He rips the gown from her body, dagger slicing through the fanciful ribbons that hold together her bodice and laces - hands quick and steady, branding her soft flesh with the tantalizing kiss of sin. She's aching all over before the torn dress falls to her feet and she steps from it, one leg sliding up to wrap around his waist, lips locked against his own as they kiss - teeth and tongue and fire.
She claws at his bare shoulder blades, having torn the doublet away some time ago; heard his low chuckle at her eagerness. He tastes like bourbon - bitter and sharp, rich and golden; she wants to smother herself underneath it, have it weigh down her lungs until she can breathe no longer.
But Klaus is a selfish man; one who takes what he wants even though it is not his to touch. He resents himself as much as he revels in his own glory - paradise entrenched in the ninth ring of hell, Klaus rules over his domain as he does her body.
His fingers are long and dexterous, an artist's hands that now trace down her back, cup the softness of her bottom and heave her up against the cool rosewood wall. But that's when the cool deftness of his hand melds away into rough callouses and frenzied want; the battering taken from military life that he commands is forever imprinted into him, sword and self.
It's just a different type of sin, he whispered into her ear when they first met. No different than the sorrow of death - for Klaus's deaths are glorious feats of triumph. Those who fall can claim - for one shining moment - to have stood toe to toe with the armies led by the great Wolf, solitary in presence but always surrounded. Guards and generals and foot soldiers around as he orders the left flank forward, rushing towards the enemy in careless disarray; deceiving them into plunging down from their hilltop and into the valley crest below.
It's there he pounces.
Without another word, Klaus slams Caroline's hands against the woodwork; pinning them both atop her head, bound by his fist as he lashes out. His canines dig into her unblemished skin and her lips have already been painted the loveliest shade of vermillion; she moans wantonly as his other hand cups her ass, sliding forward - almost teasingly - to the warm haven down the - oh! Caroline pants, breasts full and ripe, chest heaving as she thrusts her hips forward and Klaus only tightens the grip on her wrists - the hot flush of her body juxtaposing with the wintry cool of the rosewood.
On the battlefield - it's all laid out, ever so simply. The first militia supplied by Klaus coming forward to surrounding, the calvary charging at the disarmed enemy - their swords slicing through soldiers necks. Boys of eighteen dropping down, choking on the lifeblood that once gave them youth, blood that once gave them hope. Swords are caked with the broken organs of the defeated, with the great cobalt general riding forward atop his stallion; he is Ladon to his people. He is death to all others.
When he finally thrusts into her, Caroline's body quakes and quivers - an angel's glow coming upon her cheeks as the devil defiles her, lovingly so. She screams and urges and pleas, legs wrapped around him as Hydra would his treasures. There is something so very grotesque in the way Klaus tears down her neck, biting and nipping as he releases his seed into her body and she sees nothing but him. He who holds her now, ever so gently; cradling her body to his chest for she is never to touch the ground again.
She is his.
Klaus lays her on the bed - satin sheets of raging violet, the holiness of altramentous eve cloaking a pavilion of stars so softly that Caroline wants to sob into his shoulder, weep for the beauty of it all. He kisses her then, as the ticklish night air sways into the aerial villa; open arches welcoming it in, cooling the sweat on their skin.
"Defy it all." she whispers into his ear. "Battles are plentiful, victories for you - even more so. Don't chase tomorrow."
His hands slip beneath her body, caressing her back, palms pressed against her skin as she lays underneath him. "Tomorrow is mine. Never fear for me, love."
Her hands glide over his chest, coming behind his neck to his hair; she pulls on it urgently, panic arising. "Death will follow the battle. No party will emerge alive."
"You've been reading too many fairytales."
"No." her delphinium eyes search his but Klaus can't be bothered to read her fear; he seems incapable of quantifying such an emotion.
All he sees are summer eyes, fluttering black lashes - and love. Beautiful, tremulous love. How he adores her, the fixed point of the world originating from her soul alone. He wants to soothe her worries, for they waste away her smiles and tear into his agonized heart like a frenzy of harpies.
"Sweetheart - "
"Napoleon is not infallible." she murmurs harshly, pulling him closer, their legs intertwined as he lays on top of her. "No man is."
"I don't rely on Napoleon for my triumphs." he reminds her, fingertips tempting her flesh. "I've delivered for him half the world and tomorrow will be no different."
"Russia is not like anywhere else." Caroline argues fiercely, the sunshine of her voice giving way to an accent softer than snow. "It isn't and Monsieur Bonaparte - "
His fingers find her sex and she stops, stunned as he pulses into her and she feels her heartbeat rise.
"Be mine." he demands, he commands.
"I am." she returns breathlessly, body arching to meet the length of his fingers - long and rough and…
When she awakes on the morrow, he is gone and love letters are left behind.
In the beaming dawn of June's gentle kiss, Caroline kneels at the foot of their bed - naked and bare - praying for him. Praying for the bastard son of a war criminal who she should never have come to love.
Praying for the father of her unborn child.
A/N: Yeah, Klaus is rushing into the Patriotic War of 1812. Also known as the French Invasion of Russia. Things might not be as peachy as he expects it to be over there...
Brave Illusions WILL be updated! The date of when has just been elusive.
Hoped you all liked this tidbit. Historical AU's are my absolute favorite!