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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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She'd fill up the silence with her hands if she could, trace her gratitude and draw her apologies over the skin providing frail protection from her finger tips (and her words, and the little scar on her knee when she fell off her bike when she was five, but that's a different story.) He even gives her the perfect opening, removing the damp fabric from between them with a startling amount of efficiency, closing the distance until an influx of warmth is wrapping itself around her, the chill in her spine fading as the heat glides over her skin as effortlessly as the water, tracing exit wounds and abruptly ended passages. There's a weighted intensity smothering them that feels no different than the bear traps Kol had locked around her wrists until she'd forgotten that there are a pair of hands that do not hurt, that would draw patterns on those very same wrists with the lightest of touches just to remind her that while there is death and destruction, war and devastation, there is light, too. There is hope. He reminds her of that all the time.

The room smells faintly blood and death, like perfume, something about the stench persistent against the water, like an invisible grime that becomes one with her skin, an invisible reminder that can't be washed away. She isn't sure if it's there or not, if it's real or just something she's imagined in her head (there's a lot of things she's not so sure are real these days) but she's learning to tell them apart, or so she tells herself (she tells herself a lot of things.) It's hard to do now that she's spent so long not trying, blurring hallucinations with reality and past and present. For months she'd done everything in her power to avoid doing much of any thinking at all; taste and touch and the illusion of his skin under her hands, his voice in her ear... that was all that had mattered, really, and she could risk her life in defense of those who would kill her, could wrap a noose around her neck and give someone else the rope, but letting herself be taken by the current without the faith that she could find her way to the surface, she could not do. Not again. ( That was what loving him was, wasn't it? ) She was never that brave. She was never that selfless.

One of the first things she'd learned about in her classes was what they called the grey area. The problem areas, the 'could be's' and 'will eventually become's. It's similar to writing, she's learned; the characters that you don't plan, the last minute changes of pace and tragedies that are etched in the script without your permission. They worry about the tissue that could eventually become cancerous, the inevitable illnesses and diseases that will set in later on down the long. They weigh the risk, the reward. Is it worth cutting a little deeper? Is there an easier way? They say to cut things from your life that hurt you. Just to be safe. Just in case. Better to be safe. Better to always be safe. The number one rule of surgery is to limit exposure. Keep your hands clean, incisions small, and wounds covered. The second rule of surgery is that when the first doesn't work, try something else, because sometimes you can't limit exposure, sometimes the injury is so bad that you have to cut, and cut big. That was what always seemed to excite the other students; the thrill, the rush. It wasn't precaution that excited them. It was the loss of limb. The last resort. They didn't think about the phantom pain afterwards, the aching of the bone that is no longer there, the sound of the voice in your head that sounds like something missing. There is a moment of hesitation, a period of slow motion, of brief confusion--and then a choice. Is it a small tear, just to be safe?

Or is it something different completely? Is it a matter of life and death? A matter of survival? The absence of his hand in hers had felt like something different. The absence of him felt like something different. It wasn't a river. It was an ocean. It wasn't a small incision, it was a jagged, gaping hole along the length of her body, one that made what Kol had done look like a few minor scratches. Medically speaking, the act of letting him go was never "just to be safe." It was a last resort. It wasn't just this would be easier, or I may wake up one day and realize I've got no way to breathe without you. It was you are killing me. It hadn't been his intention, he hadn't meant to leave her with nothing but a loaded gun and a package of power--but he had all the same.

It wasn't that she didn't love him, really, she did; it was just the unanswered voice mails and the blood on her hands, too much blood, the confusion and the misery and the call at 3 AM that lets her know that Jeremy's gone missing again, that a bottle of vodka is missing with him, and she couldn't get to him even if she knew what to say when he looked her in the eye and asked, "What are you going to do? Compel me to forget again?" Even if she could honestly say that she hadn't considered it, could honestly say that a part of her didn't wish she could forget, too. It's not that she doesn't love him, it's just that one time she overheard Caroline talking to Stefan, or his voice mail, rather, leaving a tenth message about how they've all drifted apart and everyone's gone and everyone left and she just wanted everyone to be alive again. The look in Airiana's eyes when she discovered the herbs, the fear in her expression when Elena had unintentionally reminded her that she wasn't going to hurt her now, maybe not ever. It's not that she doesn't love him, it's just that the 'maybe' is important, and that she still wonders if Matt wished they'd never found a way back in, if maybe he wishes that after that night on the bridge, she'd just stayed dead.

It isn't that she doesn't love him. It's that she does. It's that in her madness, she'd prayed for storms. That in her dreams, she'd dreamed that those storms would bring her peace. They had not. They were just thunder and water. A brilliant flash of light. No peace. No Damon.

His absence had gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything she did was stitched with its color.

Tell me how all this, and love, too, will ruin us.

{ The lights go out, and I can't be saved. }

The presence of his lips on her forehead sends another wave of heat down her spine, and the startling mix of heat and cold forcing her to repress a shiver. It reminds her that anything will burn with enough gasoline and dynamite, that if they're not a match made in Heaven, she's a match and he's gasoline, which amounts to the same thing if she words it the right way. Elena tries to remember if she's always cold, if the warmth is not singular but instead inclusive, but she's only ever met one other person whose skin burns like flame, can only think of one other fire breather who would set the world aflame to recover a girl with no name.

None of it really explains anything, nothing explains how when he touches her it feels like her skin's on fire, how she can burn and burn and not flinch once at the scorch marks (how they never show), how he can snap necks and still know how to touch without hurting. He doesn't say anything, but her ears are tuned to his voice; she could pick him out in a sea of thousands, thinks she can even hear him when he's not talking, at least not out loud. His voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. His voice makes everything else sound ugly. She doesn't listen to music anymore. She doesn't like the music here. There should be a different kind. There should be at least one safe place. She doesn't like the way the song goes. She wishes they'd stop singing. She'd rather hear the hands like silk and sandpaper, rather drown out the noise that says she's not supposed to love this way, the fate and the destiny and all that poetic bullshit that can't compare to the rough hum of his voice in the morning.

It hits her, then, how painfully easy this is. She feels almost guilty that it's this easy, wonders if it's this easy for everyone else, this incredibly simple. Skin on skin. With only breath between them. It wasn't like she'd never been naked with Stefan before, like his hands had never traced over her ribs like invisible cartography, like he had never kissed her as if she was Holy Ground. She'd fucked him and showered with him and it'd been perfectly lovely, he was perfectly generous and she looked him in the eye all the time so he knew everything was alright. But something about this was different. It was a kind of vulnerability that didn't hurt, a kind of knowing that reminded her that even if he'd seen everything already, her reflection was far enough away that he was never with both of them at once. She'd never doubted that he was always with her, just with her, as he was now, as he would always be.

There was not a single strand of doubt, of misconception; he saw her when her knuckles were red and bloodied from punching, with hair falling in her eyes and blood on her lips, saw her when she woke Katherine's face, loved her when she was purely of her own, and possibly worse. His hands do not trace over her ribs like invisible cartography, and he does not kiss her as if she is Holy Ground. He is of a different kind. His hands are still gentle, but he doesn't expect to find a statue sculpted from clay beneath tender skin, doesn't write love stories over ribs that have only ever weathered war. She is not his Holy Ground. He does not go to her to repent for his sins.

It's a relief to be stripped down to nothing, where she does not have to be anything, not even herself, not if she doesn't want too. It'd be a good time to kiss him, now, but her hair still smells of war and running and running and she's too tired anyways, so she caves into him instead, sinks into the feel of his lips on her skin, his hand gently coming to rest over her cheek, trustworthy fingers incapable of being replicated. Another arm wraps around her, and she hears him say silently: I'm here, I'm here---and it is enough. There has been too much emotion, too much damage, too much everything, but it is enough. It fixes nothing, but he doesn't try to smile, and she doesn't try to smile, and that is more than anyone else has ever given her.

Somehow, her head lands in the crook of his shoulder, and she can feel everything; every tense of bones, every beat of his heart, every shift. She did not take a rib from him, and he did not take her left side; he was her entire stomach. He was her spine. She does not know where to go except in his direction, and she isn't sure what will happen when she's finally survived longer than she's lived, when she's no longer the girl who pit peaches with her teeth, when she's traded her for the girl who drinks sadness like she's starving, who bites into humanity just to get a taste, when she realizes she has been that girl for quite some time now, and does not regret as much as she should. There's a niche in his chest where her heart fits perfectly, and if there's only the margins left to write in, so be it. So be it.

Her eyes travel down to the inside of his arm as his fingers smooth her hair away from her face, the water slowly clearing the grime from its tangles. It's hardly as if she hasn't seen it before; she's caught herself looking at it when he isn't looking, like it was some sort of secret he wasn't in on. Her hand often covered it in the mornings, as if she could protect him that way, somehow (or could keep him closer to her that way, selfishly keep the parts of him that only she got to see from prying eyes.) Her eyes graze the letters, the meaning itself lost on her. Hic Et Nunc. It means more tonight, somehow, and she can't drag her eyes off of it, can't resist the burning curiosity. It wasn't like she couldn't have looked it up, or that she hadn't had a million opportunities before to ask. It wouldn't have been hard, wouldn't have taken more than a few seconds of her time. And yet, something had stopped her, some subconscious fear of taking something he wasn't ready to give. It might not mean anything, might just be a tattoo--but the more she thought about it, the less likely that seemed. Damon never did anything half way; he was all or nothing. He fought to kill. He loved until it ruined him. Love for him wasn't like normal love. He'd never really stayed anywhere for any real amount of time, until now. He'd never put much stock into anything permanent; love itself was probably the most permanent thing for him, erased, colored in, and a synonym for tragedy. His heart was heavy, and sometimes she loses sight of how lucky she is to carry it.

His mark on her is as permanent as that tattoo. She's bleeding, not just making conversation. She does, she undoes, she redoes. Once more, with feeling. And when she had stood there, unable to find him, she felt a new solidarity with him. The bond of not existing. She's still working on her life story. No, she doesn't mean she's putting it together. No, she's taking it apart.

"What does it mean?" She asks suddenly, the words leaving her mouth without her permission, voice sounding strange against the silence. Once they do, she can't resist touching it, finger tips gently running over the length of it as if to explain what she's talking about, the question still seeming odd and out of place. She breathes him in, shifts so she can look at him, accurately gage his expression. She wants to tack on that he doesn't have to tell her, not if he doesn't want to, but she isn't sure how to phrase it right so she simply lets her hand cover to permanent mark instead, like protection. Her dark eyes meet his blue ones, and she can only think, singularly, how he has loved, how he has drawn lines on her heart, some that hurt, some that didn't, and the marks she has left on him in return, that when they said that Hades stole Persephone, it was a lie.

She had stolen him, instead.

i'm so heavy (in your arms) || delena

There’s a certain point where you start revising your own story, where you lie awake in your bed, eyes trained on the ceiling, thoughts too loud to sleep over—and you begin rereading. Going over parts that almost destroyed you—and the parts that did. You start piecing things together and wondering at what point, did you deserve it? Because it has to be you, right? It can’t not be. You have to be at fault for the way the world crushed your shoulders and snapped your collar bones. You had to of done something to deserve that.

And in Damon’s case maybe it wasn’t one specific thing, because even as a human there was always something darker that moved within him. It was what took place of the fear he should have held for Katherine the first time he saw the eyes of a killer etched into the face of a pretty girl. Like his darkness recognized the darkness that swirled within her—like they were cut from the same fabric of reality and meshed together with a perfect kind of harmony.

He’d like to think he was just dealt a shitty hand of cards, but really, that wasn’t it at all. He was built for everything he’d done. He was built to hurt, and built to kill. He was carved and molded from the monsters parents told their children about late at night. Damon never believed he was destined for any kind of greatness, he wasn’t special or important like his doppelganger brother. He had a mother who died too young and a father who never saw him as anything more than a simple disappointment. A boy who fell off his path at a very young age and never quite knew how to get back on. So he just stumbled through the woods, trying to avoid patches of vines laced with thorns so the outside of him wasn’t just as scarred and frayed as the inside.

He hid his scars with hatred instead of bandages, and he hurt others so he didn’t have to hurt himself. He tried to stop caring so that he didn’t have to feel vulnerable. Wearing your heart on your sleeve was a good way to get it sliced open—cut and carved with dull knives and razor blades held by those that were supposed to love you unconditionally and those who never really loved you at all.

Damon never let himself break.

He let himself crack and seep between the spaces, but he refused to break..at first anyhow. There comes a point where you’re just to tired to wield the sword anymore, to keep replacing bricks in the wall you’ve built around yourself so no one can see who you really are. So no one can coax you into letting them love you and then destroy you when they decide what’s inside wasn’t actually worth it like their imaginations had tricked them into believing. Most are just curious, they don’t plan on staying, they just want to dig their hooks into your skin and rip you open because their curiosity drives their interest.

So he looks at his story and then he looks at Elena’s and he wonders how the boy with who liked to be hated, got the girl who was only ever loved. He wants to know how their puzzle pieces fit together as seemless as they do. At what point did their foundations grow into each other and lose their original form to such an extent that they can’t actually stay upright without their better half. And he really wants to know how she made it to the other side of his wall. She didn’t touch it, didn’t break it, didn’t knock it down. dig under it, or climb over it. She just appeared there. Appeared on the other side and he had no choice but to let her in and once he had he never wanted her to leave.

She became this piece of him that he began to need—need like the oxygen that filled his lungs and the blood he drank to keep him alive. And there’s a point where needing someone so much becomes unhealthy, not that he cares. Codependency isn’t such a bad thing when it comes in the form of a girl with doe eyes and long brown hair. Kryptonite suddenly isn’t so deadly when it’s what keeps you alive.

He wont lie though, it’s a double edged blade, what makes you can also break you, but only when it’s ripped away. The one you love is often the one that’s pulling the trigger and shattering you into oblivion. Forever doesn’t last very long when you’re dead. And you really don’t know what you have until its gone, until what you’re so used to having is suddenly gone and the oxygen in your lungs turns to fire, burning you to nothing more than a pile of ash and the foundation that created a thousand year old tree, too strong and wide for any measly ax to rip through, is suddenly blown away by the wind. scattered all over the earth in such fine fragments everyone forgets it was ever even there to begin with.

There’s a point in your revision, that you wonder, if you had the chance would go back and change it? Would you keep yourself from falling in love with the girl who’s lips held razor sharp teeth behind them and wore a face of many before her? Would you go back and stop your brother from forcing a life of immortality upon you and keep yourself from the grasp of and men who’s only desires are to sing their hands into your chest cavities and rip apart your organs. If you had a time machine would you go back and let yourself die in eighty some odd years because it was natural?

If it meant not knowing her?

No.

He’d breathe fire for oxygen, and drink acid for blood if it meant that he’d be able to so much as touch her, know her, love her. Hell he’d do it all over again if it meant he’d never be able to claim her. Even if she’s not a possession. She’s still his. Just as he’s hers and he can’t actually imagine his life any other way. He wouldn’t be who he is and she wouldn’t be who she is. She’s changed a lot since they’ve met, she’s darker somehow, not that he minds, and maybe before, he would have thought he’d tainted her… Not now though. Like him, she’s always held that darkness within her, it was hidden under layers of love and compassion as she was showered with it, and he was not. It was always there, it just hadn’t been revealed. Elena’s Gilbert’s feathers were never white, they were a dusky colored grey, only painted the color everyone wanted them to be.

And she didn’t know any better until they met. Until her black and white world of wrong and right was suddenly flooded with color and everything began to take a different shape. He didn’t shut her down, he opend her up. She became who she truly was behind closed doors because in the in the spotlight she thought she had to fit this perfect small town girl mold. Her and Stefan never really stood a chance—not that Damon knew that (or actually, maybe he did and that’s why he stayed—because he’s selfish and can’t seem to do the right thing as hard as he tries.) His darkness recognized her darkness and it refused to let either of them walk away. Not that they would have if they could.

Doppelganger or not, they were forged from the ashes of their own flames and built to stand together. There was this void in Damon’s live where she was meant to be and he’d never realized she was his fix until she made it so he was suddenly able to breathe again. He got a taste of her light and there was no way he was letting go, even when she was sure she hated him and her humanity picked his brother over him.

But then she turned and everything changed, their story got a new writer and their song took a different tune. She fell in love with him (—or maybe she always had been, becoming a Vampire only made it impossible to ignore this time), for whatever reason, she saw Damon for who he was even when his own flesh and blood couldn’t, and she liked what she saw. She saw the good when he wasn’t willing to show it (as little as there is) and she decided that loving him was worth the effort.

Yea. He’d live through it all again i fit meant he’d be loved by Elena Gilbert. He needed his brother but he needed her. And maybe that was why it hurt so much when she froze in his touch, haunted by memories of the hands of another—someone violent, marring her skin where they didn’t belong. Trailing fingers and lips where only he was allowed because he knew when to be gentle and when to not.

There’s a point where he removes his own shirt, tearing the fabric from his chest as her arms are hooked around his neck, letting it fall to the floor beside her bloody dress. There’s just bare skin on bare skin as he holds her to him for dear life. Damon presses his lips to her forehead, as some sort of it’s okay not to be okay, an I get it. Because he does, he knows what its like to be invaded and violated for the twisted pleasure of others, it’s not on the same scale, and he wouldn’t dare compare it to the trauma she’s been dragged through but he knows enough to let her be broken and not tell her to stand up and wipe the dirt off her knees. If she wants to lie on the ground and give up, he’ll lie there with her, if she wants to push through the vines laced with thorns on the side track they’ve fallen onto, he’ll hold her hand and move with her. Because Damon would die for her if that was what she needed and he’d kill for her if that was what she wanted. He loves her too much to let the word no be a major piece in his vocabulary—unless he knows that it’s best for her.

But for now, his hands that want to rip Kol to pieces, they wrap around her gently, one of them lifting to cub her face, grazing his thumb over her stained cheeks, because Damon’s touch is either gentle or deadly, there’s no real in between.

#IDK WHAT THE FUCK THIS IS #THIS IS SHIT #SORRY IT TOOK LITERALLY 87 YEARS #damon #para #( he knows all my secrets and still wants to kiss me. )#p; i'm so heavy (in your arms)

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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there's something different; she wishes she could put her finger on it, could nail down what makes elena elena and katherine katherine and even more than that, makes them any different from each other in any real way. she wishes she had the ease damon seems to have when telling them apart: he always seemed to know who she was even with blood all over her face, fangs extended; couldn't be fooled by a lily face or serpent teeth. she on the other hand was having more difficulty; with katherine, it was easy. katherine was katherine. distinctly horribly awfully monstrously katherine. but whoever this was.......... she was not so easily recognizable.

an arm wraps around her mirror's body, the way elena once did once to hold herself together, to protect herself in some way. but it's different. it doesn't seem so much like armor on a wolf.

her words come as a surprise, and elena doesn't respond for a moment, history and names and faces running through her head like mad. tatia. she'd heard the name. she'd heard her story.

” you're supposed to be dead. "

finally something seems to settle, the dust from the hurricane that she was about to cause. perhaps they all belonged to the elements… but which one was she?

maybe it was Tatia who was wind, quiet and ferocious, Amara belonged to the earth, Katherine who was fire, loud and wild, which left Elena to water… something just as powerful. all just as dangerous as the other.

she breathes out, arms wrapping around her waist as Elena processes her words. Elena’s eyes scanning her over, drinking in the possibility that there might be truth in her words. but if there’s one thing so noticeable at the moment, it’s that Elena is not afraid. ——Katherine came five hundred years before, but Elena approached her with equal power, with just as much fireas a Petrova should have——how could Tatia expect any less. she meets her in the middle, and they’re barely a mirror, faint cracks and pieces missing in it, parts that she has that Tatia does not and vice versa, but if there is one thing that reflects, it’s s t r e n g t h. Tatia could see that more prominent than anything else.

”I believe you may have heard of me… my name is Tatia.”

#is this english #so sorry this took so long #tatia #gc #( she is a mirror that doesn't reflect me. )

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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When she thinks about it, it's a not such a bad story. It's had a little bit of everything, adventure, passion, danger--it's everything she's ever wanted, really, if she steps back and looks at the entire picture. It's the life she's always wanted, except. Except. Except it does not last forever, except the hero (who isn't a hero) leaves and the heroine (who isn't really a heroine, not of epic proportions, not really) is left in the margins of her own storytelling, confused how someone managed to rip the pen from her hands. It's not the aesthetically pleasing stories she was always bored with when she was little; it's not a story about the good in the world, or the heroes, doesn't end with a last minute revelation or start with a boy and a girl who meet on page four and fall in love at the beginning of the second chapter.

( He kisses her hand. She doesn't pull away. It starts like this. )

No, it isn't one of those stories. She's awfully glad it isn't one of those stories; sure those are the stories that everyone else likes, they're dreadfully popular, and she's certain that if anyone ever picked up hers they wouldn't understand the allure, either. "There's no reason why anything happens," A girl whose eyes look painfully familiar will say. "It's a lousy story." And she'll be right. Because it's really just a need story, a story about a world where things happen and people live and people die and there's not much of a plot, just a lot of blood, too much blood. No one will gather around campfires telling a story like this, not when there's too many fragments and ellipses and almost here's and almost right's and almost enough's. It's just a story, but it's hers, and she still likes it best, the height of her selfishness--she should know better, probably does know better, but if it is a need story, if she holds the pen and everyone will be forgiven in the end ( because forgiveness will be all they have left to give ), maybe no one knows any better, maybe she can say, "it's a love story," and someone will believe her.

( This is not a love story. Look at her face. )

It's not a love story, and it's really sad that it isn't, because he's the only one who could ever really get the words right, only one who could ever tell a convincing enough story to make her listen. If anyone should get a love story out of this, it's him.

His fingers lace through hers, and she's reminded; you can still function as a living ruin. She's done it before, after all. She's sure he has, too, even if it's easy to forget that in the hands she's only seen shake, once, maybe twice. It's hard to catch it; to notice a flaw in his mask when he's always moving, always bustling around in her head even when she's seen him sated, seen him peaceful (even when she's liked him that way best.) It's too easy to forget that she's broken her rib cage to let in people who do not belong there, that his way in was not forceful nor violent, but quiet, quiet and slightly wry, the way she imagines Damon when he's alone, when there's no one left to pretend for.

Warmth slowly spreads through her palms at the slightest touch, like an open sieve draining the water from her lungs. Her eyes stay locked with his, something in the way he's looking at her quelling any urge to look away. Something passes between them, a sort of intensity that keeps her on her feet, a feeling of safety wrapping around her like some allusion to a sky that rains gasoline instead of water and a girl who fights to keep from setting herself on fire just to feel something. The feel of it chases away the memory, the images in her mind that serve as a reminder that she collided with a monster in a wasteland of skin and bone, that before she knew it, the lion's teeth became the sharpest life she'd ever known. She feels sort of silly; all this about how she will be a lion-hearted girl now, how she will make steel out of clay and seek out oxygen where her lungs have become black and corroded--and her hands still shake. Her hands still shake, no matter how she tries to still them. It's impossible to do on her own, so she lets him do it instead, a horrible habit she has, letting him start all the fires and letting him sweep away all the ashes. Too tired to promise she'll be better (that they will), she says nothing at all, letting her eyes close as his hands move to remove her jacket.

She doesn't have to look at him to know how talented his hands are, doesn't have to watch them to know that she can trust them. If he was anything less than certain, she wouldn't know it by how her hands are moving, couldn't pick out one single thing that said they were anything other than sure. He's heartbreakingly gentle with her, even more than usual, and she has to remind herself that these very hands would rip into Kol's chest if they had half the chance, would lace with the map of his veins as intricately as they do her fingers and rip away the thing that keeps her blood circulating through his arteries. It wouldn't have to be messy (Damon knows how not to be messy, at least a lot better than she does), wouldn't have to be grotesque - just a pull, maybe one only as strong as what keeps her tied to him. These fingers, these hands.. they've had blood on them, and it isn't always visible, but she doesn't think it's faded away any more than the blood on hers has, that he doesn't still see it if he catches a quick glance. ( That he doesn't sometimes still try to wash them clean with the same moisture that flooded her lungs and hope he'll forget. Just add water. )

It's when his fingers trail over her spine that something shifts, her breath becoming slightly shaky as her head tilts back, allowing his sure hands to weave through the mess of hair, brushing it away from her face. Like that the location changes, and she's no longer in the mist of water but instead somewhere else, with the tips of someone else's fingers grazing over her spine, someone else's hot breath on her cheek---for just a moment she forgets, forgets who is who, forgets to separate the smell of the aftershave and natural scent she has learned to recognize as Damon's from the scent of a predator. Her mind reminds her who this is, knows all the reasons why she can trust these hands even though they've snapped necks and dove head first into chest cavities (knows that she can trust these hands because they've snapped necks and dove head first into chest cavities), but somewhere along the way her body forgets for a moment, loses itself in a sort of amnesia that eradicates all previous memory. It does not remember that these are the hands that smooth hair away from her face and the arms that lock around her body in a promise of safety, that the air shared between them now is not a threat, that the fog around them isn't smoke.

Wake up. It's what they tell you when you have a nightmare; wake up. All you have to do is remember--and wake up. Open your eyes. This isn't real. This isn't real. But her eye lids suddenly feel as if there's a lead weight pressed down on them, like some kind of cord she's trying to retract but only becomes tighter and tighter until it snaps. They only shut tighter, as if to protect themselves from the assault of the shower, and all she can think as her body tightens into ice is that she just wants it to stop. She wants everything to stop: the noise, the fear, the stink, the pain, the sickening throbbing ache in her neck. She doesn't want to feel anything anymore, doesn't want to do anything anymore. She doesn't want to be scared, doesn't want to be brave, doesn't want to be strong or weak or smart or stupid or precious or dead...

She doesn't want to be anything.

Wake up.

His hands come to rest on her waist, and she wakes up.

His hands become his hands again. Damon. Damon.

Damon. She remembers.

His forehead meets hers, and she caves into the touch this time, resisting the urge to say his name just as a confirmation that he's real. There's something else to attach on to the end of that, something like I love you or it's you ( every time, it's you ), but she lacks the eloquence, would rather say nothing at all than do something to shatter his. In the half light, her eyes open, half-lidded doe eyes tracing every line of his face until she meets his eyes, an ocean of blue that doesn't seem the least bit terrifying, a body of water she could easily drown in without half a complaint. Her shaking fingers finally still as she lets them rest on his chest, the place they always seem to go in the silence, when there's nothing to be said, no words to be ushered past bruised lips. His pulse under her fingertips is enough to comfort her, a dead girl with dead hands searching for life of some kind. She doesn't wonder if it's dangerous to play with flames as warmth begins to spread through her body, doesn't wonder if it's reckless too when her body's made out of paper. Ash still lingers in her mouth, and she knows now the truth, that she can be human, and something not human at all, all at once ( that he can, too. ) She'd swallow poison if it tasted like him, in fact, she has swallowed poison, except it let her see him, not taste him, and she still isn't sure which is better, which is worse. It doesn't seem to matter much, not when he knows exactly where to put his hands on a girl who hurts everywhere, exactly where to burn without reducing her to dust.

Ever so gently, her hands trail up to lace around his neck, not parting from his skin for a single moment as they do. It's the only thank you and I'm sorry she can manage, pulling him out of the fire and hoping that he will forget the smell. He was never supposed to be an angel, she doesn't think (neither of them were angels), but he was never supposed to be taken from that light, and made into something hungry, either (neither of them were). She never had him first, and she'd let the world break its own neck if it meant keeping him ( she never loved him first, either ), simply because she'd rather have had one breath of his hair, one kiss of his mouth, one touch of his hand, than an eternity without it. One. She knows enough to know that those who return from war never really come home, enough to know that of all the girls who have kissed like melting bubblegum she is among the most fortunate. Something about the look in her eyes makes her wonder if maybe she does want to be something, maybe she does want to be soft and hard and rough and gentle, all at once ( she's still learning how to be gentle, at least with him. )

She doesn't know if it changes anything, if the closeness chases away the throbbing of her bones, if the gentleness chases away those who were not gentle, but she does know that it's better, better this way, better close, better gentle. They're both wet now, but he'll destroy the evidence before it matters ( he always does ), and there's water running down the curves of her body and red swirling before going down the drain, so nothing matters, not really. Just add water.

i'm so heavy (in your arms) || delena

For a moment he’s really not sure how to begin. Like a package stamped HANDLE WITH CARE in angry red rink all over the sides, blaring him in the face as if he doesn’t know it’s contents are fragile. So he doesn’t think, he just does, he lets his hands guide her where they should, he lets his body hold her weight because she can’t. He simply pulls her under the hot spray of water, holding her to his chest as their clothes are drenched and his dark hair is weighed down but a crystal clear stream that travels down his forehead, nose, parted lips and drips from his chin unlike the one that swirls at their feet.

He watches her shaking hands fumble with her own clothing, like a child trying to undress themselves for the first time, they’re not sure how to untangle themselves from the web of fabric because it’s done for them a hundred times over. Only Elena’s not a child who doesn’t know how to undress herself, she’s a girl who’s been thrown a shitty hand of cards because her face happens to resemble that of a girl who lived a thousand and one years before her. It’s unfair, really and Damon wonders how the universe gets to decide who bares these bronzed features, between who get’s to be tossed into this world without a choice in the matter and who gets to live blissfully and make their own mark in the world, given a set of unique features unworn by any before them.

His hands move to still hers, fingers overlapping her own like they have a thousand times before except this time is somehow different—it’s a speech that he doesn’t know how to form with words. Or maybe he does and he’s just too selfish to share the eloquence of his own mind with the rest of the world—but that’s not it either. Damon is just better with actions. So this time, the way his hands smooth over hers, they say—that it’s okay—every things completely fucked and she can’t seem to think straight but it’s okay. He’s got this. He’s got her, she wont hit the ground, he’ll carry her until the day he dies if he has to—she wont have to bare her weight on her own if she can’t. It says that when her knees are too weak and they give up on her, he’ll be there to sit her up straight and lie with her at night so she doesn’t have to face the darkness alone. Because Damon would set fire to himself to keep her warm if that was what she needed.

As his hands gently hold hers that baby blue gaze finds her doe eyes, there’s this unspoken knowing that floats between them, because they communicate with just a glance, no verbal exchange needed, they’ve just always been on the same wavelength like that. Hands forged for snapping necks and ripping out hearts—molded to break instead of build—they began to remove the hoodie, there’s nothing sexual about it—in fact the act is so simple its like breathing, he has no other intention other than shedding her of layers that only remind her of the pain she’s endured. It wont help—not emotionally, but baby steps. One thing at a time. That’s how they get through it. That’s how they survive.

So he removes the hoodie, and he throws it on the tile outside of the shower, he’ll clean it up later, when she’s tucked in their bed, he’ll make it disappear, leaving no evidence that it was ever even there, she doesn’t need physical reminders too. As his fingers find the collar of her dress he doesn’t even attempt to fumble with the fabric, with the zipper or trying to pull it over her head, he simply grips the cloth and rips it straight down the middle, fabric giving way under the hands that were meant for killing.

And then he smooths dark locks from her face, caked and dried blood entangled in fine strands, shoving it over her shoulders until the water traveling down her back runs red as it washes away. He lets his finger tips graze down her spine, stopping and pulling her close when they reach her waist. He presses his forehead to hers just holding her there. And he’s not sure who he’s comforting—her or him because he’s afraid that as soon as he lets go she wont be real anymore that she’ll vanish from the here and now. That when he opens his eyes she’ll be a thing of the past and nothing more than a beautiful memory etched into his scarred mind. And he can’t have that—can’t survive that.

But part of Damon thinks that she needs reminding too, that he’s here. And he’s not going anywhere, the their pasts are webs of lies told for promises, but they were spoken to keep them sane. To keep them from losing their minds due to worry and heartache. There was only so much pain and shattering you could take before you’ve lost to many pieces and you’ve run out of duct tape and super glue. Before your hands are bandaged and cut so badly from the shards that you can’t bend your fingers without bleeding.—before there was nothing left to rebuild. But maybe that didn’t matter, maybe they’d just scrap it and start over…

And part of him thinks that maybe that was what Katherine did—she became of a shell of who she used to be. A special kind of monster that only ruined herself out of fear that if she let someone else do it, she’d be ruined forever. That at least if she was the one to shatter her own pieces she could watch where they fell, and gather missing ones because she knew which places they’ed disappeared to and how far they’d slid away…he wonders if one day Elena will get so sick of losing herself to others that she’ll just start doing it for them.

That was what he did too, isn’t it? Became the monster everyone thought he was because at least then he had control of it. Because he’d rather be hated than unloved. There was such a fine line between the two. But he doesn’t worry about it for now, for now he just focuses on picking up where they left off, rebuilding the parts that Kol broke—if he didn’t break all of it.

#idk what this is #or if it's coherant #damon #( he knows all my secrets and still wants to kiss me. )#para #p; i'm so heavy ( in your arms )

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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she's coming closer, but her feet don't make much noise on the sidewalk. nothing about her seems to be very loud, whereas katherine has always seemed like an e a r t h q u a k e in her head, stealing the ground out from under her. it shakes and shakes until she's so disoriented that she isn't sure whose name belongs to who, what face killed jenna and what face killed her brother. but she pales in comparison to an earthquake now. she seems different. not any less lethal. maybe even more lethal, actually. but different all the same. it's a quiet kind of dangerous, one that would make a wolf's hackles raise. the kind that would make lion growl. a dog back into a corner with teeth bared, cornered and threatened.

one that would make a girl forged from steel, from oxygen, wrap her arms around her ribs in protection and seek protection from the basement the second the first HURRICANE WARNING aired.

she watches her, dark eyes scanning down her thin frame, looking for answers, looking for something to set them apart. how could she blame anyone, really for not noticing that someone else had taken her place when even she sometimes could not tell between them?

body straightening, she meets her in the middle.

” —— if you're not Katherine, who are you? “

the clogs turn and she almost hears them creak, figuring out, Tatia expected more. some recognition, but not this. she pouts and rolls her eyes, the perfectly manicured hands brush a free curl from her face. do you really think I’m that stupid?

she hopes it’s rhetorical she really does. what fun would it be to pretend to be another? one that is possibly more dangerous to be than either of the remaining. honestly, she’s offended. she’s heard of Katherine’s deceit, her games, her toying. maybe in another life, if Tatia would build up walls as high as those, then perhaps she’d have been like her, but no. she pretended for the sake of questioning, a tiring and endless flow of no answers to them all. she could offer no explanation for doppelgangers.

”perhaps you misheard me.” she murmured, stepping closer, eyes narrowing.

there have been many more to not believe, the lucky few who knew of her, that knew that she still existed. and that was what lead to a mistrust. even in the mirror. how do you believe when the cracks are so prominent?

”you have mistaken me for another, Elena Gilbert.”

#BYE MAY #( she is a mirror that doesn't reflect me. )#gc #tatia

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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her words hit glass, but don't shatter. instead, they echo in her head as if they've been swallowed into a vacuum. she's looking into a mirror, except it doesn't reflect her, not really. if she didn't know any better she'd say that the mirror was broken, that glass was not glass and silver was not silver. but she does know better. and more than that, she knows katherine. katherine who would do anything to save her own skin.

{ maybe they aren’t so different.

maybe elena would pretend, too. }

her fingers clench into fists. her eyes turn flat.

"Did you knock your head on your way down to hell, or do you really think that I'm that stupid?"

another replica. forged from silver, forged from steel--- she isn't sure which.

"Why are you here, Katherine?"

Distracted by the new sounds,

squealing teenagers, laughter, clinking glasses, the sound of a tv in the distance… The town is so quiet, in comparison to the city.

She feels eyes on her, but isn’t everybody staring… Girls smiling, offering waves and calling out to her. Honestly, it’s just so quaint.

Who is to know that her shadow self is watching her? Or that she is approaching, assuming her to be another. Her mistake and she’ll learn.

She calls her by an familiar name, another doppelganger, another one to fall for those brothers… But she was an object, a pawn. But the two had never met, and Tatia can’t say she’s disappointed. This one has fire, not spark. She smiles, resting her hand on her hip as she watches her. Maybe it’s because she is herself, and this girl is another, that she can tell the difference… But she can see that they’re almost identical, if not for the hair and different clothes. This girl had innocence, and Tatia’s was long gone.

”You must be Elena. you mistake me for another… replica.”

#tatia #( she is a mirror that doesn't reflect me. )#AH EXCITED #so sorry this took 92329382938 years #gc

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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#noooooo #( graveyard girl. )

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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Chicken scratch might be too kind.

What was she using, crayon?

Woman I can't even read this

—what language were you writing in, chicken scratch?

#weak #raeeeeeeeeeeeeee babyyyyyyyyyy #raeven #( firepowder and witchy migraines galore. )#gc #ignore the wild damon

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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The words swarm like a hornets behind her teeth, the phrase so heavy that she isn't sure she can lift her tongue to set free. She wonders if the same words are trapped behind his lips, trying to swallow a confession that seems less like a secret and more like stating the obvious. Maybe, maybe not--they've all got the same things to say these days, lies in the form of promises, I love you's in the form of EVICTION notices; just at different times. Sorry, she should say. Sorry I almost left you. She'd made all the same promises, right? I can't lose you, he'd said once, when she was young, when she didn't think she know what love really was, when he didn't, either. You won't. All five letters of apology have a lead weight attached to them, though, she never really figures out how to say them right, not even with her arms laced around his neck and small form caving into his chest, head coming to rest over his chest. She's lived without these arms, lived without this chest, lived without his weight to support her own. That's why she knows she should apologize, it'd only be fair of her, really, and he might accept it now, might forgive her even though he's belonged to her in ways that have been named and her voice has snagged on all the phantom nails in her throat.

It isn't that she doesn't mean them. She means them. She really, really does. It's been all she could think about for a very long time now, the height of her hypocrisy, the peak of her selfishness. She thought about it lot, concentrated on it as steel was driven into her wrists, as ivory pierced her throat. Leaving him. If this were a love story, if these were words written for her, she'd let the confession that sounds no different on her lips than stating that the sky is blue free: he's not the kind of guy you leave if you can help it. But because this is not a love story, and their lives are a sort of litany in which some words have been crossed out, she says nothing instead, not daring to disturb the sound that has suddenly filled the room as he makes his way up the stairs. It's a steady sound, a singular beat that seems to overrule all the noise she knows must be being made; Airiana is quiet, but not that quiet, and Ric is probably there in the background, maybe even Logan unless he's gone home. They're not alone, not completely, and if anything no one will want to leave them now, not now that stepping outside of this house has proven to be a concernable danger.

But she doesn't hear any of that, not really. It's all white noise, made in the background. Only one sound matters. It's incredibly steady, doesn't falter for a moment, doesn't speed, doesn't slow, even though she knows there's probably a million strands of thought going on in his mind right now, most of which sound like a poetry that she could never accomplish, not without days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months to get the words just right, to draft and edit and revise. She knows because she's gotten a taste of it, knows because there is a part of her that will always hunger for more. The same way she would gather his darkness, cup it like water and drink, the same way she wants to touch his cheek, the same way a moth will come to the bedroom window in late September, beating and beating its wings against the cold glass, the same way he came to her. He defined the term not-leaving, after all. They broke their own rules for each other, and that was never enough. She shouldn't be surprised that this is not enough, either. She'd like to scream that, to plead with the universe, to call in old favors and trace old pathways home, anything to understand why he could swallow every drop of moisture in the ocean and she could still drown, why he has been stripped of the air of his lungs and why she has been made war's casualty.

It's so easy to forget that Damon does silence better when he's always so loud in her head, loud and bold and incredibly maddening, beautiful and wonderful and awful all at the same time. Sexy and dangerous and awful and wonderful, like a story. She knows by the way that he touched her that night, the way his body became steel and then wrapped around hers just seconds later that Damon really likes stories, or at least hers, at least theirs. Her last thought before the world became fuzzy was that it was an incredibly sad thought, not to be able to tell him all of the stories in her head, to mention that of all the different themes and events that he is on every single page. She thinks to tell him as his palm gently brushes over the length of her arm to reach the water, but something stops her, maybe the weakness in her knees, maybe the simple unreliability in her words. She's a horrible narrator, not the least bit reliable, but she thinks he could tell the difference, pick apart the lies and pick apart the truth from the fiction. Her lips part just slightly, as if to continue on anyway, but for some reason every time she tries she keeps explaining in her head that he was the keys and she was locked doors until she met him, that the light in his eyes makes fire jealous, especially now, when he's the most alive thing in the room, that he's taken residence in her stories as if she's been writing about him since she was ten years old and had no idea.

And that just seems silly, so she says nothing at all.

The sound of his jaw clenching echoes in her ear like the sound of glass breaking, a rumble of thunder that's wildly exaggerated in her head and yet seems like an ode to all the princesses fairy tales abandoned. His eyes meet hers, then, and there's a different kind of fire in them, a different kind of flame. It reminds her that he's learned to breathe fire over mist, learned to nurse wounds with gasoline rather than prescribed ointment. He has no stars in his skin, only fire and iron and scales, a kind of burning that reminds her that so many have not handled him with care, that her wounds pale in comparison to the ones he's bared. It seems all the more important to be gentle with him, now, to let hands graze over flesh that's been mangled and torn, to kiss what's been taken without permission. He was war's casualty as much as she was; he'd died for love, after all. The look in his eyes seems very telling of what he's living for, now, but they shift away before she has the chance to come to a solid conclusion, and the spray of water distracts her anyway, eyes fascinated by the copper tone that circles the drain before leaving them behind.

She thinks to tell him that he doesn't have to, that he doesn't have to pick up the broken pieces, doesn't have to cut his hands trying. The words don't still don't come, though, and she doesn't really think she has the grace to say them anyway, so she lets her forehead meet his instead, slowly breathing him in. It suddenly seems very important to be close to him now, isn't sure she trusts anyone else to touch her the way she's suddenly very desperate to be touched. She wants to laugh at herself for ever trying to fool herself into thinking that these hands belonged to anyone else, if only to receive a moment of relief. She wants to laugh at a lot of things, really, except nothing seems to be funny; it's all a mix of desperation and hysteria and her trusting his weight beneath hers enough let her eyes come to a close. Behind closed lids, she sees Kol's black eyes. But Damon's trustworthy hands are wrapped around her waist, and past all the blood she can smell the steady scent of his aftershave, wrapping around her like a cocoon. That is enough. It is enough.

There's nothing but stark white mixed with copper here, nothing to laugh at, and she isn't so sure she wants to laugh anymore, isn't sure what she wants to do. All she knows is that she doesn't want to be brave, and doesn't want to fight, and really doesn't want to think about life or death or look Airiana in the eye and definitely, definitely doesn't want to think about being strong. Isn't sure if she wants to be the hero or the villain or the martyr or the victim, isn't sure she wants to be anything. She doesn't really feel like much, just cold bones and ice behind closed lips. She's rather empty, really, isn't afraid or scared or angry or upset, but isn't void of emotion either, just those ones. Mostly she's tired, mostly she's grateful; she knows what he wants to do, even if she's not so sure about herself. This is Damon, after all. He'd kill for her, lie, cheat, and steal for her--he'd tear his heart out of his chest just to make hers beat, and that's not even the half of it. He'd go after Kol with no white oak stakes and tired bones just to feel like something was being accomplished, but instead he stayed, simply because she asked him to, if not in words. She'd needed him, so he'd stayed. It was that simple.

Something like relief washes through her as her forehead rests against his temple, body resting against his, grateful for the support. She basks in that, the warmth he seems to radiate. It's the first thing that's held a candle to the chill--she's with it enough to know that the water's warm, but it doesn't seem to make any difference as it slides over her skin, the thin shell numb enough to keep from feeling much of anything at all. Damon on the other hand, is a kind of heat that she can't exactly comprehend. It reminds her of Airiana, or Airiana reminds her of him--they never seemed to be bothered by the cold, anyway; they could keep themselves warm. They were stronger than that. Stronger than the ice that seemed to pry its way through her veins, that resonated within blood that never seemed to circulate through her enough. She always thought that it was anger that kept Airiana warm, like flame.

She isn't sure what keeps Damon warm.

With shaky hands, she moves to grasp at her clothes, looking down at the mess of hoodie and the remainder of the dress--definitely not salvageable. There was no point now, no point to do anything but take the sensible route and rip it apart. Burn the pieces. Burn it all away clean. But her hands won't stop shaking, nimble fingers trembling as they splay over the neckline of the hoodie, attempting to rip it and yet not finding the strength to steady, the strength to tear. It's infuriating, because she wants to pretend, need to, but her hands won't stop shaking, and she isn't sure why, because she isn't scared, or at least she doesn't think she is, and the last thing she needs anyone thinking is that she's something as silly as afraid---

Breathe. For the first time tonight she breathes, letting the air fill her lungs and waiting for her hands to still.

They don't.

i'm so heavy (in your arms) || delena

He’s tired. He’s tired and he’s angry and he’s a little broken because looking at her now, he doesn’t even know where to begin to pick up these pieces. And he doesn’t have it in him to spit threats and go on about all the ways he wants to rip Kol to pieces, to bury his hands in his chest and feel his heart in his hands, blood dripping between his fingers—to see the look in his eyes when he pries his rib cage open and tears away the very thing that keeps him whole.

Like he tried to do to Damon with Elena.

And despite as much as he’d love to drive a stake through his heart, Damon’s all out of stakes. all out of threats, and looking at Elena, she doesn’t have it in her to fight with him about how he has to keep himself alive for her, and he doesn’t have it in him to listen to everyone tell him about all the ways Elena cried herself to sleep at night without him. About how she lie alone and awake at night in that overly sized bed because he wasn’t there to hold her.

But he is now.

And he’s not going anywhere. He wont do that to her again. He doesn’t have it in him. And as much as he wants to kill Kol, to make him hurt like he made her hurt—made Damon hurt—for once in Damon Salvatore’s miserable life he needs to be selfless. To do what she needs him to do. Wants him to do, which is let it go. So he doesn’t end up buried in the ground again and her lying in an empty bed wondering if he’ll make it back to her. Let it go so he doesn’t have to tell lies for promises and watch her face when he betrays her again.

So instead of doing everything he wants to do to that bastard, he stays right where he is, cradling Elena’s tired body to his chest as he maneuvers his way through a house that’s probably way too big when she feels alone. Up steps that feel like they never end, and into a bedroom where she has sat on the floor, clutched his t shirts and whispered things to him that he never got to hear.

Until eventually, he finds himself in the bathroom, reluctantly setting her on her feet, though an arm still holds her tightly to his side, supporting her weight because she can’t do it on her own right now. He holds her to him like his life depends on it because—really, it does. He watches her reach for the water, and his hand gently moves over her own, twisting the knob until a hot stream is pouring down onto the shower floor, soon to be tainted with her blood. He doesn’t bother to undress himself—it’s not even what this is about. She just needs to get him off her skin. Kol. He can see the bite marks in her neck, the tracks left in dried blood and while there’s no physical marks in her soft skin, he can see them clear as day.

He finds his jaw clenching as baby blues adjust on her doe eyes, they’re hollow and tired, shes worn around the edges and maybe even a little frayed. His girl back home died at eighteen and kept on going. Somehow Elena always finds a way to support herself, even if her legs are broken and she’s left to lie on the floor—she finds a way to build herself back up. And he supposes that’s what makes her stronger than Katherine had ever been. Stronger than any of them. Because life keeps knocking her down and Elena keeps getting back up—and maybe its stupid, maybe she should know when to quit—maybe he should know when to quit too—but when you’re immortal, it’s either keep on pushing or rip that daylight ring off your finger and let the sun consume you in flames, which everyone knows would be easier.

So. You’re left with two options, you can either keep on fighting or you can parish and for a girl forged of steel and sheer force of will, the latter is just not an option. He supposes that maybe that’s the beauty of it, she may be a copy of a copy, her face may have belonged to a dozen other girls but there will never be one quite like Elena. Because she burns brighter than any other Petrova and she’s indestructible, despite all odds. Maybe that’s the beauty of it, or maybe it’s just stupid and he’s rambling in his head again, trying to find ways to make this seem better. Seem okay. But what even is okay? When did that word become defined as ‘at least you’re alive’? When did that ever get written into their rule book? He isn’t sure, really.

But all Damon knows is he has to work with what he’s got, he has to find a way to make all the pieces fall back into place, whether he’s missing a couple or not. So he pulls her into the spray of hot water, watching as the water at their feet turns into a copper tone and swirls down into the drain. Hoping that maybe the panic and pain will do down with it. But it wont.

But maybe they can just pretend.

#this took FOREVER #so sorry #damon #( he knows all my secrets and still wants to kiss me. )#para #p; i'm so heavy ( in your arms )

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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she should know better. well, she does know better, technically. arranging secret meetings with those affiliated with the big bad hybrid ranked about an eight on a scale of one through ten when it came to stupid decisions. there were things you just did not do. this just happened to be one of them. that was precisely why she'd kept this little plan to herself. rule number one of friendship: friends don't let friends do stupid things alone. and the doppelganger needed to do this alone. so. here they were. here she was, meeting up with klaus' right hand man. she was left remarkably unfazed; next to kol, alex didn't range high on the scary scale--and she was confident that if he had wanted to kill her he wouldn't have called first. he could have just as easily come after her when she was alone, but he hadn't.

which meant he wanted something. and whatever that was, she needed to be alive for it. the sight of him at the bottom of the stairs leading to an alleyway gives her just a moment to steel herself before she joins him, steps confident and heart beat just a little too fast. she thinks she sees something in his eyes, gratefulness, maybe--but then he blinks, and it's gone.

” hey. “

an umbrella of hair falling off her shoulder, she faces him head on, dark eyes steady. looking around, she checks for anyone peering down on them, but they're alone, completely. and yet, still not completely secluded from the outside world--- which meant, to some extent, he was catering to her interests.

" 'figured if you wanted to kill me, then you wouldn't call first. which means you want to talk.

so ---------------- talk. "

with me lies the blame;; Alex & Elena

he’s not entirely sure why he asked her here, but he knows he needs to make things better. after all, it was his fault sienna was the way she was, if he had to apologise on her behalf he always would. it’s his fault she’s this way, she was so different before, not so cold or cruel, she cared too much and he’d ruined it all. all so he wouldn’t be alone.

now he was leaning against the wall, in a dip beside the Grill, stairs leading downwards because if klaus or sienna saw him, they’d assume the worst, and for her too, because her friends wouldn’t let her meet up with a hybrid, especially not alex, because whenever they saw him, he was by klaus side a right hand man, in effect.

but he waits, rather patiently considering, if he’s to blame then he owes an apology, along with so much more. alex didn’t do friendly meeting, or apologies or conversations, but sienna was important to him, and he couldn’t worry about her safety around arrogant vampires. he needed to know she was safe. elena was his best bet, because she was still human, even if she was a vampire, he’d heard that she’d cared too much, and it was always that which got her hurt, so he has to appeal to that part, even though he knows it could fail.

he breathes in, back pressed to the concrete wall, eyeing the steps for scuffling shoes, or a heartbeat, perhaps a little too fast for a human… the girl comes into view and he leans up, a grateful look in his eyes for her showing up, but it doesn’t reach his mouth, and it doesn’t last long at all.

”hello, elena.”

#what is english #what are words #i'm sorry this is so late #i suck #love you #alex #( fear doesn't shut you down; it wakes you up. )#para #p; with me lies the blame #love them

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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Elena, Elena Gilbert--you tried to threaten me a few days ago--

--doesn't ring a bell?

Who is that?

#idk #i apologize she's had a rough few days #kyle #gc

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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Was going to see if you wanted some breakfast--

--although from the looks of it, you should just be going back to bed--

"mmmh—what?"

#w e AK #elena momming logan is fave tbh #logan #( do all soldiers feel so lonely? some must; surely. )#gc

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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a mirror. that's all she sees at first. a r e f l e c t i o n. except it is a mirror that does not reflect her. shattered glass.

it shouldn't come as a surprise. how easily she blends within the crowd, how easily they believe the facade. she watches the interaction, a girl she'd taken chem with sophomore year. they hadn't been close, but it still seemed like she should have batted an eye, noticed something. anything. but she hadn't. nothing was out of place. it wasn't as if it was odd--she played the role without flaw, or so she supposed. it didn't matter. if she could fool her best friends, if she could fool him, she could keep the pretense up among people she'd known, people she no longer knew, at least not really.

katherine.

anger immediately follows the word itself in her mind, a whitehot rage that spreads throughout her and is nearly impossible to contain, like a wildfire. she was alive. of course she was. this was katherine pierce. she could find her way out of hell--which was clearly what she'd done. the urge to act first and think later stumbles upon her, but a quick glance around them says otherwise. the street itself was rather secluded, but not completely. someone would see, someone would hear. she couldn't do anything here.

"katherine," she half-growls, tone cold.

”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…

#hi hi hi omg #this is weak #but i wanted to reply #so excited for the doppelgangers omg #anyways hi #i'm tiffany one of the mods here #so happy to have you!#tatia #( mirrors are supposed to reflect; aren't they? )#semipara #sp; tatia

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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i am awake, rummaging through my head for the synonyms i know for - afraid.

m.v., insomnia (my dreams scare me). (via findingwordsforthoughts)

#( graveyards talk. )#kol #whoops #( the pretty lies; the ugly truth. )

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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i have spent my whole adulthood trying to tame my hunger. i wish i had instead, learned to sate myself.

m.v., I don’t want to be perfect, I want to be happy. (via findingwordsforthoughts)

#.................. brb kms #things elena is only just now beginning to realize tbh #eventually she stopped caring about being perfect and living up to everyone's expectations #well she's still learning how to do that #tbh #but she's realizing she'd rather be happy instead #ok bye #( the pretty lies; the ugly truth. )

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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Her words don't come as a surprise. To most, to her, it would seem, seemed, like she was mocking her. There was no reason for her to believe that she could actually empathize with her, that she understood what it was like--not to have a choice. Or to be told that your choices were faulty, that they meant nothing. It sucked. Her quip didn't hide the distance in her eyes--it sucked. For her, too. She opens her mouth to take back the words, to explain, but before she has the chance, the girl is talking again, voice slowly becoming a growl. Elena tenses, straightening as that same anger burns through her, hot and furious. She was beginning to discover that anger could indeed keep you warm, like it did for Airiana, and yet, it still didn't seem to chase away the chill that felt like cold hard steel in her spine.

"Unfortunately for you, my boyfriend can defend himself," She returns in a lethal tone, blood running cold. It was true. No matter her pathetic desire to protect him for once, Damon could defend himself. It didn't mean that the thought of him getting anywhere near of any of them didn't terrify her, that she didn't wake up at night with hatred for Klaus, hatred for Kol, hatred for all of them escaping her in the form of a cold sweat. But Damon wasn't glass. She had to trust him not to shatter. "So can your brother."

With a growl of her own, she steps forward. "But if anything happens to him, if you break your end of the deal, there won't be anyone to defend you from me." It was incredibly stupid, ridiculously foolish, but she couldn't stop herself, dark eyes seeming almost black.

she stared at the girl in disbelief, shocked by her braveness, shocked by her sarcastic comment. she glares at him, clenching her jaw, breathing in… and out…

don’t let anger control you. she shook her head, giving a half-hearted laugh. ”like you have any idea.” Sienna breathed out. but it did suck. she had no choice and she was even used as a weapon against the one person in this world she gave a crap about.

it sucked.

”if you’re here to defend your boyfriend. don’t bother.” she growled. he punches above his weight, I punch him in the face and she could do so much worse. ”stay away from my brother, and I’ll stay away from your boyfriend.”

#hi wow i'm sucky #i'm so sorry this is 9 years late #love u #sienna #gc #i kinda like them tbh #in the elena what r u doing u r out of ur league kinda way #( from porcelain to ivory to steel )

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idxntitythief-blog · 10 years

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the story goes like this:

calculated. his movements are so sure, so certain-- as if he's reading directions out of a textbook and has learned the hard way that it's always best to follow instructions. he listens to the general screaming orders and doesn't lift a finger in opposition; daddy says bite down and let your mouth fill with the sweet, sweet taste of survival, you've earned it. even lets him believe it's survival--they're just trying to stay b l a m e l e s s after all.

{ maybe they aren't so different.

she's daddy's little vampire, too, after all.

she just forgot how to follow the instructions. }

the pressure fades, then, but her body is still screaming, attempting to process the mind-numbing agony and the wounds that no longer heal. she forgets all about the tears, about the heart that beats too fast and too weak, about the body that has forgotten how to support itself. there are tear tracks in her skin and blood seeping from her wounds and oddly in a daze, she thinks: this is what it means to be forged from steel.

what a silly, preposterous thought. she is not steel. she's forever eighteen years old with blood on her hands and fire in her veins and lungs with a weak tendency to cry. her blood might wreak of rust but she will always be a graveyard, first.

she lets out a weakened moan as untrustworthy hands pull her free.

he isn't the least bit careful; rough and swift movements ripping the clasps free, an influx of blood immediately pouring from the wounds. she falls immediately, body unable to support itself without the chains holding her small frame up. his arms encircle her--

COIL AROUND HER LIKE A S N A K E.

a python, slowly tightening and tightening--- she knows now that it isn't just the force of it that causes a snake's prey to yield; it's the fear. it is the involuntary reaction where your lungs collapse and your skin hardens and you're choking and can't catch your breath and she swears, swears she's drowning----- water is filling up in the space around them and it's all she can do to keep from letting it in

{ it wouldn't be her fault, if she did; just a reflex. }

f i g h t. the word itself is a riddle, and if she were to say it out loud, it would taste like metal on her tongue. she should know better, really. she should know better. but she doesn't. or if she does, it makes little difference now.

immortality was meant for pretty girls with unpretty lives

{ immortality belongs to the dead.

bury her with her crown, if you must. }

war is something different. war suggests that she is a fighter, that within her efforts, she has become forgivable. redeemable.

{ she never asked for forgiveness. }

it should be so simple; to be a pretty girl with an unpretty life. the misfortune of a mistaken face and familiar eyes should not have taken residence within her curse. but she's just like the weather, can't hold her together---

there is a reason storms are named after people.

but her thunder has grown quiet, and the room has fallen to darkness. there's only the rain now, dark moisture pouring from her wounds, seeping from her throat. he could paint a beautiful picture of her, now, in all her glory.

she doesn't have an answer for him. because, in brutal-fucking-honesty, she doesn't want to fight. she wants to cave. she wants to forget bravery, and courage, say a big fuck you to dignity. she wants to go home. she wants to cry. she wants to laugh. she wants to throw up everything she's eaten in the last week. but she doesn't want to fight. she wants the safety of four walls, and damon's arms, and the knowledge that that is enough.

it's pathetic, really.

"I want to live."

she really doesn't mean to answer. but the words slip. she's surprised, honestly, because they're true. she wants to live. it's a new thought, a renewed sense of strength. she wishes she were selfless enough to say that it was for damon, or airiana, or her brother. she wishes she were selfless enough. but she is not selfless. not in the way she should be.

nineteen years of trying and it was still not enough.

she can reveal it to him, here: she wants to live. she wants to live--------for herself.

they've changed since the graveyard, haven't they?

he wants her to fight. she's prideful enough to give him what he wants, too desperate to live to ignore him. she can't tell the difference between the blood or the sweat or the tears, now, only that her strength is fading and she isn't so sure how to stand on her own anymore. with a choked gasp for breath, she lets her elbow come up and hips twist before he has a chance to anticipate it, elbow coming up towards his face and body rocking back as forcefully as she can manage. it takes every fiber of strength to do it, form caving within itself.

this is it. this is the moment. live or die. fight or flight. but her legs are too weak to stand, let alone flee, and all her fight is gone, he's taken it from her. war is not for winning. it is for surviving. what it would be, to survive.

the things about stories is, they end.

i'm sorry it's such a lousy story.

sail with me into the dark ;; Kol, Airiana & Elena

#this is such shit #i don't even #wow #kol #( graveyards talk. )#para #p; sail with me into the dark

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