Okay, I usually hate author's notes before the actual story but this felt necessary here. I highly recommend listening to Thursday by the Weeknd first before reading, as this is loosely inspired by it. It will add some brilliant ambiance as well.
All done. Enjoy.
Thursday
Her hands, so carefully dipped in the harlot red varnish that she loved so much, (for the blood, always for the pouring blood) clutched at his sheets, desperately pulling, clawing. Her back was arched delicately, craving for more, a bead of salty passion sliding between her breasts. Her hair, which she had so carefully curled this morning, years ago, lay in a rumpled mess around her head, her lips swollen and bruised from his mouth, so cherry, so ablaze. She clung so fiercely onto him, her lengthy legs that he had admired for so long from afar (she had paid for that weeks ago, paid him in velvet) wrapped around his waist, her eyes bright.
He made her like this, every time. Fiery, wanton, alive.
I don't need to know if you're feeling when I'm free.
Her smart little mouth popped open, a gasp emitted from the perfect cavern that he adored so much. She was there, right there, and it was this exact moment (lips curved, hips lifted, body taut) that would haunt him endlessly through the week. Waiting, forever waiting, like the lion he was, for the next Thursday. For her.
His hands, so rough and heedless to the calluses bitter against his week (for the pain, always for the mounting revenge), gripped at her hips, brushed across her neck, centered her, lifting her to him, clutching her (needy, passionate, so cherry) there. His back was marked by her hands (so accidental), his chest meeting hers every time, his mind an angry ocean of what she did to him. Inescapable, his curls wet at the base of his neck, matted near his forehead, his body calling for more, wanting for more (and she always gave, took, but mostly came).
Her eyes, now a deep rolling sea, now the calm cerulean he got lost in so often, now a deepening black as her fangs dropped, as they always did (but oh how he craved it), scraping gently at the skin of his sun-speckled shoulder, and always at his disjointed nod broke that skin. She pulled away, licking those plump lips of hers, her eyes flashing back to the gentle azure and she gasped as he undulated into her in just that way, his hands brushing across her just there as her tongue caught a final droplet of the scarlet blood remaining on his shoulder.
His eyes, now dark storm clouds, now the deep tarnished cobalt that she found herself in so often, now a punishing gold that she had long since stopped fearing as his own incisors dropped (but oh how she wished for it), the ones that invariably would brush just above her breast, below her collarbone, that place that was forever branded Klaus in her brain, and at her own breathy yes they would pierce her pale, perfect skin. He pulled back, licking those sinner's lips of his, eyes altering back into his mesmerizing navy and he groaned as she pulled particularly hard on his curls (like sand, like a reward).
She made him like this, inevitably. Electric, paramount, alive.
Only on Thursday.
She could hardly forget the first time of their little habit. It had been so accidental, the way she had brushed past him. It had been merely a coincidence that he had followed her out of the bar. By chance that she had been wearing that little (so silk, sinful silk) black dress, her lips painted a daring red, a dare that he would not deny her.
She would still say that it was by accident that she had climbed into his car with him, and when their lips finally met (yearning), that when she allowed him to finally take what was his, absolutely it was by chance.
It was a whisper that slowly grew into a promise at the beginning of each week (still sore, still wanting), a whisper that called to him, that beckoned her, back, back into each other's arms, back home.
"K-klaus." And she always sounded that way when she was standing on the edge of the cliff (so high, impossibly off the ground), throaty, audacious, so acute in her pain (but oh so much more pleasure), that it positively made him growl from somewhere within that was really only tapped
on
T. H. U. R. S. D. A. Y.
And oh, just that it felt so sinful, the way the lovers' hips met (and lips and hands and oh, minds), that he couldn't, she couldn't, help being an addict for the way she called his name, for the way he answered.
But oh it just felt so impossibly right that his hands would fit perfectly around her full breasts, that her hips welcomed him so gracefully (the jigsaw that was finished a long time ago), that when he said her name (almost adoringly) it came forth easier than thoughts, that their lips both curved in just that way (arousing, careful, so cherry) that when they met it felt like the explosions they sometimes heard, that when he slid inside her both of them looked at the other and it was that feeling of never letting go.
Thursday, thursday, thursday, thursday.
It was Monday, and Caroline brushed back an escaping tendril from the chignon she had so carefully crafted that morning. Her hands were shaky, they always were when her mystery time spent away came up, partially with the excitement that oh, maybe they would know and oh, maybe it would be so open finally, and partially, but mostly, with dread that they would know and oh, it would be so terrible and horribly truthful.
He was her secret, her liberation, her narcotic, that pulled her through.
"Caroline? Helloooo Caroline?" Elena called droningly, lips curved in slight annoyance but a bigger part amusement. Caroline's craftily mascaraed eyes snapped back to her friend's honest face and she flashed an apologetic smile. Elena simply shook her head and Caroline's heart thudded for a moment in gratitude for whatever was up there that made her friend was so accepting.
"When was the last time you even saw him?" She asked, and a delicate curve of Caroline's lips was the only indication that there was some buried treasure hidden in her mind. She would shrug her shoulders, shake her head, and feign disinterest into whatever antics he had performed this week, all the while remembering the true answer to the question. Last
Thursday
when he had been buried inside her.
It was Tuesday and his hands itched, they always did when he thought about it. Maybe she was with her friends, maybe she was at school, or perhaps she was in her room, alone.
He shook that thought off because it would really be unfair of him to wreck her on any other day but
Thursday.
He looked disdainfully upon his shoulder, where there was a single droplet of blood (oh so familiar, like her fingertips) staining his shirt. He frowned, swiping it off with a careless index.
His hands still itched.
It was Wednesday, and she could barely contain the grin that graced her lips.
It was Wednesday, and he didn't contain the smirk resting upon his lips.
It was
Thursday
And those lips met.
-j-
It's when she finally submits to him fully and he finally chooses her over all else that the meeting of these lips lasts eternally, that the fusion of their hearts bears all time, breaking free of
Thursday.
AN:
I know that it's super short, but please let me know what you thought of it. It's much different than Ascendancy of Her, and I'm wondering if you guys would like stuff like this from me.
REVIEW. Tell me your most honest thoughts, please.
Best,
J.