poppycock: (#11005899)
ꀘ꒒ꋬ꒤ꇙ ꂵ꒐ꀘꋬꏂ꒒ꇙꄲꋊ ([personal profile] poppycock) wrote in [personal profile] therapize 2017-02-10 12:51 am (UTC)

[ there is no force in this world or another that could pull him away. not fully, not in the ways that matter. if it soothes her he lets her clutch at him, his hands caressing up and down her arms, coaxing and comforting when she doesn't relent; it's certainly no burden to do so. (he wants her to feel safe and it's a rare privilege to have even an ounce of that power.)

his fingers rest over hers, shaking against the glass, wanting and seeking to steady them. to steady her fears and suffering, the torment she's no doubt experienced. his hand lifts to hers reaching for him and stays it before it reaches his cheek, the copper and tang of blood filling his senses. he knew it before, scented it, but now the significance of the wound torn into her skin is a blow: it's a product of her, once again hurt, in the line of loving him. (and of being who she, so strong and resilient.) anger and the helpless need for retribution build in him, but klaus merely meets her eyes for a moment.

(an apology will do little, will accomplish nothing, for he is not sorry she loves him. but he can do this.) klaus lifts his hand draped over the glass of bourbon, his fangs dropping, his veins pulsing, and bites down into the heel of his palm. he presses it to hers, cradles her hand between both of his, and drops his lips to them, entwined.
] Tell me what he said to you. [ he knows. he knew. of course he did, and this is his confession. there is a promise of violence in his eyes, unmistakable. ]

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