h
oozey mess
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hello vonnie
Janaina Medeiros
DEAR READER
pixel skylines
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Product Placement
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$LAYYYTER
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ellievsbear
will byers stan first human second
Jules of Nature
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Today's Document
JVL
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@infernosdaughter
[ cloud overview ] [ get your own cloud ] This is a Tumblr Cloud I generated from my blog posts between May 2014 and Nov 2014 containing my top 30 used words. Top 4 blogs I reblogged the most:
nuggetsobrien
flames
holllandmarie
x
[ cloud overview ] [ get your own cloud ] This is a Tumblr Cloud I generated from my blog posts between Jul 2014 and Nov 2014 containing my top 20 used words. Top 1 blogs I reblogged the most:
nuggetsobrien
please reblog if you're an adaptive roleplayer.
AKA, you start with icons, I’ll probably respond with icons. You make it clear you prefer prose, I’ll make sure I’m up for prose when I reply and I’ll try to keep my word count within range of yours. Just want oneliners? Easy peasy.
"I know. I was there for the tequila incident, remember?”
"How could I forget... Don't answer that. Look, let's just get this over with and don't tell Elena. C'mon, help me push."
"Okay— fine. We’ll do it your way and when you fail miserably, I will attempt to ignore the burning desire to say ’I told you so.’”
"Oh come on, it's not that bad, okay. It really isn't going to be that hard. And anyways, let's be real. I've had worse ideas."
One Day They’ll Know (ODESZA Remix) - Pretty Lights
I would have said goodbye || Savier
the timbre of her voice forces her entire being into surrender, her eyes widening as words and entire phrases rush together, too fast and too slurred to be understood properly. she only hears the stark panic attached to the way she says her name, the singular word the first and last word she hears, the rest nearly lost in the sound of sobbing on the other line, the noise managing to steal its way into her lungs and capture all the air there, stripping it from them so effortlessly that she loses sight of the room around her, forgets for a moment where she is as a cold terror holds her in a vice like grip. she tries to make out the words through the crying and the blubbering and the oh-my-god-don’t-die, please-don’t die—-but it doesn’t matter anyway because she’s already climbing to her feet, hands digging through her pockets and phone balanced to her ear, air rushing past her lips in one long breath. logan. logan’s dying. he’s———— logan. logan’s hurt. kol did it. kol hurt logan, kol attacked logan, logan’s hurt, logan’s dying.
’ airiana, slow down, I can’t—‘
I can’t hear you, she starts to say, but she can hear her, it’s just the thing you say when your best friend’s almost boyfriend is dying and your best friend’s crying and you wish you hadn’t heard her right, wish that it was just some movie playing in the background or that their life wasn’t this movie, the movie with all the blood and the crying and the death, especially all the death. it’s really just the kind of thing you say when another person is fucking dying, really there’s too much goddamn death in this movie, and logan’s kind and logan’s brave and logan’s a good man in a storm and logan’s the kind of guy who looks at a monster and says, you really shouldn’t feel so guilty, and just gets it. logan’s exactly the kind of person that dies and airiana’s the kind of person who hopes enough bourbon will let her join him.
' it's okay, it's okay, we're coming—-’
they are coming, but the car isn’t fast enough and when she says the car isn’t fast enough she means that the car isn’t fucking fast enough, this is someone who drives 35 mph when going over bridges that allow 60 and they’re going 80 now and it is not fucking fast enough. there should be some kind of apology tacked on to that statement, i’m sorry that you’re scared and sorry about the hard falls and splintering bones and sorry it’s all such a great mess and sorry that you’ll get used to it, someday. sorry.
and maybe even, “i’m so sorry that you’ve lost so many people.”
( because of me. )
’ i’m coming. ‘
the line disconnects and she forgets to apologize about all the dead people and all the graves and all the mess, especially all the mess, and she’s pretty sure airiana wouldn’t really care to hear it now anyways. it’s just as well, and damon’s car is speeding up over the hill and they’re almost there and no one says anything and no one does anything and she isn’t sure she’s ever loved him more than she does right now because he’s in the car with her instead of bleeding out on their living room floor and her selfishness with him knows no bounds. they’re driving and driving and it feels like forever ( everything feels like forever these days, until it doesn’t ) and pulling into the driveway and her feet are hitting the sidewalk and her nose is filling up with the smell and veins are threatening to claw at her face for family rather than for food.
she walks in and there’s blood, god, there’s so much blood, and she’s looking at airiana and airiana is looking at someone else and her mind is trying to gage how much blood this is, exactly, trying to differentiate between the smell of 3 liters and 5, between dead and almost dead and so fucking dead that there might as well be a tag on your toe. she never really figures out the difference.
’ it’s okay. it’s okay. he’ll be fine—‘
it isn’t okay.
she isn’t sure when she became this girl, when she moved before she thought and did before anyone else had a chance to, but her teeth are extending and her arm is raising and she forgets all gentleness, forgets that once she was 18 and terrified——right as she bites into her skin like butter, and puts the wound to his lips.
’ drink. ‘
she finds herself trying to grasp onto some every part of him desperately. hands searching the plains of his face with murmured pleas, finger tips brushing countless little patterns over the scruff of his cheeks, as if her frantic touch might soothe an already dying man. then they travel to chest, her hands shaking as they try to find the right place to touch, hovering over the intricate detail on his chest and then lingering there, too delicate to touch. she's worried he might break if her train wreck hands touch him too roughly, he's bleeding and he's dying, and she's afraid just the feeling of skin on skin will break him and possibly her as well in the process. it's as though she's a match and he's paper, and if she gets too close he might go up in flames.
it's always been the same.
Airiana doesn't even hear the door screech open in a rush, too focused on her dying almost-boyfriend, laying limply on the ground in front of her. he's almost gone, she knows, she knows that his time is almost up.
she knows that no matter how many times she asks him to stay with her there will be no reply. that no matter how many times she says I love you it will not make him stay.
her hands have wandered down to his side by now, letting quivering fingers tread lightly over his before finally letting herself press down with slight pressure. Airiana might not be that experienced in the medical field, but she does know a thing or to about the basics of first aid. and at this rate, it doesn't matter what she does, Logan is going to die with or without the extra pressure she applies to the wound. the only thing she's doing is either slowing or speeding the process. neither of which she can live with if he dies.
fearfully, her fingers lace their way through his, each digit pushing through and gripping tightly, one hand covering his over the wound, and the other holding onto his. it's one of the most intimate gestures a person can make. holding hands. it's so much more than just physical contact. for Airiana, it says you're not alone, I'm not leaving, and right now you're definitely all that matters.
it's painfully obvious how weak his grip is, her hands are white from holding on so tightly and his just manage to hang limply in her grasp. she just wants him to stay, that's all she wants. she wasn't asking him to love her or hate her or even like her, she just wanted him to stay. alive or with her, she didn't care which she just wanted him to stay. stay, stay, stay, that's all she's ever wanted. (but the world isn't a wish granting factory. and it sure as hell ain't a fan of fairy tale romances.)
"Elena!" she exclaims, once the brunette comes into her view, her gasps becoming heavier.
"Elena, he's dying! He's dying..." Airiana laments shaking her head slowly as she looks down at him, silent sobs racking her body.
there's a certain panic that takes over an individual when they're scared. when they're so unmistakably terrified that it controls everything you say, and everything you do so much so that you can't even recognize yourself anymore. because Airiana knows she doesn't just randomly blurt out I love you's and don't leave me's to just anybody. she knows that. he knows that. but she's never felt more scared in her entire life she has, when Kol dangled her best friend's life by a thread over her nose. you made me watch. and she just wants him to stay.
"Elena, he's dying! You have to help him he's dying!" Airiana cries, looking at her best friend fearfully, resisting the urge to reach out and grab her because she's just so frantic but she has to keep applying pressure.
"Logan, c'mon! stay with me, c'mon! please!"
she wishes her last words to him didn't so pathetic and desperate. that this didn't all seem like some shitty movie script and that she would wake up from this terrible, terrible nightmare.
she can't even remember his last words.
and all Airiana can think is what the actual hell is she going to tell Kara.
I would have said goodbye || Savier
Logan takes the shirt and he bunches it around the wound, he’s almost mesmerized by the amount of crimson flowing from his body. But he has to focus, so he applies pressure and looks up at her when she begins to lose it. She’s panicking—but of course she is, anyone would. Anyone should, it’s not normal that he’s not panicking and he has to think of a way to calm her. Without thinking about it, he puts a hand to her face, not worrying about the blood, by now they’re both absolutely covered in it, not like it even matters. ”Hey—it’s gonna be fine —okay? I’m gonna be fine. I just need you—to call Elena. You know the password, Ari, I know you do. Just breathe, alright?” His voice is soft, and a hell of a lot stronger than it should be but he’s not about to complain. The calmer he is, the calmer she’ll be and really that was the main goal because his life was literally in her hands right now. Unfortunately keeping his composure was growing more and more difficult because the more blood he lost, the quicker his heart beat and the faster his breaths came, which was a problem because he could barely breathe as it was. And he was quite literally drowning in his own blood. Logan leaned his head against the couch cushion and tried to breath through the blood that crept up his throat and into his mouth but the longer he sat there, the more dazed he became, it was getting harder and harder to stay level, he was tired, exhausted actually, and all he wanted to do was go to sleep despite every ounce of common sense
telling him that if he did, he wasn’t going to wake back up. He let his hand slip from her face and fall to his lap as he took in another strangled inhale, eyelids fluttering closed for half a second before he forced them back open. "Ariana—" He muttered helplessly. ”you—need to— get—that—phone— open—or—I am— going to—die.” He stated rolling his head forward to look at her, his gaze was soft but serious and his voice lacked the strength it had a few seconds ago. How many liters had he lost now? Two and a half? Three? He supposed it didn’t matter, his condition was critical and the only chance he had right now was Vampire blood—if Elena, or Damon or hell even Ric could get there fast enough. There were a lot of things he should have told her, starting with how he felt but there was no way in hell he was going to get that out now, he could barely speak, There were letters addressed to Kara, she’d find them in his things, he’d had them written for a while. And he wrote a new one ever time he’d gone on a mission, just in case. He didn’t have any letters addressed to Ariana. Funny how you get so used to the idea of death that you forget to actually live.
-
There are few things Airiana Saltzman is certain of in this world. One, Airiana Saltzman will always pick bottles over men.
Two, she will always do stupid things for the people she loves.
Three, she will never regret those things because you can't regret the things you do for love in this life, that's the entire purpose isn't it?
Four, she'll never love herself as much as she should, because if your own daddy can't love you, who can?
And five, if you love someone don't let them bleed out on your living room floor and ruin the carpet all because you can't pull your shit together enough to unlock you're god damn phone...
"Logan I ..." his hand slips from her face, a coolness spreading over her cheek from where his hand used to be; should be.
kick your ass into gear, Airiana.
"okay, okay, okay." she sputters out, nodding vigorously, pulling in a deep breath.
she's never paid much attention to it before, but god damn, iPhone screens are fuckin' small. and god damn, are her thumbs way too fuckin' huge. like, how does Verizon Wireless seriously expect her to be able to type a four digit passcode in with all this blood smeared all over the screen?
c'mon!
there it is the first digit. she manages to punch in the first number. the first step in the right direction. only three more numbers to go.
someone must've lit her limbs on fire in between the time it took her to walk in the door and now because it feels like her skin flares up every time her fingertips graze the cool surface of the glass screen. why does this always happen to her? why can't she just nut up and fix this? she should be able to fix this. this should be second nature by now. blood shouldn't freak her out so much. and it's not so much the blood, so much as it is the person that the blood belongs to.
his blood on your hands.
second digit. she's got it. the trembling in her fingers has lessened slightly. baby steps. isn't that what they say at AA? she wouldn't know.
she brings her teeth down on her bottom lip, biting at it anxiously. her vision is unmistakably blurred by tears, the screen obscured by blood his blood. she fists a section of her tee shirt up into her hand and rubs at the glass surface desperately. it's clearer, that's good. good, good, that's good.
third digit. easy. last one. almost there.
Elena.
her fingers make contact with the screen again, phone unlocking with a click and a gasp for air that Airiana had not known she needed.
Elena Gilbert; speed dial; press two.
two.
"Elena?!" Airiana exclaims desperately into the phone, voice cracking at the name.
"I need you Logan he's oh god Elena, you have to come home. Logan, he's ..."
she can't bring herself to say it. can't quite wrap her lips around the word because it's simply just not in her vocabulary. Death she lives with it. but she's not used to witnessing it. hasn't seen as many ghosts as Elena has.
she won't. she can't let that happen.
"Logan's dying. He's on the floor, and he's dying. Kol ...Kol stabbed him. Elena, you have to get here now! Elena, he's dying! He's dying, Elena, he's dying."
Airiana is sobbing now, face a mess of tears and broken cries. she can't help it, she's never been much of crier, not like this anyway. but it's just it's so unfair. so unbelievably fair. that someone so... lovely, had to die so soon. how someone so impossibly caring and kind and selfless and brave had to die so unjustly.
There are few things Airiana Saltzman is certain of in this world. One, Airiana Saltzman will always pick bottles over men.
Two, she will always do stupid things for the people she loves.
Three, she will never regret those things because you can't regret the things you do for love in this life, that's the entire purpose isn't it?
Four, if you love somebody, tell them now.
And five, because forever doesn't always mean forever.
"no, no, no, you're not dying on me, you can't do this. c'mon, I love you Logan, stay with me, c'mon." Airiana breathes, hanging up and dropping the phone on the floor.
if you love somebody, tell them now. because forever doesn't always mean forever.
"I love you Logan, c'mon please don't do this."
I would have said goodbye || Savier
Hes not sure if he’s relieved or angry that Ariana’s the one that finds him. He’s sure it was Kol’s intention but he shoves the thought away quickly. He’s not about to spend his last final minutes thinking about that piece of shit. So instead he lets his blue eyes wander up to her face and he forces out a weak smile, wincing ever so slightly as her hands hover towards the injury. Don’t, he’s ready to say but she knows better, how could she not? When your friends are constantly dying things like ’apply pressure’ and ‘don’t pull out the knife because if you do they’ll bleed out ten times faster’ tend to stick with you. They become second nature. And it’s a shame because pretty girls with big brown eyes and long brown hair and names like Airiana should know how to text with their eyes closed not change bandages or to fucking apply pressure when your friend is bleeding out in your living room. “You should see— the other—guy—in this case being—a homicidal— psychotic Original Vampire. “ The words come out choked and choppy. He assumes he’s come to that point in blood loss where his brain feels like its been stuffed with cotton and his heart is beating about a hundred and forty beats per minute and it’s not because she’s touching him—or even that he’s scared, it’s just because his body is trying not to die. His free hand finds one of hers and he pulls it down to his chest. "Shh, shh, Ariana, it’s not all mine.”
It’s not quite a lie. His left hand is covered in Kol’s blood, not his own, true, however, he says it in a way that makes it sound as if he’s not as in a bad a condition as he is. He’s trying to calm her down. Which is pointless because if—once he dies, she’s going to be a mess anyhow, but he knows from experience that reassurance in a time of crisis can be your best friend. "I need you—to calm down. I’m gonna be fine, okay? Is—Elena with you?” He asks, beginning to pull at the collar of his shirt, bloodied fingers looping around the fabric and tugging…using whatever strength he has left to try and rip it off, at least he can use it to hold it to the wound. He’s almost too weak though, supernatural strength included, he’s lost a lot of fucking blood. Somehow he manages, and he hopes that it’s enough to convince her he’s not as bad as he looks, even if he is. She’s not stupid. despite all the jabs that Damon makes at her—even Damon knows she’s not. ”You need to call— Elena—now.” he tells her, voice as steady as he can manage, which is honestly a lot more than he expected. It almost sounds normal.
It's almost ironic how easy it is for Airiana to laugh amidst all the tears and constant sniffles. How simply just the tiniest upturn of the corner of Logan's lips makes her feel okay. He's always made her feel comfortable, that's the thing she liked about him. Logan never ever made Airiana feel like she was gonna catch fire and blow up.
He was steady.
And she liked that.
But there was blood on the carpet, and blood on her hands, and blood on his everywhere, and just blood, blood, blood. And for a moment, for a split second, she forgets about all of that blood. Forgets that her almost-boyfriend is bleeding out all over Damon's carpet and that things couldn't possibly be any worse, but they are.
Fuckin' Logan.
"Kol?" She sniffs, her own lips turning upwards in a pathetically sad smile. "Kol, of course it was Kol." But it falls just as quickly as it came, her labored breaths returning and she's finding Logan, who literally has a punctured lung, is breathing far easier than she is.
God, she is pathetic.
Logan doesn't seem to care though. He's just as calm and as steady as he's ever been, moving his hand over her own and placing it palm first over the planks of his chest hard, warm, and slick with blood.
She wishes she could take more comfort in his sussuruss of consolations, but she can't seem to catch her breath. Can't seem to stop looking at him as if this is the last time she will, and it might. Airiana has only felt this scared one other time in her life, and both times, she wasn't the one dying.
It seems that that is when death seems the scariest. When it is up to you to decide whether someone lives or dies. Whether or not you grant them life over death.
Time to play god, Airiana. Are you ready?
He manages to fool her, because no matter what anyone says about her, Airiana always falls for the pretty things. Because not all that glitters is gold, but it still fuckin' glitters. And Airiana is a sucker for the pretty things.
The sweet rumble of his voice does fool her, he does manage to convince her that he's more okay than he actually is. He even managed to take his own shirt off and everything. (And yeah, this was the only time Airiana didn't think about licking his abs when he exposed himself shirtless.)
It's the tone of his voice that stops hers. Makes her stare at him in question, overwhelmed by the storm of emotions stirring inside of her. Elena? Was Elena with her? What was Airiana doing before she got here? Where did she go?
"I I Elena?" She repeats, looking at him with wide curious wide brown eyes. "Um, um, I okay, okay, Elena, I'll call Elena." Airiana nods, clumsy fingers hastily fishing into her jeans pockets to pull out her phone.
Her fingertips slide quickly over the home screen, a fluorescent light illuminating the panic stricken features of her face, the lock screen sliding, but nothing happening. What was her password? What was her god forsaken password? She put this four letter code in every god damn day how could she forget her password?
"Logan, I I can't remember my password, I ... can't remember it!" Airiana laments, phone shaking in her quivering hands, fingertips frozen in place. "Why can't I remember it? I can't remember... I can't remember my password! Logan, I can't remember my fuckin' password!" She cries, sniffling and crying and blubbering all over the place because she's a pathetic human who can't even save her almost-boyfriend from certain all because she can't remember her fucking phone password.
I would have said goodbye || Savier
Logan has to focus an incredible amount of energy on breathing and it’s kind of ironic how it’s supposed to be such a simple task one you don’t even think about on a daily basis, it’s just natural but at the current moment, it takes every ounce of strength in his body to keep it up. Every inhale rubs his flesh against the razor sharp edges of the glass, and every exhale does the same. He watches Kol as he holds his ribs, not even daring to take the glass out, it just rests between his index and middle finger like it it does his ribs. Fuck, hes swallowing his own blood, fighting to try and breathe in oxygen and not the thick red liquid that keeps rising at the back of his throat. As the chain is ripped from his neck he can’t help but furrow his brows. Why his dog tags? A prize of a sort? No, those are meant for Kara, Kara is supposed to get those, and Kamryn is supposed to get Ryan’s when he sees her again, well, when he was going to see her again. It’s past tense, now. He doesn’t say anything as Kol walks away, he’s not really sure he can. Logan’s not exactly the type for witty one liners, not usually. So instead he just collapses against the base of the couch as blood seeps from his wound and floods the floor. He glanced down, what was that a liter already? Not to mention what he was spitting up. Naturally, Logan begins to do the math in his head, the average human body has five to eight liters of blood, he’s not exactly small so he’ll say he probably has at least six. He’s not at a fatal level yet. If someone walked through that door right now he’d walk away from this. But no one does. And he watches another half a liter leaves his body, and it’s funny it actually almost perfectly represents an hour glass. With every ounce that leaves his body, he grows that much closer to death. By now his blood pressure has dropped significantly, his heart is starting to weaken, and he can actually feel it beginning to struggle every pump will soon be just as difficult as every breath. Logan rests against the couch. They say that your life flashes before your eyes and he really hopes that that’s not the case because he’d rather be thinking of his sister, and his father—and that stupid grin that Ariana gets on her face when she’s drunk and insistent that her tolerance is far higher than it really is. He thinks about the fact that he’s actually not going to see that ever again and how it really fucking sucks. He starts to think about how his sister is going to lose yet another person, and how he kind of hates himself for abandoning her. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’ she’d say, ‘You came home, and you were supposed to be safe.’ problem is, people die all the time, they don’t have to have a gun in their hands to make it any more possible. Look at their dad. He died in a car accident. A vehicle. Something you use every day of your life. Death is everywhere. You can’t escape it. The hunter glances down at the pool of blood and winces. Yea he’s got maybe another two liters to go before he’s unconscious. And if he does pass out, at this point if he does, he wont wake up.
One week, two days, fourteen hours and twenty-two minutes. That’s how long it’d been since that night.
She’d kept count, doesn’t really know why, or how, but she had. Airiana couldn’t help it, every moment of every day reminded her of that night. Every single god damn thing reminded Airiana of that night. When she walks into the bathroom and splashes water on her face in the morning and accidentally mistakes it for blood, she remembers that night. When her body shudders violently against the terrifying crash of a lamp shattering downstairs, she remembers. When she flinches at the sound of the doorbell, even if she knows it’s just Logan, she remembers.
That night- it’s in everything. Kol’s memory is laden in everything. Kol’s name is written on everything she owns, and no matter which way she turns it, it’s always there. Engraved with a jagged shard of glass, dripping in Elena’s blood.
She’d done everything in her power to try to forget it all. Three days spent locked away in her room with Damon’s bourbon, drowning out Kol’s laughter and Elena’s screams, still hadn’t erased all the pain and all the fear gripping to the bone.
But it almost seems like no matter how hard she tries, she can’t shake this feeling- this feeling that something’s been taken away from her, stolen inconspicuously and ripped from her soul, and she’s not sure how to fill up the empty space.
Her dignity, she thinks, her strength maybe too. All she knows is she’s lost something or someone, and she can’t figure out who.
But it’s like Elena said, she won’t live the rest of her life hiding away in fear. It’s what forces them out of bed every morning, what forces them to carry on.
Hell, it’d forced Airiana to go outside and get some fresh air, hadn’t it? Fear was reason enough for her to get the fuck up. Besides, Ric keeps saying it might be good for her to get some fresh air and she can tell Damon’s getting sick of letting the drink-until-you-can’t-see-card slide. It’s time to move on.
She needs to move on.
She’d decidedly gone out by herself earlier that day, Logan said he’d come over and Airiana needed to make a trip to the liquor store anyways. So with an extordinairly illegal fake ID in hand, and a fifty dollar bill in her pocket, she’d gotten two bottles of bourbon and a case of Corona for Logan. One of the bottles was for Damon, obviously, she owed him big time after how much she’d consumed in that week alone. Of course, one bottle would never be enough, but at the very least it was a start. And right now, that’s what she needed, it’s what they all needed.
A fresh start.
(But fresh starts didn’t include punching original vampires in the face, and recieving concussions and broken ribs in return. And fresh starts didn’t include almost-boyfriends going after original vampires for some kind of revenge, and fresh starts certainly didn’t include finding almost-boyfriends, now almost-dead-boyfriends, sitting in a pool of their own blood on your living room floor with a shank plunged in between their lungs. That’s not how fresh starts worked. That’s not even remotely close.)
Balancing a paper bag in one hand, and her keys gritted between her teeth, Airiana jiggled the knob on the dark polished front door and twisted the handle, pushing open the door with her back towards the entrance, and slipping the bag down onto the side table, throwing her keys along side it.
Elena had mentioned something about left over pizza in the fridge for dinner or it could have been a frozen pizza in the freezer. Didn’t matter, there was pizza around here somewhere, there had to be more than just literal bloody mary’s around here.
Come to think of it, didn’t Ric ask her to stop by the blood bank and pick some up? B positive or B negative? Damn she really should get in the habit of writing these things down.
Anywho, she’s not a vampire. Why should she have to go get the blood anyways? Just because she doesn’t have a job or go to school, doesn’t mean she was supposed to be everyone’s arrand runner…
She reallly should get a job. The Denny’s on the highway had signs, she could apply there, or the laundromat across the way, or better yet the Grill. The Grill always had spots open, what with their ever fleeting employees. They should really think about providing life insurance as part of the deal. Airiana could definitely pass as another human serving up cheap burgers and
Blood.
Lots of blood. Lots and lots of blood. Shattered glass, and splintered wood
And Logan.
For several moments, all she can do is stare. Stare at the scruffy haired man slumped up against the couch, arms hanging limply at his sides, eyelids fighting to stay open. And there’s blood so much blood. More blood than she’s ever seen before. More blood than when Kol bit into Is that blood on the carpet? No focus.
Logan.
"Oh my god." The brunette mumbles under her breath as she rushes over to Logan’s side.
"Logan … Logan, what happened? Logan Logan!” Airiana sputters, voice raising gradually as she speaks. Her hands come up instinctively to his face, rubbing circles into his cheeks as she fights back the tears already pooling in her eyes.
"Logan what happened? Logan, answer me. Logan, say something! Logan what happened! Who did this?!" The questions roll over each another in a jumbled mess. Airiana’s composure almost non-existent as she pushes herself into a frenzy.
She’s panicking, oh fuck is she panicking.
There’s tears beginning to spill out of her wide brown eyes and her hands are shaking uncontrollably as she looks over his body, lost within the sea of blood.
She sees it, a little sparkling transparent shard, glistening with a dark crimson hue, jutting out from his side. She drops her hands from his face, moving them quickly over to the wound in his side but she stops herself before she does anything stupid. If she removes it she’ll only make it worse, the hole that’s been made won’t have anything to plug it up and she can’t do anything but leave it there.
F u c k .
She shakes her head silently from side to side as she looks over the wound, worry and sadness dripping down her cheeks in the form of tears.
There’s nothing you can do. He’s dying.
The human lets out a choked sob, a breath she hadn’t known she was holding in even if only for the short time she’d been by his side. Didn’t make much of a difference how long she’d been there or not, it’s not like he had all the time in the world to watch her pretend to be strong and unaffected by his death.
Airiana reaches over to cup his face, hands shaking as she does so, a meager attempt at some form of consolation to her dying friend, because they never got the chance to make it anything more.
"Logan, you’re gonna be alright, okay?" She laments. "You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay."
Shattered Trust | Airiana and Damon [post event]
There’s a moment of silence and he can practically hear the wheels turning in her head, hear the thoughts reeling. They’re no different, in fact if you graced her bite with a pair of razor sharp fangs and added a hundred or so more years to her story—she’d be just like him. It would be like looking in a mirror. And that’s the problem because no one hates Damon more than Damon. So he has to remind himself that shes not him, that she has her own demons and reasons for why she is the way she is, and somehow it’s enough to let him care, to keep him from wrapping is hands around her throat and ending it all.
He’s losing it, he can feel the hold on his anger begin to slip, and his gaze begins to swim with different shades of red, red like the color of her lips, red like wine stains on the carpet, and red like the blood of those he’s killed. His jaw clenches so tight he could have broke it and he can feel his hand tighten around the bottle neck as his baby blues squeeze shut. Maybe if he just—her hands make contact with his back but he barely even budges, nothing but a slosh of bourbon against the inside of the bottle to prove she actually touched him.
She yanks at him but he doesn’t turn—not yet. She’s pushing, clawing and screaming, he’s right there teetering on the edge and like a child that cant help but put their hands on the burner despite the signs screaming caution, hot, do not touch—she just has to give him one more nudge to send him off the edge. She’s gonna wish she hadn’t.
There’s a metaphorical snap in side of him that tosses all logic out the window, it makes it hard for Damon to differentiate between those he really wants to kill and those he just wants to scare. It’s happened before—a couple times, like the night he snapped Jeremy’s neck—the night he could have lost everything. She’s pushing so hard, and after everything they’ve bene throughshe should know better. She should know hes unstable and impulsive, that his hands were forged for breaking, teeth made for ripping into jugulars and soft flesh—she should know better.
He finds his body turning to face her, but his movements are all wrong, they’re jerky and fast—robotic even like he’s done it a thousand times. At some point he decides that it’s a good idea to throw the bottle, like breaking it will somehow fix it all or make him feel better. It wont. Just like Ariana kicking it didn’t fix anything either.
The glass shatters in the fire place, the sound ripping through the house louder than her voice ever could, the flames dancing in the pit burst into an angry roar, screaming that he’s broken some kind of unspoken rule. As he turns to face her he’s all angry huffs and clenched fists "What do you want from me Ariana? Huh? What the fuck do you want?" he snarls the words at her.
It ricochets off the fire place's rough brick stone, crashes, and splits into hundreds of teeny tiny pieces. Clattering to the ground in a mess of what's left of them. They sputter and spin across the hard wood floor, skidding and leaving scratch marks in the pretty polished wood that Damon obsesses over. And the best part is, Airiana doesn't give a fuck. In fact she hopes there's jagged long scars etched into the floor like the ones that have been etched across her heart. Like the wounds that have been reopened by his recklessness. landing at her feet, never once leaving a physical scratch like she wishes they would.
(Everything she's ever loved everything she's ever been meant to be, it's all there, scrawled out on the living room in glass pieces spelling out profanities even she still can't even wrap her lips around.)
Her head snaps towards the collision, the stark black of her pupils widening and eliciting a sharp intake of breath that fills her lungs far too quickly. There's an abrupt moment amidst the time it takes for tables to turn that her body manages a shudder. A violent flinch against the instinct to run because Damon won't hurt her, but god will he come close.
The sound rings through her ears like a fallen symphony that's never been sung quite right and there's this sensation that runs up and down her spine and back to her toes and that tells her to RUN.
She tries to take a deep breath in, suck in what little air surrounds her and try to hold onto it, if only just that. But she can't stop the visions filling up her mind like a flood and all she can hear is the shouting of a man who's voice she'd thought she'd left behind. (He's right there, Airiana. Standing right in front of you, holding the rope that leads to the noose hanging loosely around your neck.)
It takes everything in her, every ounce of strength that hasn't been stolen from her to refrain from collapsing to keep from squeezing her eyes shut with an excessive amount of force and shouting at him to STOP.
She remembers that when she was eleven years old and she got so mad that she threw one at him, but she missed and it hit the wall with a clank but it did not break.
He laughed.
She remembers that when she was eight she would cover her ears with her hands, and try to block him out even though she knew she could not. She remembers these things far too vividly. They're far too clear in her mind, far too clear to be considered healthy, or even remotely okay.
Airiana still can't breathe. No, there isn't enough air. There never is. There never is enough fucking air. She thinks it's because the fire smoking up her lungs is what's choking her, but she knows the only reason why it's there is because he's the one who lit it. No, not Damon. Her heart's been burning for a long time now, it's just Damon wasn't the first one to scorch it.
She should've seen it should've seen the hint of red in his eyes. There's always been this little twinge in his pupils that tells her NO. But she doesn't see it this time, largely because this is Damon. And Damon is not the same man as the one she's thinking of.
Damon is much more lethal.
Airiana finally lifts her stare up to meet his finally, but it's hard to look him the eye. He's Damon and she's Airiana. And there's a reason why her eyes were a deep dark brown and his were a stark bright blue.
She's scared.
No doubt she's scared. Of course she's scared. When is she not s c a r e d ?
And you can see it all over, the fear laced within her contours, the grief stricken in her heart, and the hate burning in her veins. But for a girl with alcohol for blood and an uncle as a daddy, she's stronger than what's she's been made out to be.
Damon and her, they're s t r o n g e r than who they were supposed to be. Damon's not a disappointment, and Airiana is not a failure. They know this about each other, but they don't know this about themselves. And it's because they're both tougher than nails that he can wrestle with her, hit her and stab her and destroy her, because she's just as durable as him, even when she's not.
"What I want! " She seethes, taking a step forward, because just like daddy, she's only scared for a little while, before she's back up and fuming. "Is for you to figure out that you actually mean something to someone to a lot of people! And you can't just go around gambling your life like you're worthless!" She shouts with a shove to his shoulders. "Fuck, you know what? You are worthless. If you're just gonna go get yourself killed again, you are worthless. You are worth nothing to her dead! You're worth nothing to no one if you're fucking dead Damon!"
She tries to keep her eyes on his and not on the glass shards littering the floor, but the way they reflect the dim light of the fire is distracting, and suddenly looking him in the eyes is a lot harder now than it was before. Because lining the dark wood panels of the living room floor is a million tiny glass shards, shimmering in the shadows of violently dancing flames. And beneath all the spilled alcohol and pieces of them, is a line that was drawn for the purpose of not being crossed.
And the line was fucking crossed.
The sudden shift of the conversation causes something in her heart to ache, and Elena finds herself glancing towards her, tired eyes surveying her. That ache, in some ways, was the first thing she’d felt in the last three days, other than anger or the bone deep weariness. It felt like a massive hole inside of her, an arrangement of grey and black patchwork that color seemed to seep from. Airiana in a way was a breath of fresh air—flame that burned the fabric away, filled the hole. She simply felt better when she was with her, despite the nagging feeling that attacked her every single time she walked out the front door—the idea that she may not come home again. After what had happened with Kol, that was on overdrive. Everything was.
Airiana’s apology is heartbreakingly sincere, not a trace of mockery or taunting. She knew. Of course she did. She always knew. “It’s okay,” Elena returns, bumping shoulders with her as they trudge along. The pace is slow, and she doesn’t mind, really. Silence with Airiana isn’t suffocating. Sometimes she thinks that’s when they talk best, say the most. She doesn’t really feel like rushing, anyway; it’d only been a few days, but already the withdrawals had begun to set in. What was worse was that blood smelt like, well, blood. It wasn’t unappealing to her senses, she wasn’t repulsed—she could smell Airiana from hundreds of feet away… and not just because of the scent that was specific to Airiana.
Because of the blood. Airiana’s blood. It smelt just as sweet as ever; from the scent, she never would have guessed that it was liquid poison. It was like coming down from a really bad high; felt like her skin was on fire and ultra sensitive, like her brain couldn’t catch quite enough oxygen. Like a horrible hangover…except it was all the time, and aspirin didn’t help. She’d experienced it before when they’d locked her in the Salvatore Boarding House to dry out—but at least it hadn’t been tainted by the overwhelming feeling of looking at a cheese burger and practically salivating even knowing that it was rotten. Right now, that looked like a few days of lost sleep, dark shadows and a pale complexion. In a few weeks, maybe a month, it would look like dessication. For all of them.
Running a hand through her hair, Elena looks over at her. “How are you?” She finds herself asking, genuinely wanting an answer. “Your head?”
Elena's little nudge is a welcoming touch and the smile that spreads across her lips is irresistible. Airiana always did find solace in the brunette and her touch.
Sometimes she forgets. Sometimes she forgets that even the very touch of Elena Gilbert's hand in hers provides her with this great sense of peace and belonging. She never really thought a person's palm could be so reassuring either. Never really anticipated a vampire's embrace to feel so warm. Airiana has learned that just a brush of Elena Gilbert's finger tips on the cool flesh of her arm can make her fall to her knees. She draws strength from that, they give each other strength. Because with Elena, she's never had a bigger weakness.
But with Elena, she's never been s t r o n g e r .
If making friends out of vampires has taught her anything, it's that you can't pick and choose who you love in this life. You can't stop them from prying their way into your heart, and you into their's. You can't stop them for leaving scars on your heart that you don't want there, and you can't stop them from wanting your hands on their waist and your hands brushing their cheeks. Love doesn't stop for anybody; not for Elena Gilbert, not for Airiana Saltzman, not for Damon Salvatore, not for Logan Xavier or his little sister Kara, not for Alaric Saltzman. Not even for father's who drank themselves dry until they couldn't recognize what love looked like even if it hit them in the face (even if it was just love in bottle wearing a mask). Even if he had clouded his vision by pouring vodka in his eyes and shooting bourbon up his veins, love still finds everyone, even him.
You can't hold a match to their kind of fire. There's something about the way their flames intertwine when they dance, and the way they fight for their lives like forest fires fight for air.
If Elena Gilbert told her to slit her own throat, she would. If Elena Gilbert told her drink away all her fears, all her tears, she would. If Elena Gilbert said throw your life down on slab and chop it up into teeny tiny little pieces for me, she would. There's so many things she'd do for Elena Gilbert.
God damn, love has never been her greatest weakness. Elena Gilbert has.
Never had she expected a cheerleader with a white picket fence to calm the fire scorching beneath her skin.
Thank you.
"It's been better." She lied, with a small smile, lifting her boot up over a log lazily. " I've been better." (It's nothing she can't handle.) "And you? The cravings?... How are they?"
Woman I can't even read this
"Yes—barely." she muttered "I can’t find anything in any of these about the spell the witches put on this place—whatever it is they made it and it’s new."
Airiana furrowed her brows in question, studying the book a bit more closely now as she leaned over Rae's shoulder. "I don't know much about all this witchy stuff but... I'm pretty good with google translate? I could help you?"
"Oh. You’re awake now?"
Airiana lifted her gaze up slowly, eyes meeting the icy glare and chiseled jaw of a somewhat familiar man. Blinking a few times, it only took her a matter of seconds before she had lurched up and pushed herself away from him. "Oh my god!! Did I ... And you ... We didn't ... right?!... How long have I been here? Shit, shit, shit." She muttered looking around the small booth at the bar for her cell phone.
”Hey, Elena!”
yet another shrill voice called out funny, Tatia had never met this girl, the other doppelganger, but she seemed to play her part well.
”Hey!” the bright smile plastered on her face, a small wave… it’d been enough for these people. this quaint, adorable town.
[ how long can she keep the small-town-girl façade up? before someone notices? ]
let’s see how it plays out…
it hadn't kept her in. the fear. (of him) the fear hadn't kept her inside the house just waiting for the smoke to clear. she wouldn't give him that kind of satisfaction. wouldn't accept that she'd been made a fool out of and even worse, used as a means of getting to her best friend. elena was hers after damon of course, and like a dog, she was protective over her. loyal. and she wouldn't let her go walking around the streets alone, not yet. they had been poked and prodded at, elena more than anyone. they were jaded, and spent, and a little frayed around the edges too. but they were alive. and wasn't that the whole point? to come out alive, even if a part of them died that night anyways? "hey elena!" she shouted because she wasn't ready to let go of her just yet. "where you headed? you didn't tell me you were leaving the house?" airiana mentioned casually, strolling up beside her and sticking her hands in her coat pockets. the little smile and wave her friend gave was a little out of place, but that was the game they played. pretend. such a fun little charade they put on to please the masses, faked smiles and routine check ups. it was all the same.
Woman I can't even read this
—what language were you writing in, chicken scratch?
Looks like it to me, is that Russian?
You stumbled in and bumped your head, If not for me then you'd be dead.
