Author's Note: There's no excuse for this nonsense. I felt like writing smut, so I wrote smut. I like dirty talking Originals, so there's a dirty talking Original. (Frankly, I think they could all stand to talk a little more dirty than they do.) And then I talked to Anatastia-G about it when I got stuck and we hunkered down in the Klonnie trashdump together. And so this filth was born.
She watches him take down their enemy, a blur of white fur and fangs in flesh. The danger is over. The day is saved. But Klaus doesn't stop. Their enemy is dead, dying, and he snaps his jaws shut around a limb and throws his head back. Tears muscle and bone until it comes free. Then he holds it with his front legs, and tears it again. Not to incapacitate, not to feed. Just to destroy. Just because he feels like it. Just because the blood stands out more on his pale fur than his pale skin. Just because his appetites demand it. Just because he isn't driven by his hunger like Stefan, he drives his hunger towards others.
" You're disgusting," she says, turning her head away from his mess. The terrible sound of tendon snapping from bone.
No matter what she does, he is still there, trotting along next to her when they leave.
She's the last one to arrive because she's been busy searching and scouring and scattering for the spell they need. The one that will weakened their mutual enemy. She's still in the sundress she was wearing around the house. The one with the sunflowers and the skirt that's a bit daring. She only wears it in the house where she can't be seen. Where it can't make her feel self-conscious and silly when she sweeps it against her thighs to sit.
All eyes are on her while she speaks, while she explains, " once I cast this, he'll only be weak while the moon is out. You'll have to kill him then."
They understand. Make their own plans within the plan. Turn to each other to discuss and formulate. Except Klaus, who she catches (catches? He wasn't trying to hide it.) eyeing her up and down like his mother never fed him. From her yellow flats, all the way up her bare legs, his head tilts slightly, as if there is more to see from that direction, as if he can find more skin that skirt doesn't cover. When his gaze moves up her waist, he licks his lips. Once he passes the modest cut of the bust, only hinting at the breasts underneath, he lingers on her mouth, then meets her eyes.
" You're disgusting," she says.
Elijah follows her words and her glare back to his brother and sighs with what must be a thousand years of age. " Try to focus on what must be done, Niklaus, and not your base desires. I'm fairly certain that when we left the house your manners came with you."
But Klaus only smiles.
There's an enemy witch against her. Arrogant and self-assured, allowing Bonnie to pool her own power and chant. She knows it will take more power to deal with another witch directly, but her opponent's mistake is thinking all the power is on her side already. That a Bennett witch can be so easily subdued.
They'll never know.
Before she can boast again, before her opponent can tell her one more time how much better she is, there's a low growl that rumbles in her bones. Yellow eyes in the dark and the glint of fangs from the overhead streetlight. Bigger than an animal, and yet vaguely man-shaped.
The other woman is shaken by the sight. What looks human but inhuman. What her own magic doesn't seem to effect. Every spell she thinks of seems to ricochet off it. Only seems to make it more angry. She has forgotten about Bonnie. She has forgotten her magic. She is mortal and frail and can be killed and this thing hasn't taken its eyes off her once.
She has never felt the power of the Original hybrid before.
The growl explodes into a snarl, and the woman runs.
She doesn't get far.
Bonnie cannot stop her death, but she can prevent her desecration.
Klaus must expect it. Though she throws him away from the body, he rights himself midair and lands on his feet.
Then he is upon her as well. Close, closer than she would like. Closer than she should let. Close and he leans closer still, wiping the blood of the dead witch off on his sleeve. The red smear looks ugly against the blue of his Henley. " Where are your manners, Bonnie? No 'thank you' then interrupting my meal with your righteous indignation?"
He is trying to box her in. Intimidate her as he intimidated the other witch. He is taller and nothing can be done about that, but she will raise her chin and look into his amber eyes without flinching. " She's dead. It's done, Klaus. Find your meal elsewhere, or are you going to eat me too?"
He had been looking away in amusement, ready to dismiss or disregard her words. So human and compassionate and bothersome. But something about her question snaps his eyes back to her. There is hunger there, but not like she's seen before. Not the bottomless stomach of a ripper or the sleazy indulgence of Damon off the rails. Not the mindless instinct of a newborn or display of an Original.
It is not the witch instinct that answers her, but the feminine one.
He wants you.
The answer shakes something loose inside her. She gasps, and though it shouldn't, she knows it shouldn't, her heart starts to pound. She knows the second he hears it. His face cracks like glass and he wants her.
The cold metal of the streetlight at her back shocks her. Has she moved? He's been encroaching again. And she backing up. And she let him. Because he wants her.
" You're disgusting," she makes herself say.
He expects it when she throws him the second time too.
He calls her in the middle of the night. And she answers, not because he wants her but because it might be an emergency. He might be holding somebody hostage. He might be playing a game with someone's life. He might have something useful to say.
He only tells her that he cannot sleep. And she is the reason why.
She cannot tell if he is drunk, and if he is, just what (blood, magic, alcohol) he is drunk on.
It shouldn't matter. She should hang up but she never does.
" You taunt me, witch," he accuses. " I would crawl on my hands and knees to taste you, and you only allow me your scent."
She should hang up. She should not entertain this. She shouldn't be listening, but she is listening and taut as a wire and she doesn't know which one of them is going to snap first. " Klaus, you can't. . ." She is weakening to him. " You can't just. . . say things like that."
" I cannot stop." The vehemence of his honesty catches her off guard. She pictures him standing up, pacing. Something smashes in the background and his voice comes out through clenched teeth. " I dreamt of you, as you were in the Salvatore house. In that dress with the sunflowers. I had you in their library, with my hand over your mouth so no one could hear you but me. And I left with the taste of you on my tongue. It is that taste I crave now."
" You only want me because I'm a witch." It's not really a defense. It's just about all she has to keep her from moaning at the way he sounds.
" I want to bury my head between your thighs and breathe you like air."
Never has another person talking so dirty effected her this way. She always thought the idea was stupid. It sounded stupid. It is stupid, except for when Klaus does it. Except for when he says things like that. He doesn't swear often, and he isn't exactly swearing now, but she can hear the wolf and want in his voice. She can hear the same implication as if he were.
He wants you. He wants to fuck you.
" Did you know you press your thighs together when you're aroused, love? You try to hide it. From yourself, and from me that night with the other witch. I could smell you then and you haunt me still. If you want my surrender, you have it. If I ask nicely, will you tell me what color your panties were that day? Tell me, are you pressing your thighs together right now?"
She is weak.
" You're disgusting," she says.
One hand ends the call, the other presses between her clenched thighs.
She tells him she needs a grimoire translated.
When she answers the door, there's no grimoire in her hand. It's just bunched in the skirt of the sunflower dress.
As soon as the invitation passes her lips, he's on her. The front door slams hard enough to shake the front of the house. Or perhaps that's the impact of him shoving her against the wall. The wall between the kitchen and living room. The door frame to her right has notches in it to mark her growth.
A knickknack falls from the shelves of the living room bookcase. She hears it smash, means to tend to it, but Klaus pushes her right back into place. Against him, under him, there's nothing but him. He will settle for nothing less than her full attention because she is receiving all of his.
It is not something she is used to. When he seeks to kiss her, she turns her head in elusive shyness. But he just follows, wolves run after what runs from them. She gives in because she wants to be caught.
His kiss is demanding and insistent. He growls, presses hard and she rises up to meet him. The sound of his growl travels from his body to hers and hits her just right below her abdomen.
She is panting when they break. So is he. She can feel it under her hands, the breaths that rush in and out while he sucks a mark under her ear. He doesn't need to breathe, but he does so now. To saturate his senses with as much of her as he can get, because he's as greedy as he ever was.
His hands, heavy and masculine, shove their way under her skirt. He squeezes her hips and her thighs press themselves together. At least, they try to, but only rub up against denim. He's pushed his knee between them first.
" Don't you fucking dare." His voice is heady and thick and she's never heard him say 'fuck' before and his lips are against her ear and he's got two fingers twisting in the side of her panties like he might tear them right off, right now. She wants him to. She wants him to. It's only her teeth in her lip that stops her from saying how much she wants him to. He saves her from herself with another kiss. This one soft. He doesn't overpower her and raid her mouth like she was expecting. No, his kiss is languid, his tongue only traces the seam of her lips. Over and over until she parts them on her own; another invitation. One he accepts, but doesn't rush, not like the front door. A show of power, maybe. That he can take and she will give. Or she can give and he will take. She's too dizzy to know the difference. " You smell delicious. Be a good little witch and open your legs for me."
" You're disgusting," she says.
And he grins against her skin. His hands palm her ass and then he's lifted her up. Up and away from the wall. The only thing she has to hang onto is him. Her legs lock around him instinctively and he grips the underside of her thigh to keep them there. " Say it again."
There's no hiding how hard he is now. All the things he's said, the phone calls, the looks, the shameless desire. Whatever ulterior motive he might have had once, it never stopped him from meaning everything. Once again, his honesty is her downfall. " You're disgusting," she says again. It's stopped being an admonishment a long time ago. If it ever was one. If she ever did anything other than turn him on. Of course she calls Klaus Mikaelson disgusting and he gets off on it.
He wants to fuck you.
He once said she had his surrender. She suspects he's been after hers all along.
And now he has it.
Her hand fists in soft pink sheets. She picked these out when she was sixteen years old. Part of a princess set. A princess set all three of them, Caroline, Elena and herself, all got that year on their birthdays. Nothing like the luxury sheets that must make up his bed. And he snatches them off her bed as soon as they get in his way. As soon as they bunch under her legs and try to tangle between them.
She now knows what he was trying to tell her with that kiss earlier.
That yes, he will eat her too.
He told her in his dream that he had to cover her mouth so she wouldn't be too noisy. They don't have to worry about that here. Not in the same bedroom she's had sleepovers with Caroline and Elena in. There was a stuffed animal on her bed before they landed on it. She hopes it's somewhere in her closet or under the bed. Somewhere it's black glass eyes can't see and can't judge her for fucking "the enemy" where she once dreamed of boy bands and Broadway.
It's not a thing she can think about for long. She can't think about anything for long with the way he fucks. The bed is not so big that they can roll around in it, but Klaus doesn't care. He's been in a frenzy since he got his taste of her.
A dent appears in the wall behind her metal headboard. Her bed frame creaks and groans with her, like they both might collapse under the force of his thrusts. Her nails dig into his lower back and urge him not to stop. He hasn't been as noisy as she has but when he does moan and his hips jerk forward off rhythm, it's the end of her.
Her head is still tilted back to see the metal of her headboard twist in his hand when he loses it right behind her.
She never would have taken Klaus for a cuddler after sex. But then again, it's not like he has much of a choice. He has exhausted himself, raw and spent with the intensity of their orgasms. He can only spread out so much in a bed designed for a little witch. So that leaves him on his back, knees bent with said little witch still astride him, but resting comfortably against his chest.
He is no longer panting, but still breathing and breathing her in.
She doesn't know when it was that she fell asleep, but when she wakes up, the sun is going down.
Klaus isn't in bed anymore. Though she tells herself she should not be surprised.
What does end up surprising her is finding him downstairs. Sitting shirtless at the kitchen table with a grimoire and spiral tablet open. The very one she couldn't read and therefore asked him to come read for her. He writes without looking away from the old pages; reading the lines and printing out their English equivalent.
He knows she's there, but he doesn't stop when she enters further. The bulk of the grimoire has been translated, he doesn't have much longer to go. She wants to ask if he's been doing this all day. Did he sleep when she did, finally having the cure to his insomnia locked in his arms? Will he be leaving when he's done?
She wants to ask but she doesn't. Because then she'll have to ask and answer for herself if she wants him to leave.
Instead, she drapes over his chair from behind. His pen doesn't stray an inch when her lips place kisses on his neck though he does incline his head just so that she might continue. She doesn't prove a distraction until one of her hands travels down his chest and into his unbuttoned jeans.
There's the crack of plastic as his writing hand stalls and nearly snaps the pen in half. He makes a noise between a grunt and the word 'fuck'. She likes making him say that. She likes it even more when his head leans back against her shoulder and he stops writing entirely. He'd much rather focus on her mouth at his neck and her hand around his cock if the grin on his face is anything to go by.
But not before he turns his head, eyes burning gold and glowing in the dim light, and tells her one thing:
" You're disgusting."