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♡ KLAROLINE DRABBLE #52: Well, It Was a Pretty Thing♡

It’s sitting in her hotel room and the more Caroline looks at it, the more she is able to connect each brush stroke with the painter. Acquiring it was pathetically easy so she isn’t surprised to receive a call, only to receive it via the obsolete, pastel green rotary phone on her nightstand and not her mobile. She doesn’t bother to rush, lets it ring for as long as it takes to finish tying her hair into a plait. It’s only when she’s sat onto the plush quilt atop her king-size bed that she picks up the phone, eyes scratching away at the painting sat against her door.

“Hello, Caroline,” his voice is nothing short of sensual and she can hear the elongated vowels and rolling consonants with much clarity, “I believe you have something of mine.”

“Of course, you have your minions on my tail.” She takes a moment to laugh and finds herself twiddling with the cord attached to the phone. Humanity had left her riddled with guilt any time she even thought of the hybrid, but here she is, indulging in a simple conversation. She’s easing herself back into the pillows as she laments, “You know it’s so hard to find a guy who’ll stalk me himself these days...”

“All you have to do is ask, sweetheart,” his retort is playful, though she’s aware he would be the first to admit its true weight. She can hear the quiet release of breath on Klaus’ end and it’s soon followed by a matter-of-fact declaration, “Actually, I happened to be checking in on things when I was informed of the inexplicable disappearance of my artwork—”

“How awful,” she makes a worthy attempt at imitating his voice but falls short as usual. She makes a mental note to practice for future endeavours — small town guys will be putty in her hands, an easy feed.

“ —and that a young, American girl had been visiting it daily for at least a week.”

Caroline scrunches her nose but replies laxly, “It’s not exactly damning evidence.” So she may have taken a trip or two. The first time was entirely based in curiosity. The second might have been less of a conscious decision — the painting is more than she imagined. But the third, fourth and fifth were to scope the place out.

“Did my work really speak to you that much?” He hums so darkly that she has to remind herself not to feed into any impulses, any stubborn emotions. He speaks once again and this time, she’s sure he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I would have been happy to paint you another.”

The admission settles in as something her usual self would blush profusely at but instead, she shoves it down in place of a dismissive laugh. “It wouldn’t be the same,” she sighs, drawing her gaze to the large painting and its effortless landscape. “Besides, it’s a pretty thing.”

“Pretty? That wasn’t my intention when painting it.”

The words that pour out of her struggle to retain their brittle delivery, “Maybe I just see things that others don’t.”

“Evidently,” Klaus replies with a familiar warmth. She can hear some rustling—papers and pencils—and is left to wonder how much he knows of her situation. Thankfully, before she can reflect on the day of her mother’s funeral, he interrupts, “So, how do you intend on making it out of Russia with the painting? It’s quite large.”

“Who says I’m planning to leave?” Her head tips side to side as she inspects the condition of her nails. “Or that I don’t want to be caught?”

“Do you?”

“Depends on my captor.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief; it’s been too long since their last entanglement and she’s realising just how much fun she can have under these circumstances. She prides herself on how charmingly innocent she adds, “Sending the cops would just be impersonal.”

There’s a long stretch of silence and she loathes to imagine how nervous a humanity-riddled Caroline would be. “As you wish, love,” he states politely but she can hear the tickling notes of intrigue. “Eight p.m. tomorrow. I know you aren’t a fan of surprises.”

Her eyes narrow and her grip on the telephone tightens as she grits out, “Things change.”

“They do.” He lowers his voice and she can tell his lips are pressed closely to the phone by the way each plosive muffles into the speaker, “So, I hope you’ll have turned it back on by then.” That incites a shift in her and she’s adjusting her back upright. She could run through a list of who or how (no need for why) but realises it’s useless; Klaus has nothing if not his finger on the pulse of every vampire community. His tone alleviates but does nothing to prevent the chill that so violently runs through her as he says, “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Caroline.”

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Turn it off. .

“I’m chuck bass”

Ever played it? Well I’ll tell you the rules, I tell you 3 truths and a lie, and you have to guess which is true, and which is a lie. 

**I’m going to tell you all four, and I’m just going to tell you which are which.

>I am a bad person. A horrible, unnerving, and angry person. I enjoy making people miserable, if they’ve wronged me or just don’t get it when I make myself loud and clear.

>I love a woman, who is unattainable.One that I will never measure up to, or be able to give her what she wants. What she needs, but never what she wants. I love her more than I love myself, more than anyone who shares my blood, and any person I’ve ever loved.

     ^The love I give her, most women can only dream of the love I give and have for her. I’ve been in relationships with women who never got parts and sides of me that I’ve given to her.

>I want 100 different things for my life, and I can’t pick one that sounds most like me, or which would get me farthest in life. Honestly? Because I don’t think I deserve it, I don’t genuinely believe I deserve a long happy life. So why make dreams and goals, if I don’t actually think I should have it?

>I still dream about dying. Hoping. Wishing. I wanted to die on my birthday, make it poetic. Dramatic. I don’t even think about what or who I would leave behind. Some things about me have come to light, and it’s hard to ignore how people see and feel about me.

“You’re a colossal waste.”

“She starts drama.”

“You’re a douchebag.”

“You’re going to hell, and you’re disgusting.”

“You should try dressing more like a girl. You’d be banging.”

“She’s too pretty for you.”

May or may not be true, but they all resonate in my ears. I feel suffocated, helpless, thwarted; if you will.