Anonymous asked you: Hi, can you write a drabble were caroline cant sleep so she gets out of bed and finds a book with a few of klaus' drawings and then she makes a drawing in the book, (they are a couple)
Thank you so much for that wonderful request, I hope you like it. :)
She was drifting in and out of sleep.
She knew it was sleep, she had read it somewhere but it didn't feel like it. Her thoughts kept drifting off, turning into half-dreams that she could remember and control and then she was awake again and it seemed impossible to turn this into the kind of deep sleep she was craving.
It was nice for some time, a little like floating and she enjoyed the softness of the sheets against her skin and the warmth of his arm draped possessively across her stomach.
She turned towards him and spend a while watching him sleep, his body relaxed and his expression peaceful. Something rare. Even for her.
Glad to have the chance she eyed him thoroughly.
His disheveled hair, his long eyelashes, his prominent cheekbones, his full lips, the strong line of his jaw. His masculine neck, the moles that she had long since memorized, his toned chest.
He looked so calm and so human. He was a living, walking contradiction.
It was one of the things she loved and hated about him in equal measure.
When he said the most cruel and vile things his eyes would always betray him.
When he killed his movements were always controlled and elegant.
When he talked to his siblings she could feel how much he loved them, it almost radiated off of him, yet he mistreated and hurt them every chance he got.
When the beast in him was the most visible, he never failed to accentuate it with some sophisticated remark.
When he was passionate and rough there was always some part in his movements that was gentle and affectionate.
She'd come to the conclusion that this was the most distinctive, the core part of who he was.
She sighed and decided to get out of bed.
She was awake now, there was no way to fall asleep.
Carefully she placed his arm back on the sheets, wriggling out of his grasp.
Then, slowly and silently she lowered her naked feet to the ground and rose, leaving the room.
He wouldn't wake if she was calm – he'd hear a stranger approaching the house, even a vampire and most definitely anyone that moved around the house if it wasn't her. She'd tried this several times before. Somehow his subconscious could detect her.
It made her feel home and connected on a more primal level and she loved him for it.
It was a calm summer night and outside she could see the moon, giving the house a sense of eerie sanctuary stillness.
The wooden floor, the antique furniture with the array of accessories both of them had placed upon them (irritatingly enough their styles didn't clash but molded into one instantly), the expensive stuccoed wallpaper – all was draped in blue. The air was warm and she enjoyed the little bit of breeze the movement of her hair provided.
She was calm and open, ready to enjoy this moment in time.
But what should she do?
She decided to wander through the house, enjoying the fact that her footsteps were almost imperceptibly quiet. Moments like these had always been the time that she actually really enjoyed her vampirism. She was unable to sleep, walking through the house at night, like any other human does. But she was not human. Even now.
A smile crept up her lips as she let her feet guide her.
She climbed down the stairs, the fabric of her small dress rustling around her legs and enjoyed the familiar view of the extensive hallway and the garden outside, through the windows.
In the living room she poured herself a drink but she didn't feel like sitting down so she walked on until she reached his studio.
She'd been here many times before. She was allowed in every part of his life.
The room held many memories.
She knew each picture by heart and was always excited when she discovered new sketches or even a new canvas upon one of the easels. She loved watching the pictures grow, change, revealing things she'd never anticipated in previous stages.
He'd drawn and painted her here, dressed and naked.
He'd even taught her how to draw a little, a patient, focused teacher.
But there was something in this room that was still new to her.
She'd seen him drawing in it, once or twice but she had never seen what it actually was that he chose to retain in this book. He'd never shown her.
She opened the drawer he kept it in and pulled it out.
A very old book, yet held in very good shape, bound in simple black with a thin, golden line near the edge. She pulled it out of the plastic wrapping and sat down at his desk, switching on one of the table lamps and suddenly the center of the room was draped in a yellow warm light, contrasting with the blue of the night outside and the shadows the furniture casted.
She took a sip of her drink and then sat it down on the table beside her.
Okay, tonight was the night.
She didn't really know what to expect but she felt a pull of nervous anticipation in her stomach.
Slowly and carefully she opened it.
The first page was dark, almost completely black except for a few randomly placed light specks. But on second thought they weren't random at all. They formed figures, twisted and contorted almost into abstraction. No matter how she looked at it, from which angle or distance, it always seemed to be different, the lighter spots forming different bodies – if they could even be called bodies – and barely identifiable faces.
It was the creepiest picture she had ever seen. Bold, yet eerily subtle.
She frowned and took another sip. Then she turned the page.
On the left page there was a letter. Somehow the paper had been thinned into transparency and when she ran her finger over it had a wax-like texture.
A love letter.
A long, long time ago they had had one of their most intense fights about this. She'd really thought this was the end, that she couldn't possibly take this. But in the end she learned that she could and when they returned to his bedroom, making up again in a desperate frenzy she'd discovered that the frames had vanished. Now the wall was covered in pictures he'd made for her.
She'd always suspected he kept them somewhere.
On the right page there was the painted picture of a female corpse.
It was shocking because it was not.
She lay there almost peacefully, as if she was asleep. The only sign that something was wrong was her paleness and the blood on her neck. Her hands were clasped over her stomach as if she was being sent to rest. Her eyes were closed and her features were relaxed.
She took in a sharp breath and leaned back.
'my dearest Josephine'
She knew. She knew. Still.
She turned the page and was met with the same setting. She went on.
A letter and a picture. The writing style matched the picture and not all pictures looked the same. Some were men.
She halted when she turned the page and the picture she saw almost made her nauseous.
It was painted in red. There was nothing left that could have been identified as a person. Just blood and gore and fabric and limbs.
She turned her head and looked out of the window, her hand reaching for the glass.
She took a shaky gulp and closed her eyes for a minute.
Then she turned her head back to the picture.
She stared at it for a while longer and then turned the page, met with more and more letters and pictures. Finally, there was something else.
A list of names that went on and on for pages.
On the last page of the list there was something written in the right corner below.
'the ripper'
Her eyes widened. Stefan.
Gulping, she turned to the next page.
Katherine. On both pages there were pictures of Katherine, she could tell by her stance, the clothing and the dates written underneath it.
15.07.1643
22.01.1689
09.04.1720
It went on and on. In most of the pictures she was tense, her glance paranoid. In some she distinctively stared at something out of view, clearly frightened. An expression she couldn't remember ever seeing on her face. But the worst were those in which she looked relaxed, happy, free. Caroline knew that he always had an idea where Katherine was.
He'd been watching her, stalking her, leaving small, almost unrecognizable traces of his presence.
After that came another series of pictures the same person, a man she didn't know.
It ended with a picture of his corpse, heart ripped out of his chest and neck broken, his face contorted in a manner that suggested this hadn't been an easy death.
She gulped down the rest of her drink, turning the pages through seven more series' of that sort, all ending with a corpse in different stages of mutilation.
After that several pages were left blank.
And then there was a picture of Rebekah. Sleeping, no lying in a coffin.
Elijah, Kol, Finn, Esther. Even Mikael.
A boy that she supposed was Henrik.
She looked over her shoulder, almost fearing to see him standing in the doorway.
He had never told her not to look at it, never closed her off out of any part of his live.
But somehow she felt like a voyeur as if she might just not be welcome.
Then there were words. Words in different languages she didn't understand.
Finally, she found something English.
The arrogance and ignorance of these people disgusts me, it brings no pleasure ripping the live from their chests.
The only way I can attain a glimpse of what I want is if I destroy it.
Religion disgusts me, humans dwell in the thought of being a slave.
I will always remain alone.
Then there were pictures of people she didn't know.
And then there was a heart.
A heart clasped in a hand, veins still hanging off of it. It was drawn so realistically that she first thought it had to be photo.
A broken arm, bone sticking out of it, burned skin.
A glass container filled with red water and vervein leafs and bones, barely holding flesh.
She jumped back on her feet, fortunately not making any noise.
This was sick, this was twisted.
She ran a hand through her hair, distraught. She knew, she knew.
She ran a hand over her mouth, massaging her lower lip and then poured herself some of the stronger alcohol he had placed on the table. She downed almost half of it.
The next page showed a picture of Elena.
Then Bonnie, Stefan, Damon, Tyler, Alaric, Jenna, Jules. She frowned.
There was the edge of a ripped out page.
And then everything changed.
The color scheme, the texture, the atmosphere.
There were pictures of her, pictures she didn't know.
Several of her on the night that he'd given her his blood for the first time, then one of her when Rebekah held her back while he was giving Tyler Elena's blood. A picture of her at homecoming, several of her at the Mikaelson's ball, pictures of her for every time they'd met back then, even some of instances she didn't even remember seeing him.
The images grew brighter and brighter every time.
There was one of her lying on the Gilbert's sofa, dying.
It was followed by a page completely covered in black.
Then, more of this. He'd drawn every moment he had with her, up until the day she'd told him she wanted to give this a chance.
Then there were several blank pages.
Next she was met with corpses again, corpses of people she knew.
Damon's corpse, severely mutilated, Elena's corpse, Bonnie's corpse, Carol's corpse, Jule's corpse, Matt's corpse, Tyler's corpse, one of his hybrid's corpse, Alaric's corpse, her father's corpse. She gasped, staring down at the pages.
He hadn't killed most of these people, this was purely fictional.
These were the dead bodies of all the people that had ever hurt her.
The people he'd promised not to harm for her.
She couldn't look at the picture of her father, it hurt too much. It almost felt like betrayal, but this was not for her eyes. This was just in his mind. There was no such thing as thought-crime.
She turned the page, skipping over a few blank ones.
Then she halted, blushing instantly.
She was definitely not prude but this caught her off-guard.
There were pictures of her, again, in compromising positions. Very compromising, and clearly sexual positions. Parts of her body she'd never seen before were very visible to her now and she had to look away, downing the rest of her drink, starting to feel a little dizzy.
Some of them also featured him but never in the center.
She gulped again as she found the more explicit ones and felt a heat pooling in her lower stomach.
Okay, yes, he was shameless.
And yes, this turned her on.
A lot, actually.
They'd had sex before they'd gone to sleep and she still felt the touch of his hands on her body.
But the weight of the things she'd seen earlier turned it into something else. It felt forbidden, eerie, dark. And to her surprise, she liked it.
She skimmed through the rest of the book, finding that it was empty.
Except for one picture, a picture of her smiling, happy and genuinely.
She even remembered it, it had been in Barcelona, the day she'd told him she loved him.
She closed the book and leaned back into the chair, staring vacantly into empty space.
So this was it, the side of the person she loved, that she rarely saw.
She'd known it was there, suspected it to be dark and horrendous, intimidating. He rarely scared her anymore, even when he was angry. He'd never hurt her, he couldn't, she knew that.
She was even able to stop him from hurting other people when she was around.
But that other side was still there, lingering under the surface, striking whenever it was needed.
And dark, it was bloody, gory, perverse, terrifying.
But somehow, she just couldn't bring herself to hate it, fear it, never completely. After all, it was half of the medal, half of the contradiction that she loved so much.
She took a deep breath and decided on what to do.
Silently she sneaked up the stairs, to her study, the room she kept her desk and her things in. She pulled out a photo album. There was a picture she'd taken of him, one on which he was genuinely laughing.
Laughing in a manner that was almost out of character, that didn't seem to fit the monster that stalked, tortured and killed. The side of him that only she was allowed to see.
She took it downstairs and returned to his study, choosing a pencil.
Then she placed it on the page beside the picture of her and held the page against the light.
'Never be ashamed to do whatever it takes to improve you technique, especially as an apprentice. There is no cheating in art, there are no rules, only the ones you make.'
Focused, she lined out the outlines. She wanted the picture to be in proper proportions.
She had never been a good painter, but she was not bad either and she had learned a lot from him.
Then she put it down and did the details, the photo lying beside her as reference.
When she was finished she sat back, smiling. Not nearly as good as his, but good enough.
She poured herself another drink and drank it, staring at both of the pictures.
Then she closed the book, placing it back in the plastic wrapping and then back where he kept it.
When she went upstairs, first she put the photo back where it belonged.
When she returned to the bedroom she couldn't help but smile down on him.
He was still fast asleep, arm draped over her side of the bed as if it was searching.
This was the man she loved.
She climbed back in, gently wrapping his arm around her waist as she lay down facing him.
She was tired now.
Yawning silently, she closed her eyes and fell asleep, happy to be waking up in his arms tomorrow.