JEREMY'S NECK SNAPS.

IT'S AN awful sound, but one that repeats on and on in Elena's mind like a broken record. It's a sound that haunts her more than the memory of water cleaving through the muscles of her throat and filling up her lungs till she feels like she's bursting, the sight of the life leaving Jenna's eyes, the gleam of the sunlight as it rippled over John's splayed body.

Perhaps because this time Elena has not lost someone that was meant to protect that—the expectation that they would die in her name was acceptable, alright, because it was what they were meant to do.

But Jeremy was not meant to die.

It was always meant to be Elena : the elder sister, the matriarch of their two-person family, the protector.

Instead, all she's turned out to be is a failure.

So many people have died, so much blood has stained her hands, but at least when Elena went to sleep, she could comfort herself with the thought that at least Jeremy was alive, was there, breathing deeply in his sleep just across the hallway from her.

He was a stalwart constant throughout the havoc of the last year and a half—a one naivety she allowed herself because if Elena didn't give herself that small piece of innocence ( of idiocy ) that her brother would always be here, she thinks she would've crumbled under the weight of it all a long time ago.

But then his neck was snapped, and everything collapsed with his corpse.

Her mind broke too, just a little bit, just enough so she could fool herself into believing that he was coming back, so she could ignore the stench of his body as he rotted under her desperate hands. So she could steal those few precious hours when it was just them, hiding under the blankets like they used to. Like when their biggest fears were monsters stowed away in their closets and beaten back by tired parents.

But, he's dead.

And, in a way, so is Elena.

She feels the hole Jeremy carved inside her like a wound, like a black hole eating away at her insides, her bones, her soul, her everything . She was first punctured by the loss of her parents, a double blow that knocked her breathless, but she got back on her feet. Then, Jenna died, her eyes shining with forgiveness and awful acceptance as her life and blood spilled onto grass and flames and Klaus clutched her heart in his hands.

A heart that had laughed and cried and smiled. That played hide-and-seek with Elena when she was five, that giggled over her first kiss, that wept with her at her parents' funeral, that was so desperate to prove that she was a good enough guardian that she could never see that just being there was enough.

Then, there was Uncle John—Dad, but not really. But, still, he was there, standing in the background with that pained look in his eyes that Elena could never understand until she suddenly did. He'd become a part of her: that violence, that quiet before she pounced, the dark things she always tried to hide.

Jenna had been her joy, her guilt, her pain, her resilience.

Her parents had been her innocence, her childhood, her fairytales, her sanctuary.

Every time they died, they took a piece of her with them, leaving craters as deep as the sea inside her that she could never fill up, as much as she tried. Stefan was a balm, Damon a drug. But neither could ever fix her, heal her, as much as she tried to make them, let them.

But Jeremy . . .

Jeremy was everything.

Her alpha and omega, her yin and yang, her light and dark, her chaos and order, her good and evil, her hot and cold, her love and hate. He was her ending and beginning and he is gone.

And unlike all those other times, all those times she bent time to her will, beat nature to a pulp, twisted rules to her desires, she can't bring him back.

And now that black hole inside her is eating away at everything that she still has left and tears are falling, tasting like salt and sadness on her lips, words slipping free of her teeth without any semblance of control.

But Elena has stopped caring.

Jeremy is dead and the world is ending.

There's a match in her hands, and it feels right to do this. Let Jeremy reduce to ashes, set him free to the wind and the breeze, where he can see the world and nobody can ever hurt him again.

She can never hurt him again.

But her legs give out from under her, her heart stutters in her chest, struggling under the weight of her grief and heavy soul—under the weight of her humanity.

It's too much— it's too much.

"Elena."

The strings yank tight, taut by his voice and his silent will. She looks up at him, eyes colliding like two comets crashing in a violent embrace and her whole self pauses, holds its breath.

What does Damon want? That deep, old voice inside of her thrums, ponders—her basest self, stripped of societal rules and customs and concerns, What does Damon want us to be?

( The human inside her screams. )

"Turn it off."

Her world collapses until it's just Damon and his piercing, electric eyes carving into her skin and bone. She thinks there's something screaming, someone shouting, but she can't hear. All she can hear is Damon's words in her head, her body ticking like clockwork, obeying his demands.

Turn it off.

It feels like aeons, like worlds have died and stars have imploded and babies are born and flowers bloom before finally, it happens.

Click.

It's all it takes.

ELENA PONDERS ON WHY SHE never did this before. Why she let herself be drowned by her emotions, cling so tightly to her pain and misery so she could experience some semblance of joy when she could be this. Wild and free and unbound by something as pesky and agonising as humanity.

She winds through trees and leaves and branches, the wind lashing against her skin but it doesn't hurt because she is something more, something that slips through death's fingers time and time again.

No pain, no grief, just freedom.

And hunger, she realises, her throat dry like sandpaper, her gums aching as her fangs threaten to unleash themselves. Her old self had been so terrified of hurting people, of taking more than she should, of becoming the thing she feared the most, that she had nearly starved herself to death.

No longer is she scared, no longer is she hesitant.

She slips into the skin of the monster of the dark and night with ease.

She does not look back.

( She should've. )

" Well , I can't say I expected this. "

Elena pauses for a moment, before she turns. She's not afraid—she can't anyway—and meets Klaus' stare dead-on. His eyes are blue like Damon's too, but they are not as piercing, not as offensive to the eye. They are blue like velvet and the morning sky, like lazy days and cool water down a dry throat.

They are good at hiding the maliciousness that curdles in his blood.

She looks at him and she is not afraid, not hateful, not vengeful. Like she usually is when she's in Klaus' proximity. The sight of him clutching Jenna's heart in his hands no longer twists at her own undead one.

"What?" Elena asks, blinking as the shadows curl and coil over Klaus, the moonlight twisting and turning over his skin. Half in light, half in darkness. Half man, half beast. "The fire? Or me turning my humanity off?"

"Both," Klaus admits and there's a slash of teeth he assumes looks like a smile, "Whatever convinced the sweet and pious Elena Gilbert to flip her switch?"

Elena shrugs. "Made sense, really. The grief was awful, and Damon wanted it, so . . ."

Klaus' face goes blank, almost pensive. "The Salvatore—your sire, if I remember correctly—commanded you to turn it off?"

Elena hums in assent. "Yeah. First good thing he's ever done for me."

"Aren't you in love with him?"

Klaus' near-startled expression would make her laugh if her humanity switch was on. But it's not, so it doesn't. "Sure. I guess. Or I used to be. In case you've forgotten, flipping my switch means I don't feel anything. "

A growl echoes through the forest. "Careful, love."

Elena scoffs, rolls her eyes, and turns on her heel. "If that's all, I'm hungry."

She makes to move, but she blinks and then Klaus is in front of her, towering over her high enough that she has to crane her head just so to meet his inquisitive gaze. He looks at her like he's never seen her before. "You can't hunt. The Salvatores haven't taught you a thing about being a proper vampire."

"And I suppose you could."

Klaus tilts his head. He's never looked more like a predator. But she's no quivering doe, not anymore. She'll fight back, even if it costs her. Even when she was human, she's never been one to go down without a fight. He knows better than most.

"Suppose I could."

"Why?"

Klaus shrugs, takes a step back. "I'm bored, love. Simple as. And I have a feeling you without your humanity will be a very entertaining thing to watch."

Elena considers him, wonders if it's worth it. To entangle herself with a man, a monster, who's never cared for anything more than his own desires.

( Maybe she could learn a thing or two from him. )

"Fine."

He grins, something vicious in the curve of it, and sweeps low, bending like a gentleman from a time long gone . "Ladies first."

HER BELLY IS FULL AND it's a sensation she could do with feeling again. She hasn't felt so sated since she was human, when she could eat normal food, before she became a vampire and was so scared to even breathe that she starved herself.

( Admittedly, at least half of it is Damon's fault since he essentially banned her from having blood from anywhere but straight from the vein. )

Klaus had been a good teacher if she's honest. He'd led her to a town just outside of Mystic Falls, far bigger than her little hometown fit to bursting with monsters and demons, and bustling with all kinds of energy and life that she was practically drooling to taste.

He'd led her to a nightclub, full of swarming bodies and liquor and blood. He'd ducked low, mouth grazing over her ear as he whispered how she needed to find the weak one in the herd, lead them away and take her fill.

An ember of heat ignited.

She did as he bid, mature enough to realise she was too young to try and strike out on her own, picking through the crowd, before she found a lanky reed of a man collapsed against the wall, his legs moments away from giving in. She slid her arms around his waist, murmured in his ear she was taking him someplace safe. Poor thing was too far gone to even realise she was a stranger, much less someone who could hurt him.

She took him outside, set him gently against the wall, unsheathed her fangs and drank. She moaned from the feel of rich, thick blood pouring down her throat, practically nuzzling into the drunken man's throat as he whimpered and whined pathetically.

She would've been content to guzzle his blood till he was dry, but Klaus had yanked her from the throat of her prey, eyed her with blackened eyes and bloodied fangs, mouth and chin and tutted. Pushed her away and admonished her on eating etiquette.

"Didn't your mother teach you any better?" He quipped and if her switch was flipped, she would've slapped him. He almost seemed disappointed that she didn't.

But the moment passed too quickly and he turned to her prey, ripped his wrist open, forced blood down her prey's throat, captured his gaze and snared him, purring for him to forget this entirely and to disappear inside. Dazed and wobbling, her prey did so.

Blood was still on his shirt.

Klaus had led her back inside, letting her pick and choose her prey and lead them back inside, feasting on them to the brink of death before he pulled away, tutted and admonished her, healing and compelling them and the cycle repeated itself until her belly was full.

As they walk out of the nightclub, Elena in a fresh set of clothes, her old ones drowned in blood, he told her that as she grew older, her control would improve, that she would one day be able to feast from peasants and kings alike.

She liked the thought of it.

Then, he invited her home.

"I could do with a drink, you're not awful company as you are now, and I don't think you want your friends finding you right now, do you?"

He's not wrong. After she burnt down her house, Caroline, Damon, and Stefan had gathered and began plotting how to present this to the rest of the town. Elena had taken the opportunity to slip away and— well.

"Sure," Elena agreed and this is how she finds herself in Klaus' home of her own free will. Just yesterday, if somebody told Elena this would happen, she would hurry to Bonnie to make sure they weren't insane. But yesterday was yesterday and now is now.

Elena doesn't see the point in dwelling in the past.

She clutches a glass of whiskey in hands, older than her by centuries, meandering through Klaus' paintings, eyes traversing them with a faint intrigue. It's all she can muster in her current state. Really, he should be flattered.

"What do you think?" The hybrid questions, leaning against the doorway, his second glass of liquor raised to his lips.

Elena hums, ponders, fingers dancing over the paint strokes, the colours interweaved and entangled by a skill she could never hope to have. "I don't know. I'm not an artist."

"You don't need to be a professional to admire something, love," Klaus responds, "I'd ask how it makes you feel, but, I think we both know the answer to that."

Elena smiles wryly, downs the rest of her drink in one smooth swig and holds the empty glass for Klaus to refill. He spares her a short, menacing glare, but takes her glass anyway. Elena turns back to the paintings, considering them with a keener eye.

( Why does she care? She's not meant to care. )

Klaus returns in an instant, his front brushing against her back, his arm wound around her front, proffering her second glass of the night. There's a pause, a mere heartbeat where both don't move, caught between one breath and the next, caught in the heat and the fire that simmers between them.

The teeth marks that Klaus cleaved into her that fateful night, now preserved for all eternity on the slope of her immortal neck, burn.

Elena swallows and takes the glass, ignoring the way her fingers slid against Klaus' for a single moment. He remains there for a second, towering over her, closing her in, like a predator crouched over its prey, before he returns to his spot at the doorway.

But she's never been the prey. Not when she made him what he is.

Wonders if he knows it too.

Elena points to a painting slouched against the wall in the very corner. "That's boring."

She can feel Klaus' irritation. "How so?"

She shrugs. "You asked me about it made me feel: that one makes me feel bored." Decides to throw him a bone. Turns and points to the one propped just next to the doorway he leans against. "I like that one."

His gaze flickers to the painting in question: it's a wolf standing amidst flames, the full moon fat and heavy over its head. The wolf, bronzed and gleaming between the wildfire, stands tall and proud, muscles visible through its fur, ears pointed up, face imperious.

She'd think it was Klaus himself, if not for the deep brown eyes burning back at her.

Fire amidst fire.

Wolf against wolf.

( Maybe that's why immortality didn't settle right over her bones. Maybe it was because the forest fought back. )

She breaks her gaze away from the wolf, travels eyes to meet Klaus' simmering, seething stare and sips from her drink. The liquor, like everything else these days, scorches.

"Why?" He intones, his voice rasping just so. She bites back a shudder, a flush of desire.

( Wonders if she's really willing to cross that line. Wonders how much of herself she lost by flipping that switch. Wonders how much Damon took of her. )

"Everything," she says after a pause, "The fire. The moon. The wolf. Reminds me of the sacrifice."

Klaus' eyes flicker with surprise before he hides it away and returns to that old arrogant facade. She's almost surprised too: for broaching the topic that seems too raw and sensitive in this territory that they tread.

"It wasn't just you who unlocked something that night," Elena explains, trying to remember the rush in her veins just before her heart gave out and her vision whitened out, the relief of the sensation of the key turning in the lock, the release, "My whole life, I've felt like there's been something weighing on me. I could never figure out what it was, didn't really know it was there to be honest because I didn't know how to live without it. Then, there was the sacrifice, and . . . I felt it. And it felt right. It felt good. And then I died, obviously."

"Obviously," Klaus intones and sets his glass down on a small side table and steps into the room. The air shifts again. Elena takes another sip of her drink—she's almost finished with it.

"What about you?" She asks, "What's your favourite?"

Klaus' lips pinch in thought. It's a type of thoughtfulness that is without malice, or venom, or bitterness. It's a type of musing that is simple and pure and thinking about what painting is his favourite.

( She finds she quite likes it. )

He nods his head to a painting set against the window: two bears slumber together in the shadow of a cave, night a violet-blue blanket above them, speckled with stars clustered together in a constellation she has never bothered to learn.

"Why?" She asks, again, hungry for more than just blood.

( She feels for her switch; makes sure it really is turned off. )

"They're both predators and incredibly dangerous. They have no need to be in each other's company and yet . . . they sleep together, under the stars, simply because they choose to." There's a hint of wistfulness, the liquor wetting his tongue more than Klaus would probably like.

She's glad she's not the only one.

"What's the constellation in the sky?"

"Andromeda," Klaus answers, fingers reaching out to graze over the constellation, almost yearning, "The Chained Maiden."

Elena releases a soft chuckle. "I remember that story from middle school. Andromeda was the daughter of Cassiopeia, who boasted that her daughter was more beautiful than the Nereids. Poseidon sent a sea monster to ruin their kingdom, so to appease the gods, Andromeda was chained to a rock and left to be eaten by the monster. Perseus was the one who saved her, fell in love with her, and eventually ended up marrying her."

"That's most of the story, yes," Klaus agrees and steps away from the painting.

"Why did you choose that constellation?"

Klaus' shoulders go rigid and Elena senses that she may have crossed a line. The hybrid turns to face her, something dark and deadly brewing in his gaze. "I think that's quite enough questions for tonight."

"You started it."

Klaus steps closer. Elena buries the urge to step back, meets him toe-to-toe. This close, she can smell the forest on him, the blood, the metal, the magic. The charcoal underneath it all, the slight tinge of sugar and coffee, the sandalwood and the woodsmoke that seem so Klaus she wonders why she ever thought he wouldn't smell like this at all.

Elena takes another swig of her drink. Polishes it off. Sets it down.

Klaus' eyes flash gold for a single moment. Elena wonders if he's going to kill her.

She tilts her head back, locks her eyes with his, takes a step forward—close enough her breasts graze his chest.

Electricity and lightning and storms crackle between them. They frizzle and pop and burst and Klaus shatters. He snarls, fangs glinting momentarily in the light before his mouth crashes against hers and Elena goes dizzy. Kissing Klaus is nothing like kissing Matt or Damon or Stefan.

Klaus is all heat and fang and blood, all aggression and passion in a way that she's never felt before. She clings to him, the anchor to this storm she's been thrown neck-deep in, arms cinching around his neck like a noose. The feel of her arms around him whittles further at Klaus' control and he scoops her up into his arms and she's just managed to wrap her legs around his trimmed waist before he's sent them crashing into the wall, paintings clattering and falling around them.

They're too lost in each other to care.

They move together like they've done this a million times before, clothes tearing and nails turned into claws, teeth turned into fangs, eyes turned into slits. Humans turned into monsters.

Where she was once a black hole, Klaus is now one, his magnetic field that she has never been able to deny pulling her in and in and in till she's drowning in him and she's not quite sure when Elena Gilbert ends and Niklaus Mikaelson begins.

Does not care. Not as long as he keeps touching her like that.

THEY FUCK FOR HOURS. ONE of the benefits of both being immortal creatures who have seemingly unlimited staminas.

They fuck through the night, until the stars wink out and the sun takes their place. It's only then do they break apart from one another, Klaus collapsing into the mattress, back turned away from her as he slips into unconsciousness. Elena allows herself a handful of moments of seeing him in the dawn light and how he casts a shadow over her, blocking out the sunlight.

She smiles at the thought.

Her eyes duck over planes of his golden back—marred by her scratch of her nails, the teeth marks pocketing his skin from where she sank her fangs in and drank.

( Goddamn, there's nothing quite like hybrid blood. )

Then, Elena rolls over too and sinks into sleep.

SHE WAKES HOURS LATER, THE sun high in the sky and Klaus still sleeping beside her. His breath is deep and slow, relaxed almost.

Elena imagines it must be afternoon by this point, stretching out in the sunlight like a cat, before she climbs out of bed, and walks to Klaus' closet. She doesn't even attempt to save the meagre scraps of her clothing that Klaus had torn to shreds last night.

Instead, still feeling Klaus on her thighs, she pulls out some of his clothes she hopes will fit her, slides them on, and leaves without looking back.

( She looks back. )

ELENA SHOWERS BEFORE MEETING up with her friends again. She doesn't care what they think, but she also really does not have the patience to deal with their condescension and scandalisation at the fact that she slept with Klaus. Definitely does not have the patience to deal with Caroline pretending like she doesn't care when she really does or Damon's jealousy of his not-girlfriend fucking his worst enemy.

She sees him again shortly afterwards. They share a look, but that is all. It's all they need to convey that they'll never speak of this again.

SHE'S GLAD TO BE FREE of Damon's strings. Had forgotten what it felt like to be Elena Gilbert without Damon's voice whispering in the back of her head, telling what to do, who to be.

( The phantom feeling of his kisses burn. )

Damon still tries to sink his claws into her. Tries to remind her of their good times, their best times, but she only rolls her eyes and walks away. When that doesn't work, Damon throws out the good cop approach ( Good. It really didn't suit him ) and settles back into his familiar skin and begins to demand things again.

He steals her away to New York and the hustle and bustle of the big city reminds her of that night and she quells the desire inside her before Damon catches a whiff of it and decides that they're making progress.

She dyes her hair because why the fuck not, and the brief spark of joy she feels at the sight of the red slashing through the brown is both terrifying and exhilarating.

( She almost slips. Almost thinks about turning it back on. )

Damon tells her stories, tells her of the time when he flipped his switch. She lets him believe that it's getting to her, lets him get closer, but when he gets too close, she snaps his neck and breathes a sigh of relief.

She and Rebekah drive away in his car.

WITH HER SWITCH FLIPPED, ELENA had forgotten how much she wanted to kill Katherine. Seeing her again, it makes her remember in clear clarity. She no longer feels the grief and the pain that is the driving force behind that need for vengeance, but she can still hear the sound of Jeremy's neck snapping, and her fingers are curling into fists.

Rebekah quells her for a moment, desperate to get her hands on that cure, which Elena can already tell is the scam of the past two millennia but keeps her mouth shut. The sooner they find the cure, the sooner Rebekah can accept the fact that becoming human again is fucking bullshit and the sooner Elena can kill Katherine.

Then, she meets Elijah.

She sees him again, and she freezes in something close to fear because oh fuck she has very real chance of getting caught right now and oh God his hands are in her hair and should he standing that close and what the fuck is he doing —

He kisses her.

He thinks it's Katherine, obviously, and Elena kisses back, telling herself it's what Katherine would do, but she also really wants to know what it's like to kiss a Mikaelson that isn't Klaus.

She doesn't know what she expected. Why she expected the world to tilt on its axis, for her heart to start beating like its not just magic thrumming her veins but life, for the beast inside of her to quiet for just a moment at the meeting of its equal.

None of that happens. It's just a kiss.

( Though, admittedly, a very good one. Elijah used his millennium wisely. )

He pulls back, and in moments, their whole ruse shatters.

Fuck.

( She can't stop thinking about Klaus' lips against hers, mouths melding together like oceans, like something right. )

PROM IS JUST AROUND THE corner and Elena is nearly amused at Caroline's frantic efforts at planning for it. It's funny, sometimes, seeing how desperate the blonde is to cling to her humanity, her girlhood.

( She was like that once, too. )

Elena scoffs as her friends—can she still call them that or is too late?—fall into that same trap: pretending like everything's okay, like Silas isn't catching up to them every moment they idle about looking at dresses, like the world isn't ending.

She thinks it'll be fun to watch it burn.

SHE STEALS CAROLINE'S PROM DRESS.

Because why the fuck not?

( Because she knows the feel of a wolf's teeth in her neck, the piston of his hips, and the scratch of his nails. She knows him when loses all control, when he bears his neck in a moment of pleasure.

She knows him vulnerable and weak. )

THE SALVATORES HAVE GROWN TIRED of her.

She applauds them on their patience. She'd betted that they'd do this weeks ago. Guess she owes that voice in her head ten bucks now.

They sit her on a chair, stalk around her with the grace of panthers but the idolatry of spoiled children refused something they want.

They even bring in Katherine and that's when Elena knows. Knows that if for some reason, somehow, they manage to make her flip her switch, she will never forgive them. Not for this. Not ever.

Not when she's got the single snap of a neck playing in her head on repeat.

"YOU'RE BLUFFING."

WORDS ELENA COMES to regret.

Damon's hand curls around Matt's neck and yanks.

Snap.

Another to add to the terrible, awful symphony pounding her skull.

Click.

The switch flips, and the world comes crashing down on Elena. All that pain, all that grief, all that sorrow that she'd gladly locked away hits her like a freight train, like a flood as her knees buckle from the weight of it all. Stefan lets her sink to the cold forest floor.

Her hearing is muffled, like she's submerged under water, and there's voices, but Elena doesn't hear them. All she cares about is Matt —Matt with his golden heart and optimistic mind, his soft hands and gentle voice, his unflinching belief in her and his staunch loyalty to her even now.

Even then, really.

Because he's dead because Damon snapped his neck all because she called his bluff.

Nononononononono —this can't be happening.

She can't lose anyone else.

"WHY ISN'T HE WAKING UP?"

"Wasn't he meant to be wearing the ring?"

"Fucking obviously . I told him to—"

"Damon."

" What, Stef? I've got a dead Donovan on my hands who should really be waking up right now—"

" Damon. Look."

.

.

.

" NO!"

THE RING. THE FUCKING RING fell off Matt's hand because it was too goddamn big on him and so now he's dead, really dead, and there's no coming back, just like Jeremy—

SHE HAS TO GO. SHE can't stay here anymore.