. A jumbo flat screen plays a Tarantino flick on mute, while the surround sound system thumps through every corner of the house, vibrating the walls.

Caroline rolls her shoulders, pulling Elena deeper and deeper into the crowd, until they are the center of the humans, swaying side to side among them.  

And it’s that exposure therapy Caroline was talking about.

She can smell everything. Their soap. Their B.O. Their menstrual cycles. Their Dove deodorant. Their sweat. Their arousal. The illnesses already inside them that will kill them someday.

Caroline grabs her hand again and lifts it right under her chin, like they are about to tango. “Fucking dance, Elena,” she yells, so excited her whole mouth is open, molars flashing, the faint hint of her fangs just visible.

Elena snorts, eyes crinkling.

The beat drops. She closes her eyes. She jumps with it, rages with it, lets the music roll through her. Let’s the music help her forget.

Caroline throws her head back and screams, “Yass!”

And the room becomes a blur of lights and limbs, laughter and heat, a swirl of humanity around her. Elena is floating in it. Almost human too.

Then it hits her.

A scent that the ones closest to her have only described as difficult. Or hard. Or something they don’t think about at all.

All resisting the best way they can.

Elena can’t deal like them.

Bonnie is the reason she has to leave.

+++

Hightailing it as human-like as possible, she doesn’t speed out — too many people, and their phones like appendages, ready and waiting, recording everything. Ready to post it all with some caption like “Scary bitch turns ghost at house party 👀👻.”

The front door is near, and basically open. So many kids are pouring in, and she can’t pinpoint exactly where Bonnie is with all the scents, but she’s close. And she’s close to the door.

“Elena!” Bonnie says, her eyes lit up. She’s happy to see her. Her pulse says she’s thrilled.

Elena folds her arms in the too-short strapless black dress Caroline made her wear as they got dressed at her house, despite it still being below 40 degrees outside. Her fingernails dig into her prickled skin. “HI,” she manages, her throat hoarse and choking out that she was just leaving.

“Yeah, I, um, I’m not feeling well.”

Bonnie, who always dresses appropriately for the weather—jeans hugging her hips, that green sweater making her eyes go full forest fire. Nothing about her hides what she feels. She yanks Elena into the hall closet.

The closet is dark. The light switch is on the outside and Elena is glad. She doesn’t need the light to see her. To hear her anger.

“’I’m done with you avoiding me. You tell me right now what the hell is going on with you, Elena!”

But she is glad Bonnie can’t see her—or she’d see those black lines they all get, crawling from her eyes to her cheeks.

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” she lies, stepping back from Bonnie in the cramped closet, into a pillow of winter coats hanging, bumping the back of her leg into a vacuum cleaner.

“Stop lying to me.”

Bonnie’s chest rises when she says it.  Demanding. The blue and red veins at her caramel throat. 

Stop. Lying. Elena.

What the fuck is happening to me.

Breathing deep, Elena composes herself enough to put her hand on the handle and say, “Bonnie, I just don’t feel good.”

“I know that I wasn’t the most supportive when Caroline turned, and I feel horrible about that, and I don’t want to make the same mistake with you,” Bonnie says, putting her hand over Elena’s to stop her from leaving.

Elena swallows hard, her gums itching. “You won’t,” she says. Her last human instinct braced to run. Her vampire heart wanting to feed.

“Then what is it?” 

Bonnie’s words come out like an offering to Elena’s ears, pliable and warm,  as if what she had really asked is what do you want from me?

What she wants is to eat her. Sink her teeth into her breast. Fangs through the wool green sweater and lightly padded bra, down to flesh and blood. Taste the Skittles. Taste the rainbow.

Elena does the only thing she can to stop herself.

She presses toward the door, agitated, and spits, “I can’t do this right now, Bonnie.”

But Bonnie leans in, shifting her weight to block her—determined not to let Elena sidetrack her again. And that small brush of her body against Elena’s—the swell of her chest, the press of her thighs, her warm breath at Elena’s collarbone?

It’s enough.

Elena kisses her.

Her mouth presses to Bonnie’s so sudden, so unexpected, that Bonnie startles. A small gasp escapes as she jerks back against the wall.

Elena flushes with hot, instant embarrassment, her breath catching as she starts to stammer an apology, hand half-covering her fangs.

Bonnie’s chest rises and falls, unsteady. “It’s okay,” she says, voice low and husky. “We just…” And all Elena sees is Bonnie in that cheerleader uniform from the Grill—sun on her skin, skirt barely covering her ass—

God. Fuck it.

And she crashes her mouth into Bonnie’s again before she can get out another word. Because Bonnie doesn’t smell like a childhood stuffed animal to her. And she doesn’t think the witch is difficult. And she definitely can’t sit at a bar and deny that she doesn’t think about her.

Elena thinks the others are crazy for doing anything other than kissing Bonnie.

She catches Bonnie’s bottom lip between her teeth, tugging gently—just enough to make her whine. Tasting cherry lip gloss and something underneath. Magic?

And this time, when she leans in—pressing her body into the petite witch, crushing her against the wall—Bonnie kisses her back.

Slowly, she parts her lips, opens her mouth, lets Elena slide her tongue inside. The relinquishing is subtle but complete—her mouth yielding, welcoming, learning the rhythm of Elena’s.

It’s not rushed. But it’s hungry. Like they’ve both been thinking about this for a long, long time.

Her hands slide around Bonnie's waist and she gently pushes her bare thigh between the denim of Bonnie’s jeans, hips rolling without permission.

Bonnie makes a soft sound, making her fangs ache, and heat pool low in her belly, as she has an uncontrollable urge to hold Bonnie down, to mark her. To bite.

Elena reaches for Bonnie’s wrists, lifting them over her head and pinning them there.

Bonnie’s pupils widen, dilate with excitement—and fear.

And it’s the fear that does something to Elena.

She inhales it.

Gets drunker on that than on all the alcohol she’s had tonight.

Sucking at Bonnie’s tongue, her breath coming in fast, she wants to drop to her knees and bury her face between Bonnie’s legs because—

The femoral artery. It’s there. Full

So full.

And so close.

She could bite deep right down there and make Bonnie sing with it. Finish them both off.

“Can I take your jeans off?” Elena breathes, breaking the kiss. Her hands are already at Bonnie’s belt, her fingers undoing the buckle.

“What—?” Bonnie starts, dazed, just as the zipper hisses down.

Elena drops to her knees, the tile cold and hard, and she runs her hands over Bonnie’s rounded thighs.

“Elena?”

She can't hear Bonnie, she only hears the rush of her blood.

Bonnie’s hands move to Elena’s neck, trying to ground her, to get her to pause for a moment. "Elena?" She says her name again, soft-like, but there’s fear underneath. That quiet anxiety about what Elena might do.

Elena bites down on her own bottom lip, lost in her desire. Her vampire senses map out the artery beneath the skin, vivid and throbbing. She would need to roll down the jeans, and then, she's so in the moment that she just presses her nose between Bonnie’s denim-covered thighs, like she’s marking the spot.

“Elena?”

Elena looks up at Bonnie, not because the witch’s voice finally pulled her from the bloodlust, but because Bonnie can’t see her.

Can’t see her eyes, pools of black. Can’t see her fangs, elongated and ready. Can’t see that her friend is a vampire.

And maybe not a friend anymore.

Elena places her hand over the smooth expanse of Bonnie’s quivering belly, then slides it beneath the frilly band of her panties. Her other hand tugs at Bonnie’s jeans.

When her fingers slip between velvety folds—warm and slick—Bonnie moans and loses her footing, hitching lower as Elena caresses her, melting beneath her touch.

And in this breathless disbelief, in the newness of it all—of her body, of her desire—with everything tipping forward—

That’s when Elena buries her mouth against the fleshiest part of Bonnie’s thigh, licking at her skin, right where the vein runs blue and bright — and bites down.

“Elena!”  Bonnie screams.

There’s an excruciating prickling at the base of her neck. The start of a million migraines at once. She knows what it is. She’s seen vampires convulse and fall when Bonnie gives them an aneurysm.

Now it’s happening to her.

She palms the sides of her head. “Fuck,” she cries out through the blinding pain, trying to fight through it, to go back to the wounds and fill her mouth with Bonnie’s blood.

The closet door flings open.

And Bonnie instantly releases the vice grip on Elena’s mind, and Elena chokes and coughs, bracing herself against the cold floor.

In the dull light stands the drunkest of bros, grinning in his football jersey and backwards cap, here to save the girls from doing God knows what to each other.

Bonnie yanks up her jeans, buckling her belt and cursing as she ducks under his arm and runs.

Elena gasps for more air, reeling.

“Whoa, what’s going on in her—”

Elena jerks him into the closet with her, slams the door shut.

Her fangs embed so deep into his neck, slicing through his vocal cords — he couldn’t have called for help even if he’d wanted to.

There’s blood everywhere. On her lips. Her hands. In her hair.

She can’t stop eating him. She pulls at his neck, the skin breaking under her mouth. She slurps his hot blood straight in. It gushes. It roils. She swallows.

They drop to the floor, him in her lap. His heart’s still fighting. Eyes wide under her bloody face and curtain bangs. He’s trying to live, clawing at her face. But she’s stronger. So strong. His blood in that moment is everything—building her up, making her something more.

She could fly.

Can I fly?

She keeps drinking. Slow. Slower now. He stops clawing. His hands twitch once, then go limp on the tile, right next to the vacuum cleaner and the winter coats.

[talulajones-stories]

“I think about maggots.” 

That is Caroline’s answer to how she keeps her blood thirst under control as she neatly labels notecards in her precise handwriting in front of empty glass decanters.

“And that works for everyone...the maggots?”  Elena pushes back, already trying to imagine the insects instead of what Damon said in the parking lot behind the Grill — after they had slipped out the restroom together, her holding his hand.  “It’s going to get harder to pretend, Elena.” It was loaded. It was the truth. And it could’ve meant anything.

When she got home and Stefan asked if she’d found Matt for a refill, she lied — said she drank from the source.

That earned her two raised eyebrows.

“Everyone,” Caroline says, warming blood bag after blood bag in the microwave. “It’s all about discipline. Like when Coach Stevens made us run three miles before executing with perfection, the hot girl dance mix.  You just have to know what you want in the end. And just like I wanted to win trophies for that mix, I know I don’t want to hurt people.”

Elena snorts, face scrunching. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Caroline glances up as she tears open the plastic tip of the first bag. “I don’t know,” she mutters, half to herself, stopping just short of pouring the rest into the decanter and chugging it. “I didn’t drink much today.”

This whole “blood tasting” setup had been a last-minute idea, spurred on after Caroline had held Elena’s hands after she confessed to vomiting up deer blood, and Caroline sat next to her and gently said she understood and added, “Sweetie, not every vampire is a Stefan,” But when Elena also told her that she couldn’t keep the blood bags down either, Caroline’s expression changed.

She got that look, then marched to the kitchen and barked for Elena to follow.

“Witches too?” Elena asks, eyes drawn to the blood sliding down the inside of the decanters. A flicker of desire and hope sparks in her chest. Maybe this experiment might actually work.

Caroline eyes her, treading carefully. “Is there someone in particular you’re struggling with?”

Elena gives her a look and sighs. “I heard you all have the same problem with her.”

Caroline’s cheeks flush. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Starts again, measuring her words. “She is... hard.”

“To resist?” Elena asks, before she can stop herself.

Caroline cuts her a look. Like she’s afraid to go any further. But then she breathes out a soft, reluctant yes. It tells Elena the Salvatores weren’t lying.

Caroline then gives Elena a pained smile. “She smells like cotton candy and Skittles. And, weirdly, like my stuffed unicorn from when I was six. But sometimes, if I’m not careful, I’ll get a whiff of her and I just want...” The blonde stops herself. Grimaces. “Okay, ew. I shouldn’t have started that sentence.”

And Elena is about to burst, feeling like Caroline might get it, might really get how wrong it is to feel this way about Bonnie. “No, keep going.” Elena urges, catching for a moment that same crack, that same unraveling in Caroline, that was missing in the Salvatores when they discussed Bonnie.

Maybe it came with all the years of being around witches.

“I need to have this talk. Because Bonnie is apparently irresistible to all of us.”

 “You’re not wrong,” Caroline starts, thoughtful for a moment, before adding, more firmly, “But it’s just chemical, Elena. And with practice, it’ll fade. Trust me.” Her solemn face then morphs into that cheer captain brightness as she hands Elena her first sample from the O negative pitcher.

Elena eyes the cup, reluctantly taking it from Caroline, who pipes, that she had a total of six different ones for her to try if this one wasn’t a fit.

Elena gulps it back. And it’s hot mayonnaise down her throat. She gags, aiming for the kitchen sink.

Most of it makes it, but some splatters across the counter.

“I’m so sorry, Caroline.”

Caroline is more annoyed than surprised as she grabs the Clorox from under the sink and a handful of paper towels. “You can’t be the only vampire in history who cannot drink from a blood bag.”

Elena shakes her head. “Damon called it,” she says, throwing her hands up like, what was she gonna do? “He’s like some vampire savant. He knew I wouldn’t be able to drink the deer. He said the blood bags would taste like trash. And who knows what else he’s going to tell me that goes directly against what Stefan is teaching me.”

Caroline listens intently, cleaning more than just Elena’s mess, then stops. “But wait—Damon drinks from blood bags all the time?” she asks, more to herself. Then she puts a hand on her hip. “And what else is he telling you?”

Elena feels the back of her neck warm, a slow heat spreading in her chest.

“Well… he says I’m good to go back to school next week, even though I haven’t exactly gotten my eating habits under control. He told me, “‘give the horny teenagers of Mystic Falls a scare.’”

She can still hear the way he said it, casual and smug, right before he sauntered out of the living room where she was curled under Stefan. Hiding from the world. Hiding from the desire to kill.

“But Stefan thinks I should wait a little longer. Learn how to be around humans gradually. And honestly… I kind of agree with Stefan.”

Caroline groans.

“Strangely, I agree with Damon.” She shakes her head in disbelief and raises a hand. “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

Then she opens her arms wide. “Come here.”

Elena slumps into them, letting herself rest in the warmth of her friend’s embrace.

“I know it’s hard,” Caroline murmurs against her shoulder, “but don’t worry. We’ll get Matt to donate some blood before first period. I’ll be there to supervise.”

Elena nods silently, grateful to have a Caroline in her life.

Then the bubbly blonde releases her from the bear hug and beams. “And tonight, we’ll get you some exposure therapy to those horny teenagers.”

Elena blinks.

Caroline grins wider. “There’s a party.”

[talulajones-stories]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

"Does she always smell like that?"

Elena's boots muddy in the melting snow, following Stefan, waiting for the back of his head to respond. She tramples behind him in the woods, inhaling the scent of winter birthing into spring, its first breath.

"Who?" he asks, absently.

His focus is distracted, concerned on finding her something suitable to eat, something that won’t send her spiraling into guilt and depression if she happens to take too much or, worse, end its life.

He’d already expressed, with the calm authority of someone who’d been through this before, that avoiding the pitfalls of being a vampire was all about control.

Control, and learning to love the taste of animal blood.

"You know who," Elena snaps, pulling off her knit cap, raking her fingers through her hair. She’s starving, and he’s hiding things, and she won’t move another step until he answers honestly.

Wind whips her face, biting at her cheeks, carrying distant human noises, miles away—static that Stefan said she would eventually pick apart, distinguishing each sound clearly. But for now, it's overwhelming, like trying to tune a radio flooded with stations bleeding through, until they all come together in one crackling voice, telling her...’you need blood’.

He stops and exhales sharply. Then, softly, gravely—

"She is another lesson in control."

His voice dips lower, like he’s revealing something he shouldn’t.

"Being around Bonnie is… hard."

The moment he says her name, she smells her.

The sage she’s always burning. The orange-scented shampoo she’s used since the sixth grade. The cocoa butter she smooths over her skin. And the magic—sharp as struck matches—blending with something new, something she had never smelled on Bonnie before she became a predator.

Her sweat. Her pheromones. The heat of her pulse beneath it all. All human. All Bonnie.

Sunlight glints off the brass on her middle finger, her daylight ring, the simple band enchanted allowing her to walk in the sun, the ring Bonnie made for her and dropped off last night.

They hadn’t wanted Bonnie near her yet.

"Now’s not a good time," Stefan had said when Bonnie showed up at their doorstep. "She hasn’t learned how to handle the craving."

 "She’s a newbie," Damon had added, and Elena had imagined him leaning lazily against the doorframe. "And newbies can be… unpredictable."

“I want to give it to her.” Bonnie had insisted.

Elena heard her push past them at the door, and by god, as soon as she did, it was as if the earth tilted, like when she was little and would spin around in the yard with her eyes closed, only to suddenly stop and open them and find the world still spinning without her. 

She heard her hurried footsteps on the stairs. And in that dizzying and, excruciating moment, the last of her human instinct told her to lock the door—to keep Bonnie, of all people, out.

And she did.

Forcing herself to stay on the other side, while Bonnie’s heart rang closer to her with each step.  

“Elena?”

Bonnie was worried.

It had been three days since they pulled her from the falls. Three days of living with the only two people who could teach her what she was now—her boyfriend and his brother.

Everyone had come to see her. Caroline. Tyler. Even Jeremy. Stefan had stayed in the room during that visit, and afterward, he explained why—because the bloodlust could overtake even the closest bonds.

But she never felt even a twinge with Caroline or Tyler. And with her brother, it was there—a presence, a faint pull—but nothing she couldn't observe, nothing she couldn't control. Stefan had been teaching her to recognize it.

But this? This was nothing like that.

Was it because Bonnie was human? Because she wasn’t family?

Or was it because she was a witch.

Elena pressed her nose to the crack in the door, wanting to see her. To remind herself she was more than whatever this was, while also fighting the disorienting need to consume her.

She told her to slide the ring other the door.

Elena fiddles with her ring. “You all feel this way? Even Caroline?” Her voice breaks, “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Her handsome boyfriend rubs at his square jaw, eyes dropping as if searching for the right words. “It’s not exactly something humans can understand. We didn’t want to alarm Bonnie, and we didn’t want you to be—”

“Confused?” she cuts him off.

Because that’s what she feels—turned inside out, upside down, the wrong color entirely. This unsettling desire, this hunger for blood. For Bonnie’s blood. And now, she thinks of all the times Bonnie walked into a room, of the restraint it must have taken for Stefan and Damon to sit there, mastering urges that had always been part of their nature.

Now, it makes sense. Why Caroline always had an excuse. Why she could never stay for their sleepovers.

Stefan gives her a weak smile. “Scared for your friend.”

And if she had known, really known, that this is what they felt when Bonnie was around, she would have been fucking terrified.

But now, it was their secret. And it was hers too—the responsibility of not eating Bonnie.

Bonnie, who didn’t know.

They keep walking. She follows him in silence, matching his pace, until suddenly he stops short. She nearly crashes into him.

He catches her by the arm, pulling her to his side. “See? Look there,” he whispers, his warm breath at her neck.

It’s just breath, just a whisper—but her body reacts like it’s more. Every nerve lights up, skin prickling, the sensation sinking deep, pooling between her thighs. She wants to lean into it, but their relationship has been awkward since she died and came back.

There’s a swoosh—a rush of air, the shift of space itself—Stefan moving.

He has the vamp speed down. She’s still slow.

She follows just in time to see him snatch the deer mid-flight—one moment it’s leaping, the next, he’s on it.

By the time she reaches him, he’s holding the poor thing down. It thrashes, whimpers, legs kicking against the snow.

“Do it, Elena.”

And she does.

Her teeth sink in, and the deer’s blood gushes into her mouth—hot, thin, alive. And it’s... it’s nothing like how she imagined her first time.

[elijahmikaelsom]

Elijah Mikaelson in The Originals 3x03

[mikaelsonharem7]

My God today

[katgrahamsourcee]

[katgrahamsourcee]

[scaryrabbit]

Alan Ritchson as Anders Lassen THE MINISTRY OF UNGENTLEMANLY WARFARE (2024) Dir: Guy Ritchie

[talulajones-stories]

I'm here for him.

[tehzo]

klonnie  I  first kiss

“i was always hungry for love. just once, i wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it–to be fed so much love i couldn’t take any more.” (x)

[fireeater06]

ONE OF THE MANY LOVE INTEREST FOR BONNIE THE SHOW LET SLIP THROUGH THEIR FINGERS.

[talulajones-stories]

This is so beautiful.

[sandushengshou]

[talulajones-stories]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

“You are wearing my shirt,” he states plainly, his eyes showing his amusement.

Unnerved by the moment, she tries to match his poise, turning her head as she drops her purse on the dresser. “I didn’t have time to borrow another inappropriate dress, so I helped myself,” she explains, gesturing toward the bed. “What is all this?”

Christmas morning is happening in her room. There are glossy boxes in different shapes and sizes, in colors ranging from pale pink to robin’s egg blue, alongside shopping bags from stores she’s never even heard of, their contents hidden beneath stiff tissue paper peeking out like delicate meringue.

“Your new wardrobe,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

She pauses, staring dumbfounded at the pile, then back at him. “You must really hate the way I dress.”

He shakes his head slightly, clearly entertained. “Actually, I find your style quite charming,” he replies. “And it seems we share similar taste, as you have chosen one of my favorite shirts.” He says earning a bright smile from her.

He then moves to the bed, fiddling with a ribbon on one of the boxes, and his words become deliberate, his brow showing something she can’t quite pick up.

“I should have ensured you were provided with a wardrobe upon your arrival. It is one of many things I neglected to do—an oversight on my part in making it easier for you to take on this role, to feel as though you truly belong in my world.”

She bites the corner of her mouth, glancing at the extravagant spread of boxes and bags, a part of her appreciating the practicality of it all, knowing it will help her. But deeper down, she understands what this is—an apology. Had known the moment she saw him waiting for her with a pile of gifts in her room. A grand gesture meant to erase what happened last night. His regret at having had a rare crack in his control. A mistake that wasn’t part of the plan.

“Are you not pleased?”

His voice takes her out of her head, from feeling a peculiar mix of disappointment and longing, as she assures him with a forced smile, “No, Elijah. I hate it. No girl alive wants to come home and find Prada boxes stacked on her bed,” she quips, her excitement urging to stop being silly and accept the spoils.

Plopping down on the edge of the bed, sending gifts spilling onto the floor, she rips into the first bag, catching his satisfied face.

“Is the Rolls-Royce parked outside part of this ‘oversight’ too?” She asks, with a raised eyebrow, wondering just how sorry is he.

[tehzo]

[talulajones-stories]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

He’d suggested she lie down. For a moment, she wasn’t sure where he meant—in his bed or hers?

He didn’t clarify, so she heard herself say it was late, that she had to be up in a few hours for tea.

And she left him.

Now, one hand slides down her stomach, her fingers moving as if on their own, slipping between her hot thighs, finding herself wet, ready. Her breath hitches at the slightest touch on her pussy, one finger dipping into her, her body responding to all the stimuli of the evening. She closes her eyes, slipping in another finger, her hips writhing.

She has no trouble focusing now.

Her body remembers Enzo, the two of them lost in a crowded rave. She can almost feel his hands lifting her skirt, his fingers sliding her panties aside, thrusting inside her just as the crowd's arms shot up to the beat.

But tonight, that memory is a landmine.

She needs someone else.  A fantasy to get her off.