A/N: I adore Damon and Elena, and I love them most when she's all angry with him for pushing the boundaries with her. Their chemistry is literally crazy! So this story is about that – she slaps him when he gets too close.

I already have the story written. It will be five chapters. I want to finish posting this before the next episode, so I will be posting just about every day – I will post earlier if I get 15 reviews on a chapter :)

Title from song by Barcelona; all lyrics from that, too. This first time is from 1x02, Friday Night Bites – some slaps will be from the show (although the details will be different) and some I will make up on my own. Enjoy, thank you for reading, and please don't favorite without reviewing!

I've been led on to think that we've been trying for too long
Every time we drift
We're forcing what's wrong

She doesn't really believe in fate.

But then, he's always had a way of changing her mind.

The first time she slaps him, it's purely a self-defense mechanism.

And really, she wishes she could say she's less indignant than anxious, less offended than wary. But the truth is, she doesn't slap him because of her growing attachment to his younger brother. She doesn't slap him because whatever he's about to do would make her feel disloyal and probably a little dirty. She doesn't even slap him because they're in plain sight and whatever's going on between them could be construed quite differently from what is actually happening.

No. She slaps him because, goddamn it, she is attracted to him.

And, frankly, that terrifies her.

She's walking out to her car, brow furrowed in preoccupation (for maybe the tenth time since her parents died, Matt tried to get back together with her, and she doesn't know how to reject him anymore). Her thoughts feel jumbled, confused, and she's acting on prior knowledge, some sort of twisted autopilot, putting one foot in front of the other like a robot who's been programmed to find its way home.

Not that she even knows where home is. Not anymore.

She shakes her head, tears finally materializing in her tired eyes. She's tried to be so strong for so long that nowadays, the least malevolent of injustices can set her off. And this wasn't even an injustice. God, what's wrong with her?

In fact, she's so enthralled with her significantly screwed-up thoughts that she doesn't notice the beautiful (she has to be honest with herself about that) boy leaning against the hood of her car, black leather jacket securely on that muscular body as always, black eyes smoldering, fiery.


She growls when she catches sight of him. She doesn't even know him! Sure, she might be…involved with his brother (don't get her started on that one), but they're not exactly at the stage of meeting the family yet.

But she pulls herself away from their blossoming relationship somehow and stalks over to where her almost-boyfriend's jerk of a brother is standing, looking quite casual and unassuming.

She scoffs under her breath. Yeah, right.

She doesn't allow fear or anxiety to creep into her voice. She just marches right up to stupid Damon (she absolutely adores how fitting the reference to demons is), crosses her arms, and demands scathingly, "What are you doing here?"

She doesn't really expect him to be taken aback by her brusque question, since he's so unbelievably arrogant that nothing seems to faze him. But she's taken aback when he just smirks at her and crosses his arms, too, as if he's…making fun of her?

No way. He wouldn't be that stupid.

Wait. He totally would.

She sighs. One sentence and he's already got her suitably exasperated. Damn it!

"Once again," she begins, emphasizing each word as if it will help the probably slow-witted boy (she knows otherwise, of course, but she prefers thinking she's smarter than him) understand her meaning. "What are you doing here?"

He smiles serenely, his black eyes boring steadily into hers. He has this smug look on his face, like he knows something she doesn't. She hates that expression of his, she really does. She's only known him for a matter of weeks, but she knows she would give anything to wipe that light out of his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he taunts, his lips pulling up at the corners like he's fighting the urge to grin even wider.

She hates him for it.

She drops her arms, clenching her fists as she tries to regain control of the situation. "Yes, I would," she grits out, her teeth grinding together relentlessly. "I would like to know."

He surprises her by laughing heartily, but what's even more shocking is how indisputably lovely the sound is. She's entranced by how silver and clear the note emanating from his mouth is, and she catches herself on the verge of giggles herself. Huh. Who would have guessed it? Damon Salvatore's laugh is infectious.


She shakes her head angrily, shakes herself free of the lingering awe. This is not what she wants. This is not what she needs.

"Well, you're obviously not going to tell me," she asserts haughtily, pursing her lips impatiently and moving to push past him.

But his hands grip her shoulders, holding her in place, and although his fingers aren't tight on her skin, she feels herself suddenly become virtually immobile. Great.

Ugh. Now she actually has to deal with him, instead of ignoring him like she'd planned to.

She pulls back, glares at him. "What are you doing?" she hisses, self-consciously sweeping the parking lot for signs of anyone she knows. This is not exactly something she wants to be caught doing; it kind of looks like a compromising situation.

He smiles at her, sincere and sweet (at least, that's the act he puts on), and her eyes fix on the usually sinister curve of his lips. She really shouldn't dwell on how intensely attractive she is, but being with Stefan hasn't really numbed her to the Salvatore looks. If anything, actually, it's made her even more attuned to their entrancing smiles. That family was definitely blessed with good genes.

"Elena," he placates, and she shouldn't be distracted by how tender and hot the word sounds (but then, all the things she "should" be doing don't exactly apply here), "I just want to get to know you."

She raises her eyebrows incredulously. "You want to get to know me?" She repeats, shrugging him off like the vermin he is; his hand falls unceremoniously. She ignores the undeniable flush creeping up her neck. "Yeah, fat chance."

She tries to walk away again, but she can feel the heat of that black stare on her back, and it's uncomfortable. She spins around abruptly, appraising him with something akin to disdain in her eyes.

"What?" She pushes, becoming more and more agitated as he only seems to become more and more relaxed. She takes a careful step backward, keeping a considerable distance between them even as he saunters toward her rather…seductively.

"What do you want?" She manages to choke out, trying to keep her mind off how sensual his movements are. Maybe she's on her period or something. Because this is getting a little ridiculous.

She's not supposed to want him this badly.

He just smiles, and she swears he must read her mind or something. "What?" he asks innocently, moving closer so gracefully and inconspicuously that her mind doesn't even register his proximity. "Are you…" He seems to be grasping for the right word, but somehow she doubts that. "Afraid of me?"

She deliberates for a moment. The truthful answer is "yes," of course. She doesn't know why, but he just seems so dangerous. Now, whether she means dangerous as in he can kill her or dangerous as in he might make her do things she'll regret, she doesn't know. Therein lies the problem.

God he confuses her.

She has no idea what kind of answer he's expecting. She doesn't know what he's trying to figure out.

She rolls her eyes dramatically. "I don't have to answer that," she deflects, a slight frown pulling at her mouth. This conversation isn't going anywhere good.

He doesn't say anything, and she quickly averts her gaze, her eyes blazing with so many emotions that she feels inherently melancholy. The silence stretches, contracts. He stands stock still and shoots her a pointed stare.

She doesn't know why even in the darkness, she can tell what the expression on his face is right now.

"You're afraid of me," he counters confidently, matter-of-factly, the smirk evident in his voice. He seems delighted with the fact.

She tilts her chin up, raising her eyes to meet his defiantly. "And why would you think that?" she prods, struck by the banality of this question. Whatever is happening right now feels strangely mundane, but she can't shake the overwhelming sensation that she's in trouble.

He cocks his head, a movement that leaves her much too breathless. "Well," he supplies, his blue eyes fairly smoldering, "The obvious answer is that you think I'm violent." He waggles his fingers experimentally, as if gearing up to touch her or something equally abhorrent. "And you're definitely right," he assures her, his tone just the wrong side of patronizing.

She glares at him, fighting the fervor rising through her body. Now is not the time to throw one of her patented tantrums.

His lips curve, just enough to sting. "But I think you're afraid of me because of how I make you feel," he muses finally, drawing out the words like it will make them true somehow.

She scowls furiously. This is unreal.

"Oh really?" She's ashamed of how shrill her voice sounds, how manic. She's displeased with how cornered the words are, like she's afraid he's going to discover her deep dark secret or something nauseating like that.

Like she's afraid he's right.

He comes closer still, unnerving her more than a little. "Yes, really," he drops easily. "Allow me to enlighten you."

She's livid, fuming. Her throat is literally constricting with how angry she is, and she takes a sharp, needless breath. She opens her mouth to say something, to protest that he couldn't be more wrong, that she feels absolutely nothing for him, that –

"You're attracted to me."

He offers this assessment of her feelings toward him so nonchalantly that she almost misses the gravity of his statement. He's just said he turns her on. There are so many things wrong with that assumption, so many things she can't even count. For one, being attracted to him would mean actually being able to tolerate him.

Which, really, is still a work in progress.

She flips her hair bitchily over her shoulder, fixing him with the iciest stare she can muster. "And what makes you think that?" She asks, her voice dripping with the sarcasm he's famous for.

And, true to form, he only widens his eyes sexily (she doesn't know why it makes her throat dry) and murmurs, "Well, for one, you're barely breathing right now."

Oh God. He's right about that. She's really not breathing right now.

Her stomach plummets so far she's afraid her food has ended up around her legs. She is completely miffed. How the hell is she going to get herself out of this?

She takes a deep breath, reminding herself that if she's going to fight him on this one, she has to be able to talk at least.

"What's your point?" She asks offhandedly, if shakily, pointedly fingering the hem of her simple purple tank top like she has so many better things to do than stand here talking to him. It's not exactly healthy for her to enjoy the smell of him so much, and she would really like to dispel the animal arousal conquering her body. The only problem is, she can't feign indifference towards him.

She just can't.

"My point," he mocks her, his eyes cheeky and unconcerned, "Is that you think I'm hot."

She shrugs evenly. She doesn't know how she's going to argue that one. (Come on, the boy is ridiculously hot. She stares at him all the time.)

He smiles victoriously; she glares at him, hating that he's gloating but unable to stop him. "I get to you," he continues nonchalantly, his eyes enchanting and, as always, completely unreadable.

Wow. This charisma of his is a force to be reckoned with.

"You've got that right," she mutters under her breath, except she couldn't mean it in a more negative sense (she likes Stefan; she hates that Damon could even think otherwise), and she'd be damned if he ever understands that.

His smile just gets bigger.

"You think about me when you don't want to," he coaxes, and if she didn't know better she'd swear his voice is almost sweet. "I'd bet you've even dreamed about me."

She gulps. She's helpless to refute that. Suddenly, her mind is flooded with images she's fought hard to forget: his breath on her lips, hot and entirely too welcome; his mouth crashing down on hers, so fast and hard that she had neither the time nor the inclination to stop him; the breathless moan she let out as he found her neck with startling dexterity…she really wishes she hadn't had a very vivid dream about him yesterday.

Her cheeks flush of their own accord, and she bites her lip. She literally has no retort.

He looks so hopelessly triumphant that she gripes at him, "Oh, get on with it for God's sake!"

He grins, leaning closer. "Oh, I'm just getting started, sweetheart," he assures her, and she finds herself shaking because somehow, some way, he puts her on edge in a way no one else ever has. Of course she's attracted to him. What sane woman with a heartbeat wouldn't be?

But that doesn't mean she's going to forget what a jerk he seems to be.

His eyes become darker and darker, and she has no idea what game he's playing, but she's mesmerized. "And right now…" he concludes, his voice soft and intensely cajoling, so convincing that she just about sways on her feet. "You want to kiss me."

He leans toward her, that trademark smile lighting up his beautiful face, and his lips are hovering over her, and he smells of mint and cornflowers and leather, so intoxicating that she doesn't move away, doesn't shove him, push him, and she's worried that if he comes any closer, she's going to throw caution to the wind and kiss him into oblivion and never look back, never run anywhere but with him because he's perfect, and she wants him, wants this, and my God, what is she going to tell Stefan, how is she supposed to –

She's terrified of what's about to happen. She can't do this. She can't kiss Damon; she's with Stefan. But if the blue-eyed demon keeps sweeping towards her, God help her but she will kiss him.

So she does the only thing she can think of.

She pulls back and slaps him.

When his head finally swivels back around, she's surprised (but of course she shouldn't be) to find that he doesn't look pissed-off or even offended; he looks…amused. His black eyes glitter, as if in laughter.

(He's thinking that thank God she has fire in her.)

She growls in aggravation. It feels like nothing she does ever gets through to him.

She crosses her arms over her chest angrily. "Let's get one thing straight."

He waits dutifully, and her eyes dilate. This feels so weirdly…wrong. And yet, she has to do it.

"I am not Katherine," she reminds him, somewhat needlessly she hopes. Because can't he distinguish her from the girl of his past by now? If not, then they have much bigger problems than his misconception that she's attracted to him.

She means, really. As if. (She hates lying to herself, but oh well. Desperate times call for desperate measures.)

But his face falls, and she immediately sobers. He gives an unexpectedly cute half-smile. "I know," he says sourly, bitterly, and she can't help but believe him.

She stares at him for a long moment, the deep timbre of his voice resounding steadily in her ears. She knows she should probably attempt to pacify him, apologize for whatever happened between him and Katherine. But she can't bring herself to.

So she just walks away. And all the while, she ignores the dull ache in her heart.

The words linger in her mind for hours after he tries to kiss her.

I am not Katherine.

No, she doesn't suppose she is.

But sometimes, she wishes she could be.

(Maybe then she'd understand this frustrating boy.)


Reviews are like candy to a writer, and I have an incurable sweet tooth.

Now come on, that was good enough to warrant a review, wasn't it? :)