It's a question of lust

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 😊❤️

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

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

🤎wen 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! 🥰💕