Disclaimer: No. Nononono. I don't own it, and I am sobering up right now. It's going out time in half an hour.

Enjoy. Review, and please, please hate me. It only begins to get worse from here.

To those who didn't expect me to post this late today, They stopped me from drinking at 3.45 pm, so I am sober enough to post and reply to reviews now.

Oh, yay

Mouse, Pandora, G1rlanachr0nism, you are my ladies. You make me smile. (Jesus, am I ever drunk.)

.


.

.

.

2010

.

.

.

"Stefan?" As Elena sat down in his bedroom and held the diary in her hands, she looked up at him and realised the horrific look on his face. "Please, say... something?"

"I don't think there's anything else to say." He said softly, looking away from Elena and up at the ceiling. "You've clearly seen everything in that diary, and you've made up your mind."

The words rang around in Elena's head which sounded so familiar and yet so different in her head. When Damon had said them to her, a very long time ago, when Stefan had told her all about Katherine – at least, as all about Katherine as Stefan would ever dare mention, carefully keeping the secret that he had forced Damon into a turning he had not been willing to go through – and she had made swift judgements about him.

They sounded too different, this time, though. They sounded wrong and uncomfortable coming from Stefan's lips, as though he fully expected her to tell him that no, she still loved him, and no, this must all have been a lie.

Elena wondered how much of Stefan's mind was that damn conceited that he would dare to make this all about him. None of this was about him, not at this point. It was time that he realised that the things he did – because he did them for himself, rather than to protect Annabelle, or her family – could not be apologised away, or made right, because he deliberately deceived her.

"You compelled her," Elena said, instead of starting to comfort Stefan. "It's obvious."

"Is it?" Stefan asked softly, "How would you know?"

"She writes these things... and then there're notes in the side, telling her that she doesn't remember them the night afterwards. The fact that she allowed you to bite her, didn't ask anything of you..." Elena trailed off, feeling massively awkward and very, very ill.

"Well, maybe I couldn't help myself." Stefan tried, sounding petulant and childish – like a version of Damon that was slowly losing control. "Maybe she asked for it."

"Maybe she loved you." Elena had taken a long time to get her own head around that idea – that somebody else could have or want Stefan, and that he would simply up and leave them without even appearing to return that love.

"We'll never know." Stefan said, and Elena, unable to take such an arrogance, such a deceit, shook her head and got up from the bed, thrust the diary into Stefan's hands and walked away, intending to go home, to find the black book and make herself smile more with Damon's colourful history.

Stefan, on the other hand, kept his eyes on the book, until the agony of anticipation got to him, and he forced himself to open it, to read about the hell he had created.

.

.

Italy, 1993 – Francesca's 22nd Birthday.

.

.

Francesca liked her birthday. Two years ago, it had brought her Damon, and this year, it had brought her Damon once again, only this time, she was married to him, and he was lying in their bed beside her as she woke up, his face only inches from hers as he stared hard at her features.

He looked as though he was trying to memorise every part of her face, as his eyes flickered left, right and all over the place, taking in every millimetre of her freckles, the way her tan changed slightly, deepened on the sharpness of her cheekbones. She blinked her eyes closed again as he lifted his fingertips to her bottom lip, ran his thumb across it and then lowered his mouth to her own, kissing her hard and pushing her down, onto her back as he clambered across her bed to straddle her, running his hands up and down her sides as he dragged his tongue up the side of her neck, making her gasp, moan and whimper underneath him.

"Positively sinful." He whispered, before pulling back and rubbing his hand across her bare ribs again. "Go and shower."

"Excuse me?" Hazy with sleep, Francesca was still unsure whether that incredible good-morning-kiss had been a dream, and now this?

"I said, go and shower." Damon was smiling widely – not even smirking as Francesca had been expecting, "I'm taking you away for a day."

"What?" She raised her eyebrows this time, looking at him with wide and curious eyes, "But my-"

"Your father said that we had best be back before tomorrow, he said something about a surprise party?" There was that ridiculous smirk on Damon's face again, and he grabbed Francesca around the waist again, "Oh, dear me, I think I've ruined it."

They laughed raucously for a while, lying together, kissing and touching for the better part of half an hour, before Damon got impatient again and grabbed her around the hips, pulling her up and threatening to spank her unless she got a move on.

"That sounds like a promise," She giggled, and he simply shook his head, touching her bottom lip again and kissing her lightly as he sprinted to the bathroom with her in his arms. "Damn you, Damon!" She was laughing lightly as he stripped her slowly, touching every inch of her bare skin and sending goosebumps exploding across her skin.

His fingertips pressed against the soft skin of her stomach and he pressed his lips against the space between her breasts, tasting pure Francesca as his tongue traced up to brush against her skin.

"Shower. I have something special planned for today."

She nodded once against him, and then forced herself to step away and into the shower, drawing the glass curtain closed behind her.

.

Something special turned out to be the most beautiful picnic Francesca had ever experienced.

Damon had thought of everything, from champagne, to the chequered picnic blanket and a camera to capture everything that they did that day – from Francesca's face as Damon pulled his Ferrari over at a vineyard and told her to wait there, bringing a vintage wine out ten minutes later – one that was exactly the same age as her.

"This must have cost-"

"It's worth it." He whispered, "Besides, it's a good wine." He winked brightly and took in the girl leaning against his Ferrari as though she owned it. In a way, she did, because she owned him, but that was beside the point. "You look stunning," He whispered as he stood between her legs to press her against both him and the car, "Incredibly beautiful."

"Not as good as you," She replied, the dark blush against her skin making him smile ever wider.

"Let's go, before I do something dangerous, and wholly inappropriate." He murmured, pressing his lips to her exposed collarbones as she gasped, dropping her head back at the sensation.

They moved on quickly, sitting down at a restaurant in a small village for coffee before Damon's incredible shortage of patience meant that they were haring up a hillside, pulling over with gusto before Francesca could even comprehend what was going on.

It was around five o'clock, but Francesca was hungry already, for she and Damon had been messing around, laughing and travelling out here all day. She had consumed the better part of half a bottle of wine, and was most definitely at ease lying beside Damon as he began to pull the bottle of champagne out of the basket.

"Are we eating now?" She asked softly, and Damon nodded, leaning over her with a gentle smile.

"Are you hungry?" He countered, and she nodded lightly, feeling a little closer to starving.

Damon smiled and held his hand out to her, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand as he pulled her to sit facing him, both of them with their legs crossed.

"Do you trust me?" He whispered, pulling a black strip of silk from his back pocket and holding it out to her to show her what it was.

"Of course," She whispered, then, "With my life."

Her lips curved into a smile, and he grinned back at her, keeping his fingers wrapped around hers as he covered her eyes with the black silk.

Shivering with anticipation, Francesca let out a little gasp as Damon pressed his lips first against her cheek, then her forehead, then finally against her lips as he fished around in the picnic basket for what he was looking for.

"Ready?" Damon murmured as he pulled away, "Because I've got it all here."

"Okay," She breathed out and nodded as Damon lifted her hips and placed her lightly on his lap.

"Take your guesses when you're ready," He murmured softly, rubbing the first slice of fruit against her lips. They parted with the gloss of the juice against them, and Damon could barely keep himself from following the path of the fruit as Francesca swallowed slowly and ran her tongue across her bottom lip.

"Apple." She whispered quietly, and Damon responded with a very gentle kiss to her hand. "I get a reward?" She said, louder this time.

"Indeed you do. You were, of course, one hundred percent correct. Next one?"

"Umm-hmm." She nodded brightly, and this time, as his thumb brushed her bottom lip, she let out a soft groan. It was almost too much for her, knowing that he was so close she could feel his heat rushing against every part of her, but that he was too far away to do anything about it.

Her lips parted, and she immediately knew it was a strawberry – and a damn juicy one at that, because she tasted the sweet tang of the sugar he had dipped it in alongside the juice of the fruit, and felt it drip down her chin mere seconds before Damon had attached his lips to the afflicted area and licked the taste away.

"Strawb-ungh." She couldn't continue because within a second, his lips were pressed against hers and the blindfold was all askew. His hands were everywhere, fingers pressing against every curve, under her dress, lips attacking any bare skin he could find.

She practically fell backwards, hearing her glass of champagne collapse with a quiet clink to the blanket, but there was no sudden rush of liquid – Damon's fingertips had quickly grabbed the drink and righted it, swirling his finger in the glass and bringing it to her lips as he groaned again, pressing his hips closer to her, pulling her back to him harder.

Damon pulled away from her first, holding a hand up to still her protests.

"Shut your eyes," He whispered, "And trust me."

"Of course," She replied.

There was silence as Damon found the chocolate spread. He had intended to dip the strawberries into it, but his restraint had been sorely tested already, and he was so close to dragging her back to the Ferrari and destroying its interior that he needed to satisfy the pair of them before it got to that point.

Slowly, as he leaned back against her, he used his index finger to scoop up the now warm and slightly runny paste, brushing it first straight down the column of her neck, and then, with a second finger full, straight across her lips. They parted immediately, and slowly, he felt her tongue start to taste every part of the chocolate, and every part of his skin. He noted that, as the spread was almost liquid, it had left a thin trail across her cheek and compulsively, he followed it with gentle nips, before lowering his lips down to her neck. The line of chocolate had cooled a little against her skin, so she gasped as his hot breath ghosted against her pulse point, and his tongue started to clean the path back up to her lips.

It was immediately too much for Damon. He knew he needed the blood that was beating against the chocolate, and Francesca could feel that tension too. Her head dropped back and her back arched so that she was pushing herself up to Damon's lips. He pushed her back down with a gentle hand and forced himself to look up at her.

"It's your birthday," He whispered, still hovering over her, still feeling painfully alive, "This should be about you."

"It will be," She murmured, "Just make sure," Her fingers found his wrist and gripped tight, "Make sure you share." He nodded, lifting his fingers to her lips.

Damon decided, as he took his first gulp of sweet and soft blood, mixed with the chocolate that remained on her skin, that his favourite taste was her.

.

.

.

2010

.

.

.

Damon dropped his head back and looked up at Elena over the arm of the sofa as she came downstairs.

"I hope you talked to the Saint," He said softly, "And that you got more out of him than I ever could."

Elena was never sure what to say around Damon, especially in his rare moments of sincerity, but very swiftly, his moment of melancholy dissolved and he was smirking again.

"Still, his attitude was getting boring, being all broody all the time... I'd relish the chance at Angry Stefan."

"You're not a good person, Damon." Elena said suddenly, and immediately his smile disappeared. "You don't treat people nicely." The words were not lost on him, and he was furious. She did not deserve to know.

"Give me Francesca's book." His hands were on his hips immediately, he had rocketed out of his chair, and Elena couldn't help but notice the attractive way he stood, "Now."

"Why?"

"It's probably the only thing in existence that'll prove you wrong." He muttered, "You'll just read it and disregard it." There was a moment where neither of them said a word, and Elena lifted the book from her backpack.

"I believe her, sometimes," She said softly, opening the book to the first postcard, looking down at the beautiful handwriting which accompanied its postmark, "But... you were too perfect," She said, "Nothing like you are now. And you married her? I can't believe that you loved her, Damon, you don't love anything that much." Her words felt like vervain slipping through his veins, painful, sickening and cruel.

"You've got no idea how wrong you are, do you?" He was seething. If she had been anyone else, he would have shattered her neck within seconds. As it was, he was getting closer and closer to that point – at least until she spoke again.

"Well, why isn't she here now? She must have left you." And silence shattered the tense air in the room.

You will always be alone. The words beat on his brain and spoke volumes in the silence.

"Things happen." He stiffened, and looked away from her, "Bad things happen, sometimes."

"But-"

"The book, Elena." He held his hand out again, but did not wait for her to hand it to him. He snatched it away and stalked off to his bedroom.

He had always known that Elena did not consider everything she said before the words came out of her mouth, but it was difficult. It was horrible to hear a lie which hurt him so much, unnecessary and incredible in his chest because he could not begin to try and explain himself – could not find the words to express exactly how he felt for Francesca, and how he considered Elena to be his only friend.

Until he did, Damon knew he would always, always be alone.

.

.


.

A/N: Hm, yes, Birthday me would like a review? Thakn you!