A/N: Hi there! Okay, firstly, I know I'm late to the party, but Klaroline Awards happened on Tumblr not too long ago, and while I was so honored and amazed to have my 2 of my stories nominated (War of Hearts and Come on Closer), I hadn't expected to win Best Smut Drabble/Oneshot for a piece that I had written purely for indulgence sake. I'd like to thank everybody who had nominated me and voted for me, and I can't tell you enough how much it means to me that people appreciate my work. This humble oneshot is a gift to everybody in the fandom, from the wonderful people who had organized the lovely event, to the talented authors and contributors, and to everybody who had supported in many various ways.
Enjoy!
xXx
CeruleanBlues
Paradise Circus
Klaus Mikaelson stood in front of the full-length mirror, scowling menacingly as he fiddled with the death contraption of his tie, cursing his bastard of a father under his breath for the umpteenth time since he was forcibly ordered to return to that one-pony town for this sham of a wedding he hadn't known about just until last week. He scorned at his reflection—donned in an expensive three-piece suit that Rebekah, his baby sister and an aspiring fashion designer, had managed to nab in such short notice. In all fairness, she was probably the only member in his dysfunctional family who actually gave a fuck.
Their mother, Esther, had passed away three years ago, and nothing had been the same since.
"Knock, knock."
A blonde popped her head into the room, a tentative smile gracing her delicate features, but one look at his appearance and Rebekah frowned. Clicking her tongue in disapproval, she made a beeline for him and swatted at his fumbling hands, taking hold of the strip of silk.
"You would think with all the stupid functions that we've had to attend throughout our lives, you'd have learned to at least master the art of tying a tie, Nik," she huffed with a fond roll of her eyes as she expertly navigated through the knots and loops.
"Elijah did all that hard work of looking presentable," he sneered. "I just showed up for the wine and champagne."
Done with her task, Rebekah smoothed down the lapels of his jacket and pressed her palms against his chest, a look of warning in her steely gaze. "Try to refrain yourself from being a prick today, at least until the reception is over. You know how father gets when he drinks. The last thing we need is a scene in front of all these strangers."
"Have you met her?"
Rebekah's brows furrowed. "Who?"
"Why our lovely new stepmother, of course," he replied, voice dripping with sardonic intent.
"It only makes sense, doesn't it?" she remarked. "Have you two not been introduced?"
Klaus barked out a laugh, hollow and jarring. "The only reason why Mikael hasn't kicked my sorry arse to Siberia is because I'm stated on mother's will. Honestly, Bekah, I'm probably the last fucking person on this planet that he would even remotely want to address, much less acknowledge that I'm his son."
"Father is a right tosser, and he's probably marrying this poor woman for her status in the town's council, but I have a feeling that she'll be good for him; for us," she admitted softly. A hint of vulnerability crept into the icy persona that he had come to recognize as a defense mechanism, because of all the siblings, Rebekah loved the hardest and trusted the easiest. It left room for heartbreak and disappointments—both of which were shunned upon in the household—but Klaus reckoned it was what made her the most human of them all. "She's a sheriff, you know, Liz Forbes, and she's got a daughter who's in Harvard or Yale or whatever."
A mother's pride and joy.
"There are worse people you can be related to," he snickered, gently nudging her in the side and hoping to lighten the sullen mood that his sister had the habit of falling into. "Remember that gold-digging chav with her equally daft trollop of a daughter?"
"Oh, my God," Rebekah giggled. "She wouldn't stop psychoanalyzing me throughout that entire dinner, that fucking bitch. Kept harping on about some bloke called Marcel, too."
"Could've been stuck with Camille as a sister-in-law," Klaus chuckled. "That would've been a tragedy."
She shuddered overdramatically. "The horror. Anyway, I should go check on Kol before he makes an even bigger mess of himself. I'm not stitching another rip and if he somehow manages to lose his damn cufflinks again, I'll tear his throat out and feed his testicles to the dogs."
The git probably deserved it too. With the amount of trouble he constantly found himself in, Klaus wasn't even going to feel sorry for the boy.
"He's probably high as a fucking kite right now."
Rebekah heaved a long-suffering sigh, heading for the door. "I won't be surprised."
"Hey, Bekah?"
She turned. "Yeah?"
"You look beautiful, baby sister."
A dazzling grin bloomed upon her lips, cheeks tinged pink and thick lashes fluttering shyly at the compliment, and in that moment, Klaus mourned his sister's youth. Plagued by unrealistic expectations and insecurities, she had grown up to be wary of praise, to always think that she was never good enough. It sickened him during lonely nights, how two people could hate their children so much and still demanded their faithful, unwavering devotion. While it hardened Elijah, drove Finn away and made Kol callous, Rebekah rose above the stigma that stuck to their family name like rotten mold and emerged a queen in her own rights.
Today, though, draped in burgundy red, the luscious fabric cascading over her curves like the finest of wines, she was grace and elegance, confident in her own skin once again, and a small part of him, though extremely proud, was envious of her ease.
"Thank you, Nik," Rebekah whispered, and with a final reminder not to be late, she disappeared down the hallway.
An antique cabinet sat at the far corner, stocked with some of his favorites. After pouring two fingers of Macallan into a glass tumbler, he stood in front of the window, glaring at all the guests milling in the back garden, none of whom he actually recognized but wanted very much to use as target practice. Perhaps he could even enlist Kol's help and they could reminisce on their golden days. The brat had been a notorious pyromaniac as a kid—would set the strangest things on fire—and it had driven their numerous nannies mad. Klaus had always had impeccable aim—darts, a crossbow, the semi-automatic that was stupidly hidden in Mikael's study drawer—and together, they had been a raging nightmare to deal with until Kol was forced into therapy.
It's unfortunate that when we feel a stone
We can roll ourselves over 'cause we're uncomfortable
The hurried clacking of stilettos snapped him out of the devious plan he had been concocting, and Klaus spun around as a girl—a young woman—barged into the room and stalked straight for the scotch. She appeared to be slightly older than his sister, flaxen strands intricately piled up atop her head, wispy tendrils framing her face, and judging by the way she was brazenly draining the contents straight off the bottle, Klaus was inclined to either laugh at her blatantly frazzled state or to unleash the wrath of his annoyance for encroaching into his private space.
"I so needed that," she hummed, wiping her rouge-tinted lips with the back of her hand, and still oblivious to his presence. "This fucking wedding is driving me nuts."
"Can I help you, love?"
She yelped, startled, cornflower blue eyes wide as she swiftly recovered to regard him with a confused tilt of her head, and he couldn't help but find her utterly stunning, even in such discontent. "Who the hell are you?" she asked, her tone slightly accusing.
Feisty and radiant.
A surge of arousal flared low in his groin.
He closed the gap between them with even strides. "Forgive me, sweetheart, but I believe you're the one who's intruding here?"
Oh well, the devil makes us sin
But we like it when we're spinning in his grip
The play of emotions on her façade was a treat to witness, so expressive, he could pinpoint the exact moment she steeled her resolve with an apologetic grimace that was probably more endearing than she had intended. "I'm sorry," she sincerely replied. "I just really needed a pick-me-up before I lose my mind. I'm Caroline."
"Nik."
Gently taking her outstretched hand, he brought it up to his lips, dropping a kiss to her knuckles. The tiny gasp that escaped from her throat was music and sin, and when his gaze flickered up to meet hers, Klaus smirked; reveled in the instantaneous way her pupils had dilated in unadulterated lust, drowning the rings of cerulean with a spiraling abyss.
"You know, Caroline," he drawled, his timbre dropping an octave, syllables slithering suggestively, husky with want as he caressed at her smooth skin with his thumb. "If you're looking to de-stress, I have a much better solution."
"Seriously?" she snorted, arms folded across her ample chest. "That has to be the most clichéd pick-up line I've ever heard."
"I'll concede that it wasn't my best."
"So it was a pick-up line?"
"Would it have worked if we were in a dingy bar?" he quipped back; enchanted by her luminous smile and deciding he rather appreciated her quick wit.
She arched an eyebrow. "Just to be clear, I'm too smart to be seduced by you."
"Well, that's why I like you."
She was unceremoniously shoved up against the windowpane, a hard wall of lean muscles crowding into her, strong arms caging her in; too overwrought in the man's heady kisses to notice the sill digging painfully into her lower back. His tongue invaded her mouth, dexterously sliding between her teeth, exploring every crevice and tasting remnants of the alcohol. Sweet and bitter and something else she couldn't quite identify, yet she was already compulsively addicted to. Suffused by the onslaught of wild sensations, Caroline moaned as he wedged a knee between her readily parted legs and ground his pelvis down onto hers.
"Oh, fuck," she exhaled, undulating into the hardened bulge currently straining against the confines of his steam-pressed trousers. Restless fingers grappled at the soft strands of his short, dirty blonde hair, tugging impatiently, silently begging for more. "Fuck, fuck—Nik—"
"Easy, love," he crooned lasciviously in her ear before nipping at her lobe and nuzzling at the juncture below her jaw. A delicious shiver ran down her spine as heat pooled like liquid ambrosia in her belly, Nik's hot breath tickling her pulse point so fucking perfectly when he chortled; dark and dangerous. "What do you want, Caroline?"
"You," she whimpered.
He retrieved one hand and splayed it over her exposed collarbone, his palm warm and heavy against her thrumming heart. "You need to be a bit more specific than that, sweetheart," he murmured, skimming teasingly over the swell of her breast and venturing further south to land on her thigh. "Tell me what you want."
"Quit being an ass, Nik," she hissed, releasing her death grip on his tousled mane to trace the bumps of his torso through the cotton of his shirt, jacket long forgotten somewhere on the carpet. "In case you've forgotten, we're in a bit of a hurry."
"Fuck," he swore. "Next time, then."
Before Caroline could contemplate too deeply on what he actually meant by that, Nik had the skirt of her dress bunched up around her waist and was unbuckling his leather belt with a fresh burst of urgency. She mewled when his knuckles brushed against the dampened lace concealing her dripping core, squirming as her nails dug reflexively into the meat of his shoulders. There was a give of the zipper, a leg hitched over his hip and a sharp rip of her underwear. In one fluid motion, he was buried to the hilt.
She cried out to the heavens; cursed his name as though he was the devil himself. "Nik!"
"Fuck, love, you feel so fucking good," he grunted, pressing his forehead against hers and then recapturing her swollen lips in a searing kiss. He pinned her there for a moment, rutting gently, sinking deeper still. "So exquisite, Caroline—so fucking warm and tight—"
Nik withdrew; just barely, and then promptly drove back in.
"Shit," she groaned, head falling backwards and eyes screwed shut as he relentlessly pounded into her. Again and again, he fucked her like a man dying of thirst; as though she was the first real drop of water he had tasted in years. A growl rumbled low and carnal against her collarbone as he grasped at the nape of her neck and dragged her gaze back onto his, the blue of his irises intense and overwhelming.
Hypnotic.
"I'm not going to last much longer, sweetheart," he grated out, already half-wrecked. Beads of perspiration dotted his temples, a cowlick plastered adorably on his forehead.
"Oh, God, me neither," she managed between ragged pants. "Nik—please—"
His thumb sought out the tiny bundle of nerves between them, stroking in tight circles before he pressed down hard on it, and her world all but erupted in swirling neon lights. Another swift thrust and he stilled, blunt canines sinking into pale flesh as he spilled into her; twitched and throbbed with shallow pumps until he was entirely spent. They slumped onto each other, boneless and sated, his arms wrapped loosely around her pliant frame, and Caroline didn't think she had ever felt safer in her entire life.
Someone rapped rudely on the door, jarring her back to the present.
"Nik!" a woman called out exasperatedly, her accent identical to Klaus', and it made Caroline freeze, a sudden chill in her veins. "Fucking hell, you better not be wanking in there!"
Hot air puffed against her sternum, a mix between a laugh and a sigh, though he hadn't pulled away. "Shit," he muttered before raising his voice. "Fuck off, Bekah!"
"Everybody's looking for you, you jerk," she yelled back. Caroline attempted to subtly extract herself from Nik's unyielding hold. Instead, he tucked her further into his embrace with a near-defiant shake of his head. "I don't care which bint you're shagging in there, but you had better be down in the next thirty seconds or I swear to God, Nik—"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Bekah!"
"Thirty seconds, Nik, or I'm sending Kol in."
The silence that befell them thereafter was excruciatingly awkward, the sudden realization that she'd just had sex with a literal stranger—a guest of the groom's, if the accent was any indication, and at her own mother's wedding, no less—striking her with guilt-ridden mortification; not only because it was highly inappropriate given the occasion, but also because it was so unlike her to sleep with random men she barely knew. The neurotic control freak in her began to panic, threatening to lash out and flee, even though chances were that she might never see him or his cute dimples ever again.
"I suppose that's our cue, love."
She blinked out of her reverie, noticing that Nik had already attempted to straighten his clothes out as best as he could, although his tie was still slightly askew. Before she could fathom out her actions, Caroline had taken the expensive silk between her fingers and was effortlessly redoing the knot.
"You do this a lot, sweetheart?"
Peering up at him through the thick fan of her lashes, Caroline feigned innocence. "The sex or the tie?"
"Given the right circumstances, they can go hand-in-hand."
The shit-eating grin on his roguish mug promised a myriad list of wonderfully prurient possibilities that sent her blood racing, but Caroline would be damned before she gave him the satisfaction of knowing just how much the idea turned her on. With impressive nonchalance, she flattened his starched collar and took a step back, admiring her immaculate work before returning Nik's heated stare with one of her own.
"You would be so lucky."
Klaus found himself seated in the second fucking row between Kol and Elijah. The first had been reserved exclusively for people more important in Mikael's narcissistic world—investors, the sleazy duffer that was his lawyer, the Mayor and barmy councilmen alike—and then those he would be potentially sucking up to and then exploiting in the near future. The man himself was already in position at the altar; standing alone, proud and aloof, because none of his sons had offered to be his damned best man. Still, he wondered what their abnormality must look like to the rest of the people in attendance. With their decorous Southern hospitality, white picket fences and endless traditions, the Mikaelsons and their accents probably stuck out like a sore thumb.
"I can't believe I'm missing the fucking game for this shit," Kol groused like the petulant child that he was. Reaching into his slightly rumpled jacket, the fool swiftly produced a hip flask from inside his pocket, disregarded basic etiquette—and Rebekah's horrified sputtering—and took a hearty swig before nudging it into Klaus' stomach. "Want some?"
Elijah frowned, disapproving of such juvenile behavior—then again, when hasn't he ever—and Klaus was big enough of a dick to challenge his older brother's stuffy authority, accepting the offered vintage and colluding with the family's resident felon. They stayed that way for a while, just glowering at each other until Elijah eventually caved in and glanced away. Pettily triumphant, Klaus sniggered and dropped the flask onto Kol's lap just as the starting notes of the wedding march trilled over the speakers.
Everybody eagerly turned in their gold chiavari chairs; Klaus slightly slower on the uptake, following suit and pivoting around only out of basic obligation. His eyes trailed the red carpet, chasing its length when a pair of beige-colored heels stepped into his line of sight. His mouth ran dry then, immediately recognizing the familiar shade of pastel pink, slippery chiffon still tingling on his fingertips. She held a modest bouquet, the other arm looped around her escort; a bored-looking blighter who appeared to be nursing a hangover of some sort, Ray Bans perched obnoxiously on his nose. Something primal in him flared green. Klaus clenched his fists, physically restraining himself from leaping out of his seat and pummeling the prat to a pulp.
Love is like a sin, my love,
For the ones that feel it the most
Look at her with her eyes like a flame
She will love you like a fly will never love you again
Her hair fell in loose curls over her shoulders, no longer in the up-do she had earlier, and Klaus wondered, rather selfishly, if he had been the cause of it. With the carriage of a pageant queen, she strutted down the aisle, back straight and chin held high, and a smile that he noticed was too thin and strained to be anything but perfunctory and polite.
He tracked her journey as she paused at the front, kindly allowing the knob to plant a sloppy peck on her cheek before he lumbered off, and she took her position.
And then reality slammed into his skull like a fucking wrecking ball.
"Fuck."
"Did you say something, Nik?" Rebekah asked.
Valiantly, he wrestled past the lump in his throat. "The blonde," he croaked. "Who is she?"
"That's Caroline Forbes," she supplied, her voice uncharacteristically small as she shifted in place, fussing about the non-existent wrinkle on her clothes. "Liz's daughter."
Klaus was brought to his feet when the bride—unconventionally without an escort—made her way up to the altar and observed as the two women embraced, a parent and a child who clearly loved each other dearly. The resemblance was evident even from the distance, but it was the easy comfort in which they acted with each other that had something foreign stirring in his gut.
"I'd shag her right now in front of all these people if she weren't my fucking stepsister," Kol leered. His crassness earned him a good cuff to the back of his head. "Fuck, Nik!"
"Watch your tongue," Klaus snarled. "She's not one of your trollops, Kol."
The younger man eyed him suspiciously; always perceptive beneath the hedonistically lackadaisical demeanor he projected to the world. "Aren't we a little defensive? What's she to you, anyway?"
"Nothing. I don't even know her."
Straight ahead, vows were being exchanged but Kol didn't seem to care. He leaned in closer to his older brother, a knowing, conspirational glint in his brown orbs.
"But you want to," he whispered. "Don't you?"
Klaus chose to ignore him, instead acting like he actually gave a damn about the ceremony. Kol scrutinized him for a while longer, clearly not buying into his bullshit, but otherwise kept his huge trap shut and ultimately lost all interest, turning back to his tipple.
"You may now kiss the bride," the officiator announced.
Not wanting to witness Mikael slobber all over his newly wedded wife, Klaus swiftly averted his attention as the smattering of applause echoed around him. Almost instinctively, he sought her out, and fuck if Caroline wasn't the most beautiful creature he had ever seen; even through the tears she tried to conceal, but Kol's accusation scratched like fucking nails on a chalkboard, yet he couldn't deny the truth in those condemning words.
But the lines had now been drawn, blatant and imposing, the universe laughing in his face, the tragedy that was his life.
It was irrevocable that she would find out.
They could then brush it off as an honest mistake—stupid, impulsive and a momentary lapse in judgment on both parties involved—move on and never talk about it. He would be in New Orleans and she would return to her studies, in a campus fifteen hundred miles away, and he would continue to avoid the holidays like the fucking plague because it would just be better that way. Nobody would know of their indiscretions and he might just live to see another day.
Might just be able to pretend that he wasn't already falling for his stepsister.
Tyler was a shallow and conceited douchebag who, apart from being too obtuse not to notice the second she had stopped listening to him bragging about being his college's star quarterback, didn't possess the capabilities of holding a legitimate, half-intelligent conversation to save his life. Not even the empty flute of champagne in her hand—he hadn't even offered to get her a fucking refill—could trick her into thinking that he was at least marginally interesting.
It's unfortunate that when we feel a stone
We can roll ourselves over when we're uncomfortable
It was all a crude façade, of course, and wasn't exactly a closely guarded secret. His mom, Mayor Carol Lockwood—who had been not-so-subtly monitoring their interactions like a hawk—had a reputation to uphold, and as such, her son's association to Mystic Falls' Golden Girl would do wonders for her status in the council, even more so now, considering the prestige and wealth that surrounded the Mikaelsons like scavenging vultures.
Power struggles and fucking politics.
Things certainly hadn't changed in that aspect in the Podunk town.
Caroline caught sight of her mother amidst the small crowd, swaying in the arms of her new husband. His stance was rigid and stiff, almost mechanical in the way he shuffled his feet, but Liz didn't seem to mind his ineptitude as she beamed adoringly up at him, looking contented and relaxed in a way that she hadn't since her divorce with Bill. Being the sheriff hadn't allowed Liz the luxury of dating, and when Caroline had left for Massachusetts, pulling double shifts became a norm for her. Caroline had made an effort to call home as often as her schedule permitted, but no matter how chirpy her mother had sounded over the phone, deep down, it hadn't escaped her that Liz was lonely.
Mikael had swooped into the neighborhood half a year ago, having just uprooted his life from London with the intention of wanting to expand his business in foreign soil. They had bumped into each other when he had gotten lost late one evening wandering through the woods. Liz had fortunately been on patrol, and from what Caroline had heard, the rest was history.
Four months later, they were planning a wedding, and nothing about that had sat well with Caroline. Firstly, she hadn't even met Mikael, and although her mother hadn't offered much in terms of details, Jeremy Gilbert and Matt Donovan had no such qualms dispatching updates through routine text messages. From everything she had gathered, he wasn't a pleasant customer—his English breakfast tea had to be done in a very specific manner, he grumbled about their scones all the time and he was a measly tipper—and Liz could chastise her daughter for being paranoid all she liked, but there was a valid reason for not understanding the hastiness to get married again; had in fact spent hours interrogating her mother about it, questioning her decision over and over again. In the end, it hadn't achieved anything except piss the older woman off.
"He's been really nice to me, honey," Liz had told her. "He treats me right."
And that was that.
Caroline had met him only once since then, over an agonizingly droll dinner at some fancy French restaurant in McKinley. Mikael had been gruff, his answers to her enquiries short and monotonous; the cracks of information that she had managed to wrangle out of him—an equivalent to pulling teeth—hadn't gone any deeper than how shitty the weather was like in England.
He also had five children. So far, she had only met two.
Elijah was an intimidating brick wall with an aristocratic jawline and an air of superiority that rolled off his expensive tailored suit in condescending waves. Rebekah didn't seem to have much of an opinion, though the disdain was visibly evident in her perpetually unimpressed pout. Caroline had wondered if being British just made everybody pompous, of if it were just the Mikaelsons' own brand of specialty.
"Would you like to dance, sweetheart?"
There was an outstretched palm presented in front of her, paired with the voice she would no doubt be hearing in her dreams. Nik smirked at her, dimples cutting deep into handsome scruff and full lips twisted wickedly; an invitation that she wasn't going to refuse.
Oh well, the devil makes us sin
But we like it when we're spinning in his grip
Caroline slid her free hand into his. The rough rasp of his skin against hers—warm and oddly comforting—sent crackles of electricity up her arm. "I'd love to."
Tyler bristled at the rude interruption; outraged, with his face boiling red and chiseled features pinched into something ugly, because being an entitled little shit meant that nobody had dared defy or insult him so openly without unpleasant—albeit petty—repercussions. The last brave idiot who had called on the jock's bullshit became the school's biggest pariah, and a huge part of Caroline still resented Tyler for it, especially since the kid was Elena Gilbert's little brother.
"Thanks for that," she said as Nik led them to the dance floor. "He wouldn't stop talking about himself, that egomaniac."
He plucked the empty flute from her grasp and set it down atop a passing staff's tray. "Now why would any sane person want to talk about boring American football tactics when you're clearly more interesting?"
"Wow," she giggled. "What a charmer."
"Not all of us are half-witted Neanderthals," he winked.
Wedding songs were all sorts of powerful ballads and tinkling pianos—which, quite frankly, was shit to dance to—but Nik easily swept her up into his arms like a seasoned pro and fluently spun them around without missing a beat.
"Do I even want to know?" she asked, eyebrows rising mirthfully.
Nik was bashful all of a sudden, though he tried to mask it behind a cough. "My mother was quite the socialite. She loved all sorts of balls and parties, so my siblings and I were schooled on etiquette very early on in our lives."
"I was Miss Mystic Falls," she revealed, the title somehow feeling ridiculous now after half a decade or so. "There really isn't much to do around here. I'm sure it's bleak compared to where you're from."
He hummed noncommittally, his stormy eyes going distant for a split second. "Have you been? To Britain?"
"I've never really been anywhere."
His gaze turned earnest and soft. "I'll take you, wherever you want."
Boldly, she leaned in, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "Take me to the stars, Nik."
The squeeze on her hip and a barely-suppressed groan were the only indications that he was probably just about fucking done with this circus show as much as she was, and another innuendo away from taking her over the nearest available surface. "Fuck, love."
She grinned, quickly deciding that toying with him was fun.
"What do you think of Mikael?"
Caroline considered her answer for a moment, slightly caught off guard by the random question as she wondered how much of it she ought to filter out; how honest she ought to be. Besides, she was still in the dark about the nature of Nik's relationship to her stepfather and didn't want to accidentally offend a family member or an important investor. "He's…peculiar, if a little enigmatic."
"It's alright to admit that he's a grouchy, right fucking prick."
She gasped; mock scandalized, and then nodded with a shrug of her shoulders. "That's pretty accurate, actually. But hang on, how are you—"
"Ah, Niklaus!"
Caroline felt lean muscles tense up all of a sudden beneath her touch, confident steps faltering to a halt as his expression hardened into one of careful blankness. Before she could ask Nik what was wrong, he had already released her—much too abruptly, almost guilty in the way he jerked away from her—and was shoving his fists into the pockets of his trousers, his frame drawn in defensively, as though bracing himself for the worst.
Mikael materialized between them—Liz dutifully at his nine—all teeth and Mad Hatter smile, and it reminded Caroline so much of the sociopathic murderers on the crime documentaries she had to watch for one of Professor Shane's classes, that she found herself subconsciously edging closer to Nik.
"I see you've already met Caroline," the older man's voice boomed in dramatic flamboyance, every word a deliberate statement. "But Liz, I don't believe you've met Niklaus yet."
Her mother extended one hand, kindness in her eyes. "I'm afraid we haven't," she replied as Nik dropped a kiss to her knuckles. "It's been a busy day, but we should all catch up over brunch tomorrow." She turned to her husband, then, something unreadable in the pinch between his brows. "What do you say, honey? It would be our first meal together as a family with your sons and our daughters."
It wasn't advanced mathematics to put two and two together.
Caroline balked.
"Sounds lovely," Mikael intoned, and then rather pointedly added. "I'm sure Niklaus and his siblings could afford to stay for another day."
An icy chill gripped her spine like the unforgiving winters in Siberia; her thoughts a rampant turmoil.
Fuck.
Klaus heard the sharp crack before he registered the sting across his cheek, a rouge imprint forming from where she had lashed out and struck him. Everything in him screamed to retaliate, to hurt and punish her the way he remembered. His fingers flexed; tendons pulled taut in coiled rage, but he remained still as they seethed and breathed fire down each other's throat.
But fucking hell, was she a devastating sight.
A vengeful angel.
"Did you know?" she croaked, quiet and betrayed. "When you fucked me, did you know?"
He held her basilisk stare because she had to know, had to believe that he wasn't the fucking low-life scum she currently perceived him to be. "No, I didn't, I swear," he solemnly admitted. "Not until you walked down the aisle and stood next to your mother. Rebekah informed me, then."
"Yet you danced with me, and then flirted with me all the while knowing that I was your stepsister. What the hell is wrong with you?" she fumed. "Fucking each other was a stupid mistake on both our parts, and I'm not under any consensus that it wasn't as much my fault as it is yours. I would've agreed to put it behind me, forget it ever happened and move on, but you've already figured that out, haven't you? So why the fuck did you still do it?"
The pregnant pause was loud in his ears.
Poignant.
He hadn't confessed much in his life—hadn't had to for a long while because it meant that he was in the position of being vulnerable and exposed—but Caroline deserved to know. More than anything, she deserved none of the bullshit reasons he had stashed in his back pocket, none of the smoke screen he would otherwise have deployed—a Mikaelson's fucking Pavlovian response to everything—when he didn't particularly feel like sharing.
"Would you hate me if I said that I didn't care?"
She held his gaze, unwavering; commandeered the room with her mere silence, so deadly and breathtaking, Klaus found himself helplessly entranced. Her eyes flitted between unfathomable emotions, compelling ones that he wanted to pick apart and catalogue at the same time. Those slimy pricks in court wouldn't know what hit them, but neither did he.
"Leave me the fuck alone, Nik."
She fell into bed stone cold sober.
Her nerves were so wired, her head a muddled maelstrom of indecipherable poppycock, and Caroline wanted nothing more than drown herself in a drunken stupor and not wake up for the unforeseeable future, but that didn't seem to be happening anytime soon, especially not with the lack of alcohol in her room. She could skip on down to the parlor and nick a bottle—or three—of vodka, but that would mean leaving her safe little haven and risking human interaction. It didn't bode well for her grand plan stewing in her own misery. Sprawled spread-eagle atop the puffy duvet, she stared up at the ceiling and contemplated her life's screwed-up decisions; a pity party for one.
The problem hadn't been the hook-up, hadn't even been the fact that Niklaus Mikaelson had known who she was and had still approached her after. He could've been on the other end of the world, smoldering and brooding in a corner, and it still would've been a fucking problem because all she could focus on during the better half of the evening was how she would've liked to drag him back to her room by his tie, undo her work on it, and forget all about how wrong and twisted it was to want to fuck her stepbrother senseless.
What terrified her the most, however, was that, just like him, she hadn't fucking cared.
Her moral compass had been shot to hell.
She was Icarus soaring towards the sun and waiting for the inevitable plunge into the ocean, uncertain if she would swim to the surface or drown in the abyss.
Even so, there was something dangerously alluring about the darkness, something inexplicably thrilling about venturing into the forbidden that made even the purest of hearts drawn to it; a magnetic pull that she didn't want to escape. It nagged at her, yelled at her to stop because it was unnatural. She shouldn't—couldn't—want him like that, not when they now shared the same fucking last name, yet the traitorous pits of her mind kept conjuring up lecherous images of them together.
God, it was so fucked up.
A knock on the door ripped her back to the present; three firm raps that gave no indication as to the identity of her accoster. The digital clock on her nightstand read half past two in the morning, but Caroline paid no heed to the ridiculous hour as she padded across the parquet and carpet. She hesitated, one hand poised on the brass knob, just listening for a second before giving it a twist.
Gray-blue eyes stared back at her, solemn and earnest; plump lips pressed into a thin line, dimples punctuated on either side. He looked delectable enough to devour, yet his overwhelming presence only had her palm itching to slap him again.
"I need to talk to you."
"It's late," she scowled. "Can't it wait till morning? Some people are trying to sleep."
His arm shot out before she could slam the door shut.
"Please."
"I have nothing to say to you," she hissed.
"Then just listen," he pleaded. "That's all I ask."
Caroline glared at him for a full minute, unyielding, telling herself that she wouldn't cave into his silver tongue; the very same one that hours ago had nimbly coaxed pleasurable sighs and moans from her mouth, and fuck, it was taking every ounce of her strength not to haul him into the room by the collar of his Henley.
Betrayed by her own resolve.
Shit.
"Fine."
He brushed past her, making a show of avoiding proper contact—for her benefit, no doubt—and stood awkwardly, hands clasped behind his back and unsure of his place in her territory. Suddenly painfully aware of her attire—braless and clad only in a flimsy negligee—Caroline folded her arms prudently over her chest and cleared her throat.
"So?"
"Mikael is not my father," he rasped out raggedly, his voice cracking with each stilted word as though someone had squeezed his windpipe. The syllables were rubbed raw, just like the humorless laugh that accompanied his scandalous statement. "I'm not his biological son," he clarified. "My mother had an affair with another lad and I was the byproduct of her infidelity. Mikael didn't want news of a bastard in his house, so he ensured that my lineage is buried so deep, it would take Sherlock fucking Holmes the rest of his life to find it."
She paled at the news, felt the bile rising in her throat as her breath hitched. Subconsciously, she took a step forward, her heart aching for him. Nik and Mikael's tension-filled exchange at the reception earlier now made perfect sense.
"I—I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't be," he chuckled ruefully, chin lowered in self-deprecation. "I've learned long ago not to let Mikael get to me. I just—" Nervously, he raked his nails through dirty blonde curls, shakily expelling a lungful of air. "I needed you to know."
"Why?"
Time distilled and bent around them.
The ebbing tides of his irises roiled into a whirlpool, sucking her in and pulling her under the swirling vortex without a lifeline to cling on. "The truth is," he began, closing the short distance in his reach for her. Tenderly carding artistic fingers through the tangles in her hair, he settled one calloused palm over the nape of her neck, the pad of his thumb measuring uneven tempos against her pulse point. "I've tried to stop thinking about you, Caroline, and I can't."
"What does it mean?"
Love is like a sin, my love,
For the one that feels it the most
Look at her with a smile like a flame
She will love you like a fly will never love you again
Heat seeped through the thin fabric where Nik had his other hand on the curve of her hip, anchoring her when she should've floated away, dizzy and full of helium, and doing nothing to stave off the growing ache between her thighs. They were burning a supernova, ensconced in the fire of their mutual desires, stealing matter from each other, expanding; just waiting to explode.
"It means that I won't tell if you won't."
"And fuck each other behind our family's backs?"
He grinned wolfishly. "We can fuck each other in front of them if you wish."
An involuntary shiver raced down her vertebrae, charged and dipped in melted wax; the decision already made.
"We shouldn't."
"You're right."
But their lips crashed, anyway.
A/N: So, I'm just going to leave this here, back away slowly and split.
Song used: "Paradise Circus" by Massive Attack