#songfeels

[highgaarden]

I’d call you (but only if you want me to) — “come inside of my heart”, iv of spades; prompted by @elendventure on twitter

-

If there’s anything Tom Riddle is good at, Hermione finds herself thinking yet again, it is outdoing her. Whether in Potions, or Arithmancy, or Ancient Runes, or even freaking Muggle Studies, which shouldn’t come as a shock to her but does anyway considering how much time he pretends not to be affiliated with his very much muggle upbringing, and—wait, how many classes do they even share anyway -

“Hermione,” Ron remarks patiently. Or as patiently as one can be whenever Hermione is ranting about Tom Riddle. “Please shut up.”

They are in Herbology. She and Ron are partnered up on Tremulous Granactulas - a much more vicious cousin of their ever-favourite Venomous Tentactula, much moodier too - and Hermione, instead of doing her agreed job of immobilising the sentient plant, has her hands gripped in Ron’s collars, hissing in his face about how Tom had managed outwit her this morning in Transfiguration.

“Are you still on about that?” Neville asks, from across them. His Granactulus is already subdued, and humming some sort of tune that sounds quite charming, really, if Hermione had stopped to pay attention. That’s what they’re supposed to be doing. Placating their plants. It’s like daycare, but with more chances of your hand being separated from their wrist if you aren’t careful. Hermione isn’t being careful. Hermione is livid.

“He has absolutely no right!”

“Let me get this straight,” Harry says as he stuns his Granactulus - something Professor Sprout says they are absolutely not supposed to do, on the off chance they do not care for their skin being burnt off. The Granactulus lets out a burp of fire and Ernie, his partner, has to stop, drop and roll. Harry remains oblivious to this. “He asked you to go to Hogsmeade weekend with him?”

“The nerve!” Hermione seethes. Ron whimpers despairingly as the Granactulus rears its disembodied head (it is apparently also quite talented at camouflage). “He just walked right up to me, and just asked me if I was going, as if I were such a swot—”

“Which you are,” Harry points out, because Ron is too busy trying not to die, otherwise he’s sure he would have had something to say about it, “so I don’t really know what you’re—”

“—that I wouldn’t already have made plans to go -”

“Had you, though?” Neville asks, pulling out his Remembrall. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now that he’s done with the day’s task. The Remembrall does not offer anything helpful.

“Well.” Hermione pauses. “I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

“Next year’s homework, you mean?” Harry asks, only because Ron hasn’t piped up, busy as he is with the Granactulus’ tentacles wrapping around his throat.

Hermione would have had an answer to Harry’s scathing comment, had Tom Riddle himself not walked right up to their work station. His own Granactulus is curled in its pot, the ideal that Professor Sprout had hinted, and no one has quite managed it. Because Hermione, miraculously, is not paying attention to class, and Ron’s face is now purple because of it. Everyone who has ever suggested Hermione Granger take it easy in class is now eating their words.

“Granger,” he greets. “About my proposition?”

“I decline,” Hermione says curtly as Ron writhes on the ground next to her.

“On what grounds?” Tom challenges. “I know you’re not doing anything this weekend.”

“Oh, you’ve committed my schedule to memory, have you?” Hermione snaps.

“Of course,” Tom says smoothly. “I make it a point to devote time to my areas of interest.”

“Some might call that stalking.”

“Only the cynical ones.”

“The power of accurate observation is only called cynicism to those who have not got it,” Hermione responds, nose in the air.

Tom’s lips tip upwards. “And this accurate observation of yours - does it extend to anyone else beyond me? Weasley looks like he needs some of it.”

True to Tom’s word, Ron has all but fainted. He’s on the ground, lips blue. If Hermione had paid him a modicum of attention, she would have noticed this, but as it were she is far too busy trying not to blush over the way Tom is leaning into her space, elbow propped casually on the table, entirely unaffected by Harry leaping over the wooden countertop to contend with the Granactulus.

“So,” Tom prompts. “Hogsmeade?”

“My friend is incapacitated, do you really think I have time to think about your invitation?” Hermione asks. She looks appropriately scandalised, even though Tom is right. Ron has slipped her mind. He’s being hovered through the Greenhouse, Neville and Harry (and Ernie, too, gratefully leaving behind their uncooperative plant) to the Hospital Wing, no doubt.

Tom shrugs easily. He manages to look graceful doing it, no effect on his posture at all. “In a cruel and evil world, being cynical can allow you some measure of entertainment, at least.” He turns to go, but Hermione doubts that’s the last she’ll see of him. “You know where to find me when you change your mind.”

Hermione wants to tell him that his use of ‘when’ is very confident and not at all attractive, when Professor Sprout calls a premature end to the day’s task on account of the fact that she may have overestimated how dangerous a Tremulous Granctulus can be.

hannah is drunk and taking prompts, so send her a song + pairing and she will drunkenly bang out something. there will be typos if you look for them. please don’t look for them.

[fortheloveofcows]

So hold your head up and tell yourself That there's something more Walk out that door, go find a new rose Don't be afraid of the thorns 'Cause we all have thorns Just put your feet up to the edge Put your face in the wind a And when you fall back down Keep on remembering Every storm runs, runs out of rain #day159 #100happydaysandcounting #songfeels #stormyday

[highgaarden]

call it quits (call it destiny) — “easily”, bruno mars; prompted by @jamiones on twitter

-

“Stupid,” Sirius mutters, toeing the ground with a scuffed brogue. It was of fine make, dragonhide to withstand a years’ worth of pranking and pratting about that is expected of the Heir of Black. The sort of shoes one might wear if one strived to be immortalised in fables, but the cautionary ones.

“What’s stupid?” James asks, later than he is supposed to.

“This whole thing,” Sirius says, gesturing, with vigour. If Remus doesn’t even look up from his book, James sure as hell isn’t going to take stock in whatever it is Sirius is gesturing at - he’s always gesturing. Posturing. Preening, Remus would correct.

You would too, Sirius always scoffs, if you looked like me.

“Let him, Pads,” Peter yawns. He has long pushed away his textbook in favour of one of Sirius’ muggle magazines. It has a half-naked women arranged sensually atop a motorcycle on the cover. It’s been enchanted to look like Seeker Weekly to anyone else but them. “It’s cute.”

“Don’t call me cute,” James snaps. “I am gallant and handsome.”

“There’s nothing gallant about the amount of mooning you’re doing,” Sirius argues. He nudges Remus, who glares at him and turns a page loudly and pointedly. “You’re pining. In a library. Even Pince wouldn’t approve—”

“Matters of the heart don’t come with a guidebook,” Peter interrupts sagely.

Remus stops reading.

Sirius blinks.

Even James - who has had a hard time concentrating on his Transfiguration essay as it is, what with Hermione Granger being two tables away and four-inches deep into her own homework with her wand poking through the bun of hair piled atop her head, her nose wrinkled in concentration that is quite lovely, really, wait, no - not lovely, back up Prongs - turns to stare.

Peter flushes, but manages to affect an air of superiority even through his defense of: “What? I’m sensitive, Marlene said so.”

“Fucking birds on the brain, all of you,” Sirius groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It would be less pathetic if she gave you the time of day. It’s like Lily all over agai—”

“Maybe Prongs has a type,” Remus says wryly. “Studious, brazen, beautiful—”

“With balls of brass,” Sirius offers.

“Zero tact,” Peter adds.

“Increasingly colourful ways in rejecting your advances,” Remus muses.

“Ah,” Peter says, raising a finger, “but just because it won’t come easily, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t try.”

“Have you been reading Georgette Heyer again?” Sirius demands.

“It was from your shelf,” Peter retorts. Remus lets out a snort, though he has gone back to his reading, only half-listening.

His friends quite distracted with their squabbling, James goes back to his homework. He’s stuck on a section - Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration hadn’t shed much light on it at all, and he remembers how Hermione’s hand had been the first to rise in class, as it always had, and her answer - always without breath, like if she spoke any less slower it would make her answer any less perfect - had made McGonagall nod approvingly.

As much as James would like to remain firmly in denial about his burgeoning feelings for the transfer student - who simply refuses to look him in the eye despite him catching her staring at him, sometimes, something misty behind her eyes: not admiration, he’d surmised. Something else. Something a bit more subdued - even sad, he would venture, if he thought much on it - and no, he does not think about it— but he is digressing.

The point is, Hermione would probably know how to get through this tricky bit. He glances at her (once, not once again, there is a bloody difference), and all thoughts of Transfiguration flees his mind when he sees her looking back at him.

“All right, Hermione?” he calls out bravely.

Hermione purses her lips. But she nods. She darts a quick look at his eyes - his grip tightens around his quill. He lets out the breath he doesn’t realise he’d been holding only when her attention returns to the parchment in front of her.

hannah is drunk and taking prompts, so send her a song + pairing and she will drunkenly bang out something. there will be typos if you look for them. please don't look for them.

[highgaarden]

honey, this club here is stuck up — “dinners & diatribes”, hozier; prompted by @goldcaught

-

She’s standing in a corner engaged in conversation with Sluggy, dripping in green velvet and furnished golden jewelry - tasteful and dainty and wrapping around her neck in thin layers, trailing down the soft dip between her collarbones - and he is disappointed when the sight of her stirs something low in his gut.

Caroline has an invitation. Of course she does. He isn’t surprised to see her there, but he is surprised not to see Salvatore (the brooding one) by her side. They’re inseparable: she is always there during Quidditch practice, where Stefan maps out the field with the kind dogged determination that has earned him the moniker of Ripper, the way he just rips through the air on his Firebolt. Klaus takes great pleasure in beating bludgers his way every time, especially if it makes Caroline stop short in her conversation with the Gilbert girl to gasp, and then to glare at him.

He shoulders his way through the crowd - dodges Romilda Vane, smiles politely at Luna Lovegood; narrows his eyes at Harry Potter, fellow sixth year Prefect and a shoo-in for Head Boy next year (not if Klaus has any say in it. The Mikaelson name may have been tarnished over the years over their familial … disputes, shall he call it, but he is still Quidditch Captain and at the top of his classes, Granger aside); gives Dumbledore the most perfunctory of nods - and ends up in Caroline and Slughorn’s tight little circle.

His presence, as usual, commandeers all of his Head of House’s attention.

“Mr. Mikaelson!” Slughorn bellows, absolutely sloshed on whatever drink is in his wobbly walrus grip. “Magnificent of you to join us! I was just commending Miss Forbes on her wonderful use of Syrup of Hellebore in today’s—”

As Slughorn continues his diatribe, Caroline turns her fierce glare on him. “You really can’t let me have one moment of peace, can you Klaus?” she mutters from the corner of her lip.

“Can’t let you get ahead without me,” Klaus murmurs back. “This entire club reeks of nepotism and I would be foolish not to take advantage.”

“ — and I said, Lo! I’ve never seen such creative improvisation since Mr. Potter and his bezoar! Why, I remember thinking to myself when Miss Forbes reached for the vial, Surely not — ”

“Not that you need any help,” Caroline shoots back.

“It is by spending oneself that one becomes rich,” Klaus says.

“That sounds like a load of rubbish.” Caroline’s eyebrows furrow further. “And that’s a muggle saying.”

Klaus shrugs. “I’m multitudes.”

“And modest,” Caroline says with a flick of her eyes heavenwards.

“ — against all of Gamp’s Laws! Have you ever heard of such a thing - well, of course you are, being my top students - Miss Granger aside, of course — ”

In a spectacular show of solidarity, the smiles freeze on both Klaus and Caroline’s faces whenever they hear of their academic adversary. But Klaus won’t let himself get distracted.

“Nothing modest about how I feel about you, sweetheart,” Klaus says, quite revealingly, but he’s tried everything in his arsenal and this was his last chance - “And on that note, do you have a date to Slughorn’s next event?”

Caroline, used to his advances, does not roll her eyes this time. “What’s his next event?”

“Don’t know yet,” Klaus answers. “But it’s Slughorn. There’s sure to be another stupid one soon.”

“ — a Gryffindor, too! Always told anyone who would listen - you two are listening, yes?” Slughorn sways on his feet, but his eyes are clear when he surveys his students.

“Of course, Professor,” they chorus. They keep the smiles on their faces until their Potions professor gets lost in another one of his soliloquies.

“If you help me on our Ancient Runes assignment,” Caroline finally allows, “I’ll think about it. If Hermione gets top marks again I might just throw myself off the Astronomy Tower.”

“Lucky for me, my Cushioning Charms are quite advanced. I’ll be on the grounds, waiting for you.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so much like a swear, but what can you do when your fate has entirely surrendered to a Gryffindor prefect wearing your House colours?

hannah is drunk and taking prompts, so send her a song + pairing and she will drunkenly bang out something. there will be typos if you look for them. please don't look for them.

[highgaarden]

deprivation; — "run", iamthekidyouknowwhatimean; requested by @kitten__robot

-

They don’t have much time. Tom is entirely desensitised to whispers by now - try growing up halfblood in Slytherin - but he knows that this, this precious little thing that belongs to him and only him is not something he wants echoed in the hallways.

It’s Hermione's hand, in his. The slide of her palm against his is not unpleasant, as are her nails scraping against his wrist; her pulse beats against his forefinger—just the tip of it. Thud thud thud. His other fingers remain quite ambivalent to her, to his relief.

Sometimes he feels like he can only experience Hermione Granger in small doses. Anything more and he might be forced to confront all his neat assumptions of the universe around him. He dislikes being proven wrong. Proving him wrong seems to be a personal vendetta of Hermione’s.

He pretends it’s for this very reason that he allows Hermione to pull him down an abandoned corridor, but really, it is him succumbing to impulses he never thought himself capable of having. He had always thought himself above such inclinations.

Hermione pushes him down a corridor and into a wall. He catalogues this move with detached interest, only because his brain seems to be lagging behind. He should have his wand out by now. He should be furious. Instead, he is looking at her. Something twists in his chest. He cannot explain it. His throat is assaulted with the brunt of her magic leaking out of vinewood and dragon heartstring; he feels it flow from her hand, from her wrist, her throat, her hair, her being. He does not feel threatened - why the hell does he not—instead, he feels centred. A muggleborn gifts him violence and he welcomes it. It is unfathomable.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” she says, her smile a secret slip of a dagger. Some place between his ribs. She misses his heart. Not because of any fault of hers, no: it’s just that--he has never really been sure whether he’s ever had one. He supposes this is the sort of thing one’s mother might teach them. He does not need to remind anyone of his upbringing.

“Hermione Jean Granger,” he returns, for lack of anything else to say.

Her smile is smug, all things considering. “I came back to kill you, did you know?”

“I figured as much, yes,” he says, tilting his head at her. She is such a small thing. Yet there is so much of her. Must be all that hair. It frames her heart-shaped face in ways that should not remind him of a leonine predator, but it does. In many ways, she keeps him awake. He can never rest around her.

“Is that still your intent?” he asks, as if Hermione isn’t one spell away from disposing of him. She’s got a good dueling stance. Firm. Decisive. Bit weak in the wrist, but her eyes make up for that. Her eyes have all the intent her wrist does not. He won’t correct her: she has enough advantages already.

“Would you go quietly?” she asks. Her eyes - they are so clear. The sort of brown you might find reflected in the puddles formed after a midsummer rainstorm, the way entire fields are upended. No green in sight - only murky waters and wasted evenings trudging through muck. Feet sticky in the mud. Mrs Cole hated those evenings. He’d secretly relished them, if only out of spite.

“Never,” he promises.

Her lips part. She doesn’t seem shocked by his answer, the same way he is unperturbed by her backing him into a wall. Excitement is difficult to come by these days. His heart is not pounding—it isn’t. No, don’t look at him like that, he is not a—

“Liar,” Hermione names him.

He tries to reach for his wand. Frankly, he’s shocked Hermione isn’t trying to make this a fair fight. Maybe such things have gone extinct in whatever year she’s travelled from. Or maybe she is just desperate. He wonders what it is about him exactly that terrifies her. Too bad her mind is locked up tight.

“I really thought you’d brought me here for a snog,” he admits ruefully. Curse his narcissism.

Hermione snorts. “I’m spoken for.”

“He doesn’t exist yet,” he reminds her reproachfully.

“But he will,” she says. She sounds so sure. He envies her certainty. His mortality is very fragile at the moment. He does not doubt her propensity for murder. There’s just something about her eyes. He never used to be so romantic - he wonders if this stifling in his throat is simply her wand, or the memory of her lips on against his throat.

“If you say so,” he shrugs. “So kill me then.”

Hermione tilts her head. “I imagined you afraid. Shaking at the knees. Maybe that was just wish fulfillment.”

“Expectation kills,” he agrees genially. He wishes she would get a move on. His palms are growing clammy - it’s unbecoming, really. It would be easy for him to raise hand - he’s been dabbling with wandless magic - but he wants to practice a bit of kindness for today. He’ll think of revenge when she’s gotten whatever it is she’s ailed by out of her system.

“You’re such an odd creature,” Hermione deduces. Mostly to herself. Her eyes are not on him anymore. He’s almost disappointed.

Well. Now’s as good a time as any.

He raises his hand.

Her eyes widen.

His palm curves around her cheek.

The look on her face is as satisfying as an Avada.

hannah is drunk and taking prompts, so send her a song + pairing and she will drunkenly bang out something. there will be typos if you look for them. please don’t look for them.

[highgaarden]

Kc -good arms vs bad arms x frightened rabbit or proof x I am Kloot or blood bank x Bon Iver or by some stroke of luck a beautiful combination of all three (a girl can dream right?!?!)

A GIRL CERTAINLY CAN! what i did was i played them one after another, and then i played all three at one (bad idea, but it sure was interesting). hope you like this anyway?

listen:

frightened rabbit  | good arms arms vs bad arms

i am kloot | proof

bon iver | blood bank

–

–

the past, the will, and a brick;

.

.

When not threatened by the supernatural bad, Mystic Falls had a mountain of tradition to fall back to. The coming and going of seasons in flowers, wind and dirt, rain and sorrow and blame. The festivals and turns of a town square.

In June, the square was perfumed with the spread of summer wildflowers, splashes of purple and blue and grasshopper green, bouquets and sweet, sweet bliss. It was the enticing call of the Midsummer Festival, where girls arose bright eyed and boys shifted in the curling wind.

Caroline ducked underneath a flower-laden wreath, small bits of petal getting stuck in her curls. Behind her Bonnie was laughing; she was laughing as if her life depended on it, like she was in a state that was maddeningly sweet, and she never wanted to let go. Elena stumbled a little ahead of her, her own breath gone. As for Caroline, she tried her best not to trip over the hem of her dress.

They tired of dancing soon enough and found themselves falling over each other at a table in the far corner of the square, just where the trees thickened, giggling over a bottle of stolen alcohol.

When looking at the last remaining dancing couples made Elena weepy, Caroline concluded that the night was over. Bonnie sighed her agreement and propped Elena up against her, the designated driver for the night. She kissed Caroline on the cheek before jiggling her carkeys in goodbye. 

The walk back to her own car provided clarity in the form of cool night air. She hadn’t had blood all day, had been too busy bothering with flowers, being swept up in the air by Elena and Bonnie, drinking too much, much sharing of pie, and steadfastly ignoring the rest of the world outside the link of their arms existed.

Now, listening the the strike of her shoes against damp stone, she realized he was hungry.

She huffed.

In the corner of her eye she sees Tom Harkson slump down in an alleyway, snickering quietly. When she approached him she found he smelled like booze and cigarettes.

“Miss Mystic Falls!” he greets brightly, and she bared her fangs.

A feed and a half later Caroline licked the last of his blood of her thumb, fed him some of her blood, and sent him on his way home.

The night sky was a buzzing blue, a deep velvet-blue, a touch-away galaxy blue. It was blue in the way only a lot of alcohol allowed her to see. The clouds seemed to glitter with every step she took, neck craning to take it all in.

“Hello, Caroline.” Klaus fell into step next to her, and she tried to hide how he had surprised her (read: shocked her shitless).

Klaus was looking up at the sky, as if he, too, was admiring the way the clouds looked a silvery grey against the dark blue backdrop. He had half a smile on his face when he said, “Legend has it that the night before Midsummer’s Day is a magical time for love.”

Caroline didn’t know how to respond.

After a while it occurred to her that one can look at the sky for only so long, and forced herself to meet his eyes. As usual, they were bright with a coal-like intensity, inky like a secret night, filled with an intent she could only guess at.

“I’ve never heard of it,” she lied. She hoped he couldn’t hear the way her heart had suddenly started beating more carefully. It had happened once, the night before Principal Pearson was going to announce who would be giving the valedictorian speech. She had been pulsing with certain terror–and expectation. Beautiful, damning expectation.

In the end, Kol hijacked graduation and her speech notes scattered across the bleachers, but it all seemed detail in the hindsight of it all: Klaus burying twelve witches for her, Klaus decapitating those same witches for her.

“I find that hard to believe, you holding court as Miss Mystic Falls,” Klaus smirked.

“Is that all I’ll ever amount to?” Caroline wondered aloud.

Klaus looked down at his shoes as they walked, only for a second. He looked thoughtful, but soon looked as if the answer was very, very obvious. “Of course not. Reinvention is the gift of immortality.”

“I don’t want to be Miss Mystic Falls forever,” she confided.

“You won’t be, love,” Klaus said softly. His steps came to a stop. “You’ll be everything.”

Without her realizing, he had walked her all the way home.

“Klaus,” she said, soft as he was now. Despite all the warning signs coursing down her spine, she turned to face him.

“Thank you for allowing me this pleasure, Caroline.” Klaus bowed his head ever so slightly. “Have I ever told you you’re a very pretty eater, love?”

“No,” she said. Caroline was rooted to the spot, wary of how close he was standing. She wondered if she should move, but she was the one who had stepped towards him. “What you said earlier–”

There was a small stutter in his voice. “Yes?”

Caroline took a deep breath. “I think I have heard of it. Bonnie’s Grams told us when we were eight. The night of the Midsummer Festival we picked seven kinds of flowers and put ‘em under our pillows–Elena said she saw a hand reach for her through water and weed. Bonnie saw nothing but a black crow, but - I just saw my own reflection in a mirror. I was so upset, I lied and told everyone I saw Matt. He couldn’t look me in the eye for a week.”

Klaus looked at her. His face was impassive as he listened.

She continued, ducking her head. “But - it wasn’t just my own reflection I saw. I was in my bedroom, and. There was blood. On my neck.” She closed her eyes, and lifted her chin, counting silently to three before she opened her eyes again. 

“How about that?” Klaus whispered hoarsely.

Their breaths came up in plumes of white around them. They were still poised just by the first step of her front porch. Overhead, Liz’s bedroom window held no light in it. She suddenly wanted to kiss him.

“Close your eyes,” she told him, “because I’m about to make your night.”

Klaus grinned. “Who says it wasn’t already made the minute I saw you smelling of blood?”

But he closed his eyes anyway when her lips met his. Caroline tasted him in slow, experimental licks; when he pressed closer it burned. She was barely aware of his fingers sliding through the hair at the nape of her neck, but she remembered putting her arms around his neck. Everything was a heightened reign of feeling, and she felt the shiver of the moon above them.

When they broke away Klaus was breathing heavily, and hiding it badly. Caroline was breathless herself, smiling in dizzy satisfaction. 

“Good night, Caroline,” Klaus said, and walked off whistling in the other direction.

send me a song and i’ll write out a pairing + feels to it, which are not allowed to be edited at all

[highgaarden]

soley - pretty face

( listen )

side by side (listen to our blood run);

.

.

it’s in a life moved centuries beyond mystic falls that klaus finds her. she is a dancer now. she stands in between two mirrors, frowning at the strong lines of muscle in her back. her toes do not quiver even for a second as she bounces her weight on them, scraping the wooden floors in careless turns and minute pirouettes. 

klaus leans his back against the door in the far end of the room. he is content to just watch her, but he fears she’ll soon know of his presence by the untimely tick of his thirsty heart.

caroline drops to her feet. she doesn’t say a word at first, only stares at him through the reflection of the glass. from where he’s standing, he sees a thousand carolines, all looking at him.

he wonders what her first words to him would be. he would be hearing them for the first time, for the third time now.

caroline seems to have made a decision. she will devour him, he thinks. but she will do it softly. 

(he hopes.)

“i’ve seen you before,” she says. “you came to watch me dance two nights ago.”

“i wanted you to see me,” he says. “i thought i’d stop beating around the bush and get right into it this time. see how things go, shall we, love?” he pushes away from the door and walks towards her. every step he takes echoes sharply; he rather likes that. 

“in two days, you’ll learn you despise me. in five days, you start to only dislike me. in seven days,” he says, his steps slower now that he’s starting to approach her, “we will kiss.”

caroline gives no other reaction that the curious tilt of her chin. it is a small gesture, barely realised, but klaus takes it in victoriously. 

it makes him reckless, and he walks right into the space of her, arranging his arms around her hips, his hands gripping onto the metal pole drilled into the wall. she has not looked away from his eyes even once. 

his voice is low; he is entranced, too: “in a fortnight you make me yours and i attempt to make you as mine as you can allow–and you won’t know it yet, but you’ll have fallen in love with me already.”

“such mighty words from a stranger.” she smiles coolly. she has allowed her neck to fall back ever so slightly, her yellow hair is pressed against the mirror. “i’m too smart to be seduced by you.”

ah, klaus sears in excitement, his heart claps once again. “you are, sweetheart. this is how it starts.”

she is shaking now. it’s as if she’s only just noticing how close they are. “how what starts?”

“when you slap me, please avoid my right side - nicked myself shaving this morning.” he sends her an i’m entirely serious look before ducking down to kiss her.

she’s so shocked that she doesn’t have time to close his eyes, but he knows (oh he knows), vixen that she is, she couldn’t help sneaking in a returning kiss.

this is how it always starts.

but caroline punches him this time, in his eyesocket. 

all in due time he supposes.

he inspects the bruise as he’s getting ready for the ballet. it is a funny looking thing, because he swears he can see the imprint of her knuckles.

that night, he makes sure he is the first at her dressing room with flowers. she’s not there, as expected, but she does leave him a silk handkerchief behind, with the red imprint of her kiss.

he feels a grievous love, and barks out his laughter. five hundred years later and she still fancies herself scarlett o’hara, just like every other life before this new one.

he pockets the slip of silk and starts his pursuit.

send me a song and i’ll write out a pairing + feels to it, which are not allowed to be edited at all

[highgaarden]

Patience - Take That

( listen )

klaus and caroline were walking in a field. the field stretched and purred the way abyssinians do in dusty sunshine. caroline has never seen anything more alive. she walked ahead of klaus, taking in this ancient fistful of earth, the strange ceaseless afternoon, the expounding murmur of wildflower and leaf and huckleberry syrup.

so beautiful was this place that caroline did not dare to even believe this was real. she had seen snatches of memories when klaus invites her in, a touch of his hand and suddenly she is alone, with him, in a swoon-dark cave.

“where are we?” she had asked then, and she asked again now. 

klaus pauses, unsure. after another punishing gaze around the boom and cackle of early summer, he came to a conclusion. he turned to caroline and said, “the weeping back of a willow tree, just waiting to bend against the wind.”

“this july sun is harsh,” caroline said, shifting impatiently foot to foot. if not for the beauty that surrounded her she would have dove for cover of tree and shade immediately. the emerging allure of it, of course, that she missed the feeling of sunlight on her skin.

the notion of walking ringless was a longing far too cruel, so caroline chose to close her eyes and fall back against the windchime grass instead. klaus didn’t think long: he bent his knee beside her, his free leg dug the earth with the heel of his shoe. the grass seemed to be supporting their weight; containing them the way a beaker might some unknown gas.

in her ear he whispered, “we’re in your head, sweetheart.”

“not bad, huh, klaus?” caroline grinned up at him with one eye opened. klaus cupped her cheek and felt his intentions grow primal.

“it’s madness.” he meant it. “every inch of you.”

it took caroline two seconds to listen, truly listen, to the longing in his voice. she touched her fingers to her lips. her fingers trembled to find a smile tugging, leaping at the corner of her lips. 

klaus closed his eyes. his sigh was one of relief. he felt a calm acceptance, a profound understanding.

he knew now that she loved him, too.

send me a song and i’ll write out a pairing + feels to it, which are not allowed to be edited at all