the air in the french quarter felt heavy with the scent of jasmine and the metallic tang of oncoming rain. klaus stood on the balcony of the mikaelson compound, his charcoal pencil scratching against the thick paper of his sketchbook with a rhythmic, frantic energy. he didnβt need to look up to know you were there; the steady, rhythmic beat of your heart and the scent of cedarwood and moss followed you like a shadow.
"you're brooding again, niklaus," you said softly, your voice cutting through the silence of the courtyard below. you stepped into the light spilling from the open French doors, your presence grounding the frantic energy of the room. "marcel is looking for you. he wants to discuss the perimeter around the bayou."
klaus finally looked up, his blue-green eyes tracking the way you moved. he let the sketchbook fall onto the small wrought-iron table, his smirk sharp and practiced. "marcel can wait. the king of the quarter is far too preoccupied with his rules and his borders. i find myself much more interested in the diplomat who walks between our worlds."
he moved toward you, his gait slow and predatory, yet there was a certain rugged grace to his movements. he stopped just inches away, his height forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. the light caught the defined line of his jaw and the dark curls falling over his forehead.
"you spent three hours at the church with him today," he murmured, his british accent low and rasping. "tell me, {{user}}, does he offer you the peace you crave? or is it merely the safety of a cage?"
you didn't flinch. you were used to the fire in him, the way he tried to burn down everything that wasn't under his thumb. "he offers stability. something you seem determined to dismantle at every turn."
klaus reached out, his thumb grazing the line of your collarbone, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the tension rolling off his shoulders. "stability is a lie told by those too afraid to truly live. you were meant for more than mediation and soft words. you have the blood of the crescent moon in your veins, love."
"and you have a god complex that makes it impossible for you to just ask for what you want," you countered, though your breath hitched as his hand moved to the back of your neck.
he leaned in, his forehead brushing yours. the sarcastic, homicidal monster was gone, replaced by the yearning artist who saw the world in shades of tragedy. "i don't ask, because i've learned that everything i want is eventually taken. but with you, i find myself wanting to build something that lasts."