Author's note: I'm not sure of Dessire's backstory yet, but I have some ideas. I tend to write in segments, whatever comes to mind, which is usually just a scene or two. Then I work out all the details later. The other day I came up with this and decided I might upload it as my first entry. I'm going to continue and expand on Dessire's storyline. We might even get to see some of Damon's soft side as he acts as a fatherly figure to her. I know it sounds like a bit of a stretch, but how many of us even thought Damon had a soft side when his character first appeared? Hope you like it :)

Dessire's POV

I grasp the stake in my palms which are slick with sweat. I raise my hands and drop them, a tear rolling down my cheek. I keep losing courage and will. Frustrated with myself, I raise the stake to my chest once more, holding the tip firmly against my T-shirt, piercing the skin underneath. Closing my eyes, I tell myself that I have to do this. Then force the splintery piece of wood through the muscle over the area of my heart. I try to ignore the searing sensation, as If a flame had been planted into my chest. But before I can get to my heart, I feel a large hand on mine and the stake being yanked out from my chest. My eyes flip open, silently pleading his dark blue, determined gaze. His jet black hair looks like ink against the moonlight. His strength is unbelievable. Almost immediately, I give up my hold. I gasp as he yanks out the remaining 3 inches of wood and tosses it to the ground, now lost in the brush and the deep blue of midnight. Before I have time to protest, he grabs me by the waist and throws me over his shoulder. "Damon," I whine in a strained, high pitched voice. "Let go of Me!" I kick at his chest.

"Why, so you can go back there and pick up your pathetic little six inch stake and start over?"

"No! I mean yes, look, just, Just put me down!"

"No."

"It's my life, Damon," I say matter-of-factly.

"Yes, and you are 12. I onthe other hand am 164. I think I know better than you at this point."

I sigh, "Damon, please. I- I just need-" Damon cuts me off.

"You need blood. You need to feed"

"How would you know what I need? Blood is the problem." I scoff.

"Get over yourself," I can practically feel him rolling his eyes.

12 miles later, (only 20 minutes as Damon speed walks) he sets me down and looks at me expectantly.

I place my hands on my hips and say "I'm not going to run if that's what you think. I know you're much faster than me and it would be a complete waste of energy." But he just nods his head toward the tick plot of trees to his right. "Go catch a squirrel or something." Against all of my new instincts, I resist the urge to dart to the nearest fuzzy, warm blooded animal.

"You know, Blood doesn't fix everything. That's like saying pie can fix everything. Do you really think for humans that pie can fix any given problem, Damon?"

He looks me up and down, then shrugs. Where is this going?

"You must have thought so," I can't believe him!

"Ugh. You are such a dick!"

" And you are a brat too immature for any other title," I can feel the blood rushing to my eyes in my state of contained rage. He simply smirks and throws me over his shoulder again.

Once in the mansion that now serves as my semi-eternal prison, Damon walks past Elena on the couch and into the kitchen. By now my elbows are propped up on Damon's back and I'm resting my chin in my hands. As she watches us descend into the next room with a bewildered and confused look on her face, I shoot her a raised eyebrow, challenging her to make a comment. Then Damon pulls out a chair at the table and throws me down into it. He leans down only inches from my face and says in that arrogant tone of his, "Stay." Then turning around and adding to Elena, "Take all of the stakes and vervain to my room; Baby Vamp is on a suicide mission," turning to me on that last note. I just scowl and cross my arms.

He walks over to the fridge and pulls out a blood bag, tossing it on the table in front of me. "Drink." He says, crossing his arms and waiting expectantly.

"No," I say bluntly.

"You haven't had any blood in three days, I will not let you starve yourself into a state of hibernation and desiccation, living on the border between life and death. You are a vampire; we drink blood, it's in our nature, it's what we do. Now drink." He says, emphasizing each and every word.

"Make me," I respond stubbornly, not really intending the challenge that comes with the two words, but regretting it seconds later when he sighs inwardly, un-folds his arms, and takes a few strides toward the table, hesitating as if giving me a two second window to change my mind.

"Everything is so difficult with you," then Damon swipes the bag into his hand and, using his teeth, tears the corner in one swift movement. I open my mouth to protest. Again, another mistake; Damon takes the opportunity, flashing behind me, using one hand to hold my jaw in place, the other shoving the torn corner of the bag into my mouth. I squeal and clamp down my teeth, but the crimson liquid still gets through and trickles down my throat. I grasp at his wrists, but they're immovable, set in their place like stone. It takes all my will to resist welcoming the honey like substance. I have to resist all of my natural urges and instincts, blocking out both smell and taste. I began to whimper, and by the time the bag is half way empty, A steady stream of tears roll down my cheeks. But despite my emotions, I can't resist the sweet taste any longer. I began to loosen my jaw, and I know Damon notices as his grip relaxes slightly. The tears stop as I feel the blood in my veins rushing, my fangs extending in unison. But I don't lunge out or grab the bag from Damon's hands. I just sit there, no longer protesting as he kneels behind me, pinching the bag, sliding his index finger and thumb along the plastic, leading the last few drops past my lips and onto my blood-coated tongue.

I choke on the warm air that rushes into my mouth as Damon gets up and tosses the empty plastic bag into the trash. Licking my lips as I push myself out of the chair, I turn and murmur, "Umm, I think I'm going to go find one of the spare rooms to sleep in." I gesture out the kitchen doorway.

"No," he says, his expression saying that he can't believe that the thought would even cross my mind. "You lost that privilege when you tried to kill yourself 40 minutes ago.

"What privilege?!" I say in disbelief myself.

"The privilege of your own room,"

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Don't tell me you're going to lock me up in the basement," I say, with genuine worry in my voice.

"The thought crossed my mind," He shrugs, "But I settled for something else; you're going to like this one," he says smirking.

"you get to sleep with me." Raising his eyebrows in an intimidating look.

I swear just then I felt something, (Is it the small amount of hope I had left?) die inside me. And I can tell by his amused expression that he senses it, too.