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The crisp November air carries the heavy, fried scent of funnel cakes and the distant, mechanical clanking of the Ferris wheel. Under the gaudy neon glow of the Mystic Falls high school carnival, the grass is already trampled into cool autumn mud. Damon leans against the chipped paint of a game booth, his leather jacket absorbing the chill of the Virginia night. He tracks the younger boy through the crowd with the effortless, hyper-focused stillness only a predator can manage. When Jeremy steps into the shadow of the prize booth, completely detached from the bright, screaming teenagers around him, Damon appears at his shoulder like a sudden shift in the wind.
"Jeremy, so good to see you alive," Damon says, his voice a low, smooth drawl that cuts right through the carnivalesque noise.
There’s a sharp, mocking edge to his smile, the kind that lets you know he remembers exactly how fragile human bones are. Jeremy doesn't jump. He just halts, exhaling a plume of white mist into the cold air. He adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, turning his head just enough to look Damon up and down with the exhausted, cynical apathy unique to fifteen-year-olds who have seen too much.
"Aren't you a little old for a high school carnival?" Jeremy asks. His tone is flat, completely unimpressed by the centuries of danger standing next to him, though his fingers twitch slightly against his jacket pocket.
Damon lets out a soft, amused huff, tilting his head as his blue eyes lock onto the boy's profile. "150 years too old," he replies smoothly, offering a self-deprecating shrug that doesn't mask the underlying menace for a second.
Jeremy turns fully now, leaning his lower back against the wooden ledge of the booth. He crosses his arms, a slow, reckless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're pretty funny," he says, his voice dropping an octave, deliberately casual. "Cracking jokes when I could, I dunno, blow the whole lid off this thing by telling someone what you really are."
The amusement vanishes from Damon’s face in a fraction of a second, replaced by a cold, predatory stillness. The ambient noise of the carnival—the screams from the Zipper, the pop of balloons—seems to fade into a dull hum. Damon steps into Jeremy’s personal space, towering over him just enough to cast him completely in shadow.
"So..." Damon murmurs, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvety whisper. "Please tell me that that is not a threat." Instead of backing down, Jeremy tilts his chin up. He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he slowly lifts his right hand, twisting his wrist so the heavy, dark stone of the Gilbert resurrection ring catches the garish blue neon light from a nearby game. It’s a silent, arrogant boast of immortality. "Okay," Damon whispers.
Before Jeremy can even blink, Damon’s hand blurs. A heavy palm slams against Jeremy’s chest, pinning him hard against the wooden booth, while Damon’s other hand locks around Jeremy’s throat in a crushing chokehold. The wood groans under the impact. Jeremy’s breath hitches, his heels lifting slightly off the muddy ground as Damon squeezes just enough to restrict his airway, cutting off his cocky attitude in an instant.
"This is what we're not going to do," Damon hisses, his face inches from Jeremy's, his eyes burning with a terrifying intensity. "We’re not going to walk around like we're invincible, when it is this easy for me to end you."
Jeremy gasps, his hands flying up to grip Damon’s iron wrist, his thumbs digging fruitlessly into the vampire’s pale skin. The ring on his finger scrapes uselessly against Damon's sleeve.
"If you wanna tell people what I really am, go ahead and try," Damon snarls, his grip tightening just a fraction more, a brutal reminder of the food chain. "I will shove this ring so far up your ass, you'll really have something to choke on."
"Kink-ay." The heavy, lazy drawl breaks the tension like a stone thrown through glass.
Tyler Lockwood strolls out from the shadows near the edge of the woods, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his varsity jacket. His broad shoulders are relaxed, a knowing, arrogant smirk plastered across his face as he takes in the scene. There’s a dangerous, animalistic spark in his eyes—the raw, volatile energy of a textbook werewolf who isn't remotely intimidated by a vampire's display of dominance. Damon rolls his eyes, the murderous tension draining from his posture in a sigh of annoyance. He lets go of Jeremy’s throat, but as he pulls his hand away, his fingers deftly catch the silver band of the Gilbert ring. With a seamless, practiced flick of his wrist, he slides the ring off Jeremy’s finger and holds it out.
"Lockwood," Damon greets him, his tone dry and thoroughly unimpressed as he drops the ring back into Jeremy’s open palm.
Jeremy stumbles back a half-step, drawing a ragged, cold breath into his lungs. He doesn't look rattled; instead, a flush of heat rises to his cheeks, a mix of adrenaline and something heavily charged. He casually brushes off the front of his jacket, sliding the ring back onto his finger with deliberate slowness.
"Hey, Ty," Jeremy says, his voice a little hoarse but entirely steady.
Damon looks between the two teenagers—the brooding, resurrected human and the hot-headed wolf—and lets out a theatrical sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Why are we dating again?"
Jeremy adjusts his collar, looking directly at Damon with an intense, unblinking focus that belies his youth. The vulnerability hides just beneath a layer of stark, inherited grief. "Because my father hated vampires," Jeremy says softly, the words carrying the weight of a legacy he never asked for. "My uncle, too. They were absolute; they knew exactly what they stood for."
Tyler steps closer, crowding into the space, his shoulder brushing against Jeremy’s in a silent show of solidarity. He looks at Damon, his smirk turning into a teasing, sharp-toothed grin. "And we don't have any milk and cookies to offer baby brother."
Jeremy rolls his eyes, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his brooding exterior. "Dicks," he mutters affectionately.
Damon’s expression softens, just an incremental fraction, a rare flash of genuine understanding crossing his features before he masks it with his usual cynical veneer. He looks at Jeremy, his gaze lingering on the boy’s sharp jawline.
"... and my father hated vampires, too," Damon says quietly, the historical gravity of his own words settling over them. "For the same reason yours did. Only it was 1864; people knew how to whittle."
At the word whittle, Jeremy’s eyes spark with a quiet defiance. Without a word, he reaches inside his heavy jacket, unzipping the inner pocket with a sharp zip. He reaches deep into the lining and produces a sleek, lethal object, holding it out in the dim light between them. It’s a sharpened piece of ash wood, meticulously carved to a deadly point, with a wrapped leather grip at the base for a steady hold. It’s a clean, brutal piece of craftsmanship designed for one specific purpose.
Damon freezes, his eyes dropping to the stake. He reaches out, his pale fingers hovering over the wood before he takes it, turning it over in his hand. He tests the weight, running a thumb over the smoothed-down grain. A genuine, impressed smirk tugs at his lips.
"Did you do this?" Damon asks, his tone dropping into something surprisingly intimate, a quiet respect passing between them.
Jeremy shifts his weight from foot to foot, suddenly looking a little self-conscious under the weight of Damon's undivided attention. "Yeah," he murmurs, clearing his throat. "It's—it's harder than it looks."
"Hmm," Damon hums softly, his thumb tracing the edge of the leather grip.
Tyler leans in, inspecting the woodwork over Damon’s shoulder before looking down at Jeremy. "Aww," Tyler says, his voice dripping with half-mocking, playful sweetness. "He went out of his way to impress you."
Before Jeremy can retort, Tyler reaches out, wrapping a heavy arm around Jeremy’s waist and pulling him flush against his side. The warmth of the werewolf radiates through their clothes in the cold November night. Tyler leans down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss against Jeremy’s cheek, right at the corner of his mouth, before pulling back to wink at him.
"Call me if you need anything, okay?" Tyler murmurs, his voice softening into something fierce and protective, a silent promise to both of them.
Damon slides the stake into his own jacket pocket, stepping forward to close the remaining distance. He slides his arm around Jeremy’s other side, trapping the younger boy perfectly between the wolf and the vampire. Damon leans down, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of Jeremy’s ear, his breath warm against the chill of the night.
"Oh, I’ll take really good care of him," Damon purrs.
Jeremy stands locked between them, the cold air forgotten, completely anchored by the dangerous, possessive heat of the two monsters who've claimed him as their own.