Full Disclosure: I think it's only fair to be honest, I haven't watched the Vampire Diaries since Klaus left and even up until that point I was only youtubing Klaroline scenes anyway. I just recently found out about the existence of Enzo, and while my immediate reaction was "hell no, no one puts Klaroline in a corner," my curiosity got the better of me and I started youtubing Carenzo... then I started shipping Carenzo. I still have no idea what the hell's going on with the rest of the characters.
Let me know in a review why you like Enzo (I'm assuming that you do since you're here reading a story clearly labeled with his name) and if you think he's a better choice for Caroline, or a mere stepping stone for her to finally accept Klaus.
Other than that, I'm new here. Please stop and say hi.
She's got him hooked. And honestly, he doesn't see a problem with that. Maybe if she was actually trying to manipulate him, to seduce him, to wrap him around her perfectly manicured little fingers he may have stopped to analyze, stopped to think, resisted. Probably not.
It's astounding, he thinks, the lengths men will go to for a pretty woman. It's kindergarden, he thinks, the way he pulls her hair just to get a rise out of her. He'd rather see her angry or annoyed than crying. Never crying. That's why he didn't kill Stefan. Would she ever realize the things he didn't do for her?
She was just so damn adamant. So fundamentally certain that he was a no good low-life scoundrel that he really didn't have the heart to prove her wrong. If she thought he was good, forthright and honorable, she wouldn't have any reason to scowl so adorably when he teased her. She probably wouldn't even talk to him if he suddenly started doing the "right thing"... bugger that for a lark. He was her type, according to Damon. He was an immature egotistical creeper, according to her. He just wanted to know what her lips tasted like.
Cherries. He thinks one day watching her smooth on a layer of gloss. She rubs her lips together and unconsciously swipes her tongue across them. Please let it be cherries.
He finds himself interested in the little things. That maybe aren't so little when you get right down to the marrow. He discovers that quiet moments frighten her. Not the way the threat of pain and death scares, but like the loss of virginity. The acceptance of a proposal. Do I pick the green one or the blue? Decisions that alter your life forever are made in quiet moments. When you have time to think about the consequences.
She doesn't seem to want to get to know him, but she doesn't ignore him either. She's the kind of girl that thrives from confrontation. She's a bully, according to Damon. She's an angel, according to him. She just wants to sleep "for, like, a couple of hours without you creeping around like a peeping tom," so he leaves. For a couple of hours.
Must be cinnamon.
She is sweet and spicy and a complete dichotomy. A bright and bubbly killer. Creature of the night that shines in the sun. A savior torturing him with those shiny, inviting lips.
She's been sea bathing, and smells of salty brine. He'd surprised her. "How did you know where I was?" He's not completely sure himself. There's sand stuck to her skin and he brushes it off as she dries in the midday sun, hair spread out beneath her like a halo. She swats his hands away, but can't do anything about his eyes.
She chews on her lips when she's nervous. What would it be like to be devoured by those lips? She smiles like she's got secrets, but her pretty blushes give them all away. It's a brittle kind of hardness that she wraps herself in. And he thinks it's not so much to keep people out than it is to keep her in. He thinks it's cute when she moralizes. Maybe she really does believe the things she says. Maybe he does too. "So convert me," he says, toying with a string of her bikini. "Make a saint of me." He's got himself wedged in a crack and he's hoping she notices him soon.
Someone must have loved her. Not like that puppy Taylor. Tyson? Doesn't matter. Boys like him don't understand girls like her. Girls that love the blood. Girls that move their bodies like swaying barley. Girls that laugh when they want to tear your throat out. Girls that tear your throat out when they want to kiss you.
Does he deserve her? He deserves a chance, he thinks. And maybe it won't be a fair chance. But he understands girls like her. No means no. Yes means you better hurry the fuck up. And he is after all, her type.
They're sitting in a cafe eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Well, she is sitting in a cafe eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. He is interrupting and purloining chips. She's too distracted to be irritated. He doesn't understand what the big deal about New Orleans is anyway. It's too colorful by half. He prefers a little less flare to his cities, old English boy that he is. Somewhere where it gets cold and you can pretend you need the fire to stay warm, but really you just want to watch it burn the same way you're burning for her.
"You seem on edge, Gorgeous." He pops another chip in his mouth and chews slowly. She's studiously ignoring the bait so he switches tactics, "I know a great stress reliever," he suggests tone low with an over the top eyebrow wiggle. And it works, she cracks. Just a small hairline fracture to those stern - possibly vanilla - lips.
"Clepto," she swats his hand away from her plate, "steal another fry and I'll break your finger." He laughs because after all, no means no. But a threat? Now that's an open invitation.
She looks stunning. And he's suspicious. Because Heaven sends and Heaven takes. And she's certainly not dressing for him. The curls to get tangled in. The legs to get wrapped up in. It's all for someone else.
He wants his fingers there where the ends of her hair brush her cleavage. He wants his lips there where she's applying the crimson color that make her teeth look even whiter when she smiles. Not for him. And he doesn't even care if her lips tastes like wax because he's sure that underneath if he kisses her long enough, it'll be raspberry.
"Stay," she tells him. Like a dog. As she drops the lip stick in her purse and closes the door he almost whines like one. She'll come back, he tells himself. And even though the room is a wreck with her things, he can't quite convince himself of its truth.
So he follows her. Like a dog. And sees her smiling. Dancing. Whispering. To someone older than he is. Conspicuously well traveled in an Italian suit. Obvious dodgy morals as the questionable placement of his hands attested to. His accent's probably ten times more charming as well. But no one could be as arrogant, tactless, or completely unable to take a hint as Lorenzo.
"Mind if I cut in?" How he manages to walk out of there without getting his head ripped off is nothing short of a miracle and only serves to make him feel more bloody invincible than he really is.
He is, however, lying in her bed, nursing a crushed larynx when she slams the door. Glare so fixed he actually squirms a little in his skin. "Bad." she points with an admonishing finger. And if he really were a dog his tail might have been tucked between his legs. She paces back and forth at the foot of the bed. He watches her, mildly satisfied that her lipstick isn't smudged in the slightest.
"I - I just - I have no words." Eventually she stops pacing, stops pulling agitating stands of hair, stops biting her lips. "Do you even know who that was?" Her finger points vaguely out of the window and she seems to be waiting for an answer. But he doesn't have any words either, or at least, can't speak them at the moment. He simply shrugs petulantly.
Mongrels curs like that don't understand girls like her. Girls that can kill for themselves. Girls that don't need kings by their side.
"You're lucky he didn't eviscerate you." No, but he is lucky he's not the only one she seems to have choke chained. She sighs dramatically and lands heavily on the bed. "You're a moron," she shakes her head, rubbing her temples.
Maybe. He thinks. But I still got the girl.
He's sane, he thinks, for the most part. He has moments, though, when the madness of captivity returns. Haunts him like a ghost. Hunts him like a stalking beast. She says his eyes go wide and wild and when he looks at her with those eyes she swallows and frowns. "So tame me," he says, running a finger across her jaw. "Make a pet of me. You know you can."
He doesn't believe in a god, after dying so many times. But he does believe in Heaven. And Hell. And he believes they could be both one and the same. He would confess everything to her if she would finally just ask him. Every sin. Every drop of blood. Every dark desire. He would lay them all out at her feet. Let her judge him then beg her forgiveness. Promise to worship none but her for the rest of time.
He lets her push him away because no means no. But she doesn't run far, it is her house after all. He lounges back in the cushions because she hasn't told him to get out yet. "Get out," Oh well, he blows her a kiss and decides that it must be strawberries. There's no way it couldn't be strawberries.
She's on a porch swing, sipping sweet tea. Her bare feet glide back and forth through the air. He likes to drive to the edge of town, pretend he's tired of waiting and has finally decided to leave. But there are skid marks on the road where he always makes a u-turn and a knowing smirk waiting on her lips when he pulls up her driveway.
"Damon's gonna be pissed when he finds out you stole his car again." He sits down next to her and takes the sweet tea from her hands because he knows she likes to lace it with something stronger. A couple of swallows and it's gone and he's gently swinging them back and forth.
He knows she can't feel the October chill, but he doesn't say anything when she tucks her toes under his thigh.
She knows he can't leave without her, but she doesn't say anything when he leans over to kiss her. Peppermint. He guesses the second before his lips touch hers.
But he's wrong.