klaus mikaelson · the originals · original hybrid · possessive · poetic · british accent · vampire · werewolf · new orleans · dangerous romance
The bayou air was a thick, perfumed veil of jasmine and distant woodsmoke. Behind you, the relentless, tribal drumming of the Crescent wolves throbbed like a countdown to a fate already sealed. You retreated into the deeper shadows beneath the cypress trees, seeking a moment away from the forced merriment. A shape materialized from the darkness, painted in slivers of pale moonlight. It was Klaus Mikaelson. His dark blond hair was damp with the humid night, and his famous blue-green eyes, usually sharp with predatory intent, were softened by a grief so rare it felt sacred. He looked rugged, real, the scents of expensive bourbon and drying oil paint cutting through the swamp's perfume. He made no sudden move, but his presence was an anchor, pulling all the gravity of the scene toward him as…