a/n - mostly because Klaroline won TV's Hottest Couple 2013 and wishing you all a Merry (late) Christmas.
Monster.
Why should she? No, really. He's a horrible, awful person — sound familiar, love? — and he doesn't deserve to live. No, no, wrong. So, very, wrong, that sentence. You're the one that's doing wrong, sweetheart. Stop it. Stop. Her own subconscious even sounds like him. Stop. Just— stop. She just wants it to stop.
She should be thrilled. Overjoyed even. He's dead— ish— whatever. But she missed him—
No. Dammit she only met him— what? Twice?— and now she's contemplating ruining everything. Everything she's worked so hard to build. That freaking wall. You know the one, don't you? That one that keeps her safe. Just— stop. No.
But—
How should I feel?
Chains. Chains and he's still awake — did he ever sleep anyway? Probably attended a nightclub, biteclub if you will, with blood and sex and blood and sex... and him and sex. No. Stop. — even after everything and god, would he just stop looking at her? Creepy, creepy, creepy. Oh, but those eyes. The ones that lit up at the sight of charcoal and studied her because—
Hello there, I'm that guy that killed your friend but seeing as she's not dead (even though I'm maybe, kinda, using her as a walking blood bag) let's fuck.
That she would have accepted but no. "I fancy you," and "You're beautiful," and "Wherever you want," and blah, blah, romantic blah.
Creatures lie here.
She wants to scream, at him, at Stefan, at Rebekah (always), at the world. Like, what even universe? Why does he have to be sex on legs? Well, that's probably not the right question to be asking right now but if she ever met his maker she has a list — literally, not that she's obsessed with him...and sex... just, no. — of the many things that he (presumably 'he') did wrong. Number one, making the big, bad wolf so gosh darn delicious— oh, um, handsome. Number two, making said big baddie look at her like that, because it's just not fair. Really, who wouldn't melt?
Her. That was his problem— well, that may be a little down on the priority checklist considering the whole being locked in a coffin for a few decades and hid away by his own siblings because his mother made a history teacher go hulk with a badass stake and try to, y'know, kill him and end the vampire race thing. But, like, not judging.
Looking through the window...
And he keeps looking at her with that look as she sits and bites her nails. Contemplating. She could always walk away. Run off like the scared little girl she is. But, no. She really can't. They need him, they're family and it's the best freaking time of the year. Humanity, her only flaw so he'd say.
Oh, to hell with it.
His little whispers.
Key + Lock = escaped (probably pissed off) psycho hybrid who used to murder people in his spare time.
She didn't really think this through, did she?
The chains are gone but the body lies still. Blue eyes that follow the beautiful memory come to life. Long, wavy curls so close he could almost touch. Fingers grown stiff with age that— Just. Won't. Work. So close. So, very, beautifully, almost real. He can smell her this time. The vanilla. He almost drools, the almost is because he has lost all saliva by now.
Dreams filled with mouthwatering, rich, red liquid — thirsty, thirsty, thirsty — splattered on soft, sexy, black, lacy fabric on creamy, pale skin. Slim, smooth legs that never end, waves of perfect blonde sprawled on silky, fluffy pillows and lips— plump bloodstained beauties. Touch, touch, touch. Touch him, sweetheart. Greed. Need. Moreover, want.
Love Me. Love Me.
But—
Is this... Could it be... No. She's not... Can't... Here?
But—
Gentle brush of warmth on his cheek. Eyes seeing but not believing. Here... Her? Veins harden and blacken around the swimming pool of blue, blinding, white fangs push through vulnerable, pink gums — beautiful, beautiful, beautiful — and then delicate jaws open and close on a... Is she... Blood.
That's all I ask for.
She places her wrist on his mouth — what is she doing? — and the red flows in, pooling until he has enough strength to swallow. His sharp teeth cling on before she can pull away — oh my god oh my god oh my god — and his rough hands stiffly clasp onto her arm. Struggle. Why isn't she struggling? And, oh god, his tongue flicks in and out, slowly, ever so slowly.
He can feel it. The power. It all comes back. The strength. How her blood awoke him. Hers. Exactly how he dreamed it... Almost. But he would make it perfect.
Fear enveloped her, he bit her. Bit her with his toxic venom, and why would he save her? Why should he? He rotted for decades and only now did she even bother looking for him. Not that it was her obligation, or that she should even care, or... His hand reached up, grabbed her by the neck. Pulled her down into the coffin. Under him, his body — still muscular, another point to add to the list — pinning down hers. He's going to strangle her, squeeze all the life out of her or wait until his toxin slowly and painfully steals her breath. Watch as she pleads.
But—
Love Me. Love Me.
The slam of the coffin lid echoes and it's dark. Very, extremely, dark. She doesn't like it. Did he? Probably not, but she doesn't get to dwell on the pity forming in her stomach because he's kissing her. Him. Two pairs of rosy lips attack each other and she feels the ball of warmth that forms in the pit of her stomach and the wetness that forms lower.
"Caroline," She shivers. His voice that she — so totally didn't long for — finally rings in her ears. The needy groan makes her buck her hips and a growl follows. Nine hundred years, he's missed so much but this most of all. The one thing he never had but wanted most. Her.
"Klaus," She whispers in that raspy, breathless moan that outshines every way he ever dreamt it. Again, again, again. He wants— needs to hear it. With a buck of his hips and a lick of his lips—
He battered his tiny fists to feel something.
"Oh, Klaus." And he can't, like, really can't because it's her— her— and she's here. With him. The years he spent staring at the cheap, black velvet — thinking; 'Really, Elijah? You couldn't have spent just a few more pounds on the coffin you hold your brother captive in? How inconsiderate old age has made you, brother.' — that insulated his chamber of doom seem to slip away when his fingers mischievously make trails everywhere and anywhere, because he can (and he will). All that time he imagined scenarios — besides the steamy cheerleader on serial killer ones and did you know rotting corpses can't get boners no matter how hard they try? Not that he could do anything about it even if he accomplished that particular goal — of them. All of them. He made homes in his mind for each member of the traitorous group, watched them laugh with their metaphorical children or some family member or in a certain Salvatore's case just a whore, and then vividly imagined ripping them to pieces. Not that he discriminated to just that method of murder, oh no, he had them drowning, choking, guillotined, stabbed, staked, poisoned, falling off thirty story buildings into piraña tanks... He drew too, in his mind, he imagined carving into the black velvet lining but it always seemed to take the same curved, taunting, beautiful shape.
The coldness of his skin does nothing to help the shivers she can't stop. She trembles underneath his fingertips — cold, love? Want me to kiss it better? — and her toes curl in her expensive knee-length boots. A coffin only made to fit one person, so at no point can they not touch each other — finally, finally, finally — and she breaks from his lips to remove her top herself. He stares, disappointed.
"Red?" He says.
"What's wrong with red?" She snaps.
"It doesn't match your skin tone the way black does," He frowns, she blinks and looks at him like really? "And," He curls his index finger, on his right hand, around the middle of the fabric. "It's blocking a monumental view."
"I wore it because it's Christmas," She informs him, his finger pulls lightly at the bra and he releases it to snap back onto her skin.
"Christmas," He mutters. "How nice." A whisper she knows is filled with mirth. So, she kisses him. Their lips tangle again, slower this time. Savouring. They break and she tugs on his bottom lip teasingly with her teeth. Shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be doing this at all. But, as she said, it is Christmas. The time for miracles. He hums contently.
"Reb—"
"I don't want to know," He deadpans and she lowers her head, which he flicks up teasingly with his nose. "Caroline," He nips her neck. "Forbes," Kisses his way to her extraordinary mouth and looks her directly in the eye. "Do you want to see my baubles?" A drawl so serious with such level of humour and naughtiness can only be laughed at. That sweet sound he missed so much. He made that glorious chuckle happen.
"Only if you jingle my bells," She purrs and he needs to see her. The pathetic lace is confiscated and her leather trousers she spent an eternity putting on gone in a flash. Her panties shouldn't even have bothered to exist as they are shredded in a second flat.
Wondered what it's like to touch and feel something.
He gazes upon the beauty before him, he hates himself for not having the image as perfect as this in his dreams. He felt a tinge of pride that a monster like himself could gaze upon an angel so splendiferous as her. Magnetic. That's the force that brought them leaning closer. He longed to taste her, all of her. He wouldn't leave a single inch untouched, unmarked (by him), he'd pamper and cherish and love because he did love and don't you even dare expect him to admit it.
But—
She flinched. That pesky, little organ he had unintentionally allowed her entrance to ached.
Monster.
"Bite," She whispered. Oh yes, he had gotten a chance to experience the luxury of her delicious blood smoothly traveling down his throat. He moved his head down to plunge his fangs into his wrist when she tore into the flesh of his neck and—
"Oh, Caroline." His hands clamping around her hips and nails scratching her punishably magnificent skin. Hips bucking and she moans what sounds like his name — god, he could get used to that — and he buries his head in the crook of her neck. He inhales, sucking up her sent and getting high off the fumes. Pupils expanding and patience wavering and Ca-rah-line.
Old clothes ripped to pieces. Skin on skin. She looks down, regrets it because, oh mother have mercy, another thing to add to the list of Klaus' annoying perfections.
He leaves tingles with his touches and searing heat with his kisses and once again all she wants is it to just stop. Stop because she can't handle it, because he's going agonisingly slowly, torturing her with his tiny tickles of stubble and lips made in hell. She wiggles and whines and bucks her hips — his smirk only growing — but he continues slowly, oh so painfully slowly. If he would just let go of her hands then at least she'd have a chance to show him that there is better things to be getting on with but he won't; let go. Never.
He thinks; 'Why would he want to?'
She thinks; 'Why wouldn't he want to?' Because—
"I don't like you, I never have."
"You are the only stupid thing here. And shallow. And useless."
"This thing you're doing, this nice thing, it's fake, like you."
"No offence, Care, but deep is really not your scene."
How should I feel?
She is shaking with anticipation as he tenderly nips and fondly nudges and she's waiting. Rubbing up against him, attempting to persuade. He tsks and pushes her down, holding her steady and blocking her from reaching where she really wants to be. Almost. So close.
But—
Creatures lie here.
"Klaus!" She yells as he plunges into her, ending the aching throb of want. In and out and in and out — yes, yes, yes — and in and out some more. With a Caroline here and a Klaus there and perfect, hot, pleasure everywhere. Their bodies move, occasionally bumping off the edges of the confined space, in rhythm. They make their own.
"Harder," She breathes. He is all too happy to oblige. He rides her supernaturally fast — harder, harder, harder — and she screams out because she's about to explode and he groans because he can't hold it either.
The legs of the coffin snap and with one last—
"Klaus!" The coffin collides with the ground, they are left breathing heavily but not sweating or panting — vampire perk — and look into each other's eyes. Both planing all the other ways they were going to enjoy the holidays and communicating in an intimate, secret level that only they know. He's watching her with that look and she can't help but return it.
Looking through the window...
She draws lazy patterns on his chest and he peers down at her. Watching his prize for being so patient. Her head laying on his chest, their legs entangled. He couldn't have painted a better picture.
"Merry Christmas, Caroline."
"Merry Christmas, Klaus."
That night he caged her.
in a coffin.
Bruised and broke her.
soul.
He struggled closer.
inevitably so.
Then he stole her.
heart forever more.
\o/
and Klaroliners had a brilliant Christmas drooling over photoshopped KC pictures.
that is all.