A/N: Heads up, this chapter contains some NSFW bits. Also, while the kanimas are inspired by Teen Wolf I've given them my own spin/purpose. Finally, for those of you asked about/ are following "some other way ( to tell you you're okay)" I'm sorry it's been a while since I updated, I've just been dealing with some stressful shit and haven't been able to access the necessary headspace to update since it's a very emotionally intimate story that takes a lot out of me. So, thank you for your patience and support! xoxoxo

P.S: Dovelina Sanchez: thank you so much for your enthusiastic reviews and I'm flattered you think I could write a good story for Aya/ Elijah from TO. Unfortunately I'm pretty caught up in Klonnie fics atm, but hopefully another writer will give Aya the story (or stories!) she undoubtedly deserves.

He's got one hand on the steering wheel and the other up her dress. It's tacky to make out in cars. Dangerous even. But somewhere between the boat and their tattoos and a bottle of moonshine she's lost her reservations the way you lose your hat in the sea.

His fingers travel innocently along her thigh, and there's a smile creeping out the corner of his mouth, like he's enjoying the tease. The demand in her undulating hips has seemingly no effect on him so she picks up his hand again and runs her tongue over the index finger. He inhales sharply, his smile slipping as she pushes his fingers past the lace of her underwear. For a moment he keeps his hand still, letting her rub against it. It isn't enough of course and he knows that. In eleven years of driving she's never not worn a seatbelt, but out on that highway she hitches up her dress and drapes a leg over Klaus' thigh. There's no gear shift between them, nothing to prevent her from half-climbing into his lap. The movement causes his hand to slide along her slick folds and he can't quite hide the low groan that escapes him. Bonnie puts her mouth to his ear and purrs a challenge, "I bet you can't fuck me and drive this car." His smile returning lazy and crooked makes her wet. Without warning, his touch becomes precise and purposeful, dancing along the lips of her sex until she's soaking his fingers in an entirely different way. She moans and opens her legs, arching her back and catching the wind in her hair -

Bonnie starts awake, heart racing and damp-thighed, the sheets tangled around her knees. The tattoo on the back of her neck feels alive, burning. She groans when a quick glance at her phone reveals it's barely past 7 am.

A dull ache throbs between her legs. She can almost feel his fingers inside her.

It takes almost fifteen minutes under the cold spray of her shower for her body to recalibrate. For a month now this has been her morning routine. Wake up with the urge to reach down and replicate the movements of his hand ( knowing that as soon as she touches herself, the memories will flood back - his mouth, his touch, his voice roughening and breaking over her name ) and fight that urge with every ounce of willpower she can summon because she won't get herself off thinking about Klaus. She refuses such a thing.

Which left her two months of this torture to look forward to.

Her first few nights back in Mystic Falls had passed uneventfully. Between spending time with Rudy and managing her duties with the Council, she'd begun nursing a tentative hope that her and Klaus' misbegotten adventure in New Orleans would fade into insignificance as an embarassing but quickly-rectified mistake.

That was before the dreams began, assailing her with increasingly vivid images of their "wedding night", over and over until she'd started to dread sleep itself. And to make it worse, the dreams were not fantasies or hypothetical scenarios but moments she and Klaus had actually shared: memories of touch and sensation drawn out in a nightly torture. Somehow, drunk and magic-high as they'd been with the forest floor and the backseat of a stolen car as their honeymoon suite, they'd had good sex. Better than good, if she was being honest. The kind of sex that undoes you a little and puts you back together, leaving an impression that outstrips memory of physical pleasure with the knowledge that for those few hours you'd been someone else, someone you both feared and longed to be again.

Water bathing her bowed shoulders, Bonnie tries to remember herself, to hold close the familiarities of her life and who she is: daughter and friend and witch. Reliable, dutiful, moral Bonnie Bennett who'd never skip out on her best friend's wedding reception, never drive in a stolen car, never drunkenly marry a former enemy then let him drag her into the backseat of that car and-

Leaning her forehead on the shower wall, Bonnie breathes slowly, in and out through the nose, like she's in one of Caroline's yoga classes, and makes a mental list of her day. Cook breakfast, Skype call Alaric and the Council about one of their new initiatives, pick up Rudy's medication, meet Caroline for dinner.

You can do this, Bonnie, she repeats to herself until her skin cools and she begins to shiver. Just one day at a time.

There's been a few memorable occasions when he's felt particular gratitude for his superhuman senses that had nothing to do with hunting or survival. The first time he smelled a lover's arousal before their clothes came off. The night he heard Beethoven's Fidelio at Theater an der Wien. Rain in the Kashmiri foothills. Each instance had pierced him with the sharp and startling knowledge - a knowledge grown surer as the centuries flew by, as he outlasted those who tried to destroy him - that in dying he had only become more deeply a part of the world. And the rush that gripped him now as he steers a stolen car with one hand and pleasures Bonnie Bennett with the other was no less euphoric, was just as atavistic. She's positively melting into his fingers, arching her back, modest bridesmaid dress askew, hair coming loose from its chignon and damp skin glowing. He drinks in the sight of her. "Eyes on the road, hybrid," she says, breathless while rocking into his hand. They'll need to pull over soon, somewhere quiet and private with no one to hear and see her but him. He floors the accelerator and catches a bead of sweat from her clavicle on his tongue. "My eyes, little witch, are exactly where they need to be."

The first morning he awoke hard and sweat-slick from dreams of Bonnie Bennett, Klaus took the matter in hand and finished himself off. It was instinctual really and he repeated the action the next day, and the next, finding a certain piquancy at first in getting off to memories of the witch, his release made that much more satisfying by the thought of how outraged she'd be if she knew he was conjuring her precious image while he stroked himself.

But it wasn't long before this method lost something of its...verve. In fact, after a week or two the whole thing felt undignified in the extreme. He was Klaus Mikaelson for goodness sake, a bloody Original and a hybrid, not some hormonal adolescent boy with no recourse but his own hand. He'd be damned if he suffered under the blasted aftereffects of a tattoo for three months without seeking relief, especially when he lived in a city with so much relief to be had. So armed with this defiant frame of mind he set off for one of many watering holes on Bourbon Street, found a comely bachelorette, and took her to a motel with every intention of putting Bonnie Bennett out of his thoughts for at least a couple of hours. The girl was a pretty, dark-eyed thing with long legs and a butterfly tattoo on her hip, and he got her half naked face down on the bed before they both realized he was having difficulties of a technical nature.

She gave him a look of impatience over her shoulder, "Can you hurry up? My friends are waiting for me."

Try as he might, burning as he was with pent up need, his body refused to co-operate. He tried a different bar, a different woman, a man with exquisite pianist hands, each with the same result.

Or lack thereof.

And still every morning found him soaking in dreams of her, his cock painfully hard, each of his senses sharpened to a knife's point and her name burning on his tongue. It was like being under a curse again, mad with desire for something elusive. It was as though Magic itself, that infuriating restorer of balance, had permitted him centuries of passion and music and rainfall only to now exact a cruel and punishing price. To almost make him wish he could trade it all, Beethoven and perfume and Kashmir too, for the backseat of a Monte Carlo and Bonnie Bennett pulling his hair while he bathed his face between her legs-

Two more months, he repeats into empty liquor glasses and blank canvases, stalking the city for any trace of the source of his affliction to, counting the days one by one like grains of sand.

"Klaus, what the hell-,"

It's not the abrupt pulling over on a gravel road that makes her gasp in outrage but the fact that he's removed his hand from between her legs. But her protest becomes a squeak when he drags her up and tosses her into the backseat. There's a glittering in his eyes like stars, molten yet sharp, a light that cuts-

The dreams and their aftermath are bad enough, but it's the persistent feeling of his presence, like she could turn a corner and see him there with his grin and cut-glass eyes, that threatens to unhinge her sanity.

Bonnie struggles to nod along during her Skype call as Alaric outlines the Council's plan to maintain a registry that tracks supernaturals who purchase property in the city: one of their many attempts to bring vampires and werewolves legislatively to heel. Naturally, they propose that witches implement and oversee this process. She listens to their lofty ideas about using magic (her magic) to secure the town by way of built-in locator spells and magical tracking devices with an odd, pinched feeling behind her eyes.

"It won't work," she snaps. "Who's going to convince vampires and werewolves that have spent years hiding their identities to accept magical surveillance? Is there a coven of witches with free time on their hands sitting around Mystic Falls I don't know about?"

Four shocked faces gape at her from the screen.

Oh my god. Where did that even come from, oh my god. Bonnie claps a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-," she rubs her forehead and tries to swallow the growl in her throat. "I've had a long week. Can we revisit this in a few days?"

She excuses herself from the rest of the meeting and brews some jasmine tea for her nerves.

A registry? How quaint. She can hear his mocking laugh like he's in the room. The surge of anger subsides leaving a catharsis like the time she told the truth about hating champagne. Is this what it feels like being Klaus? This casual ability to refuse and defy?

Her phone buzzes with a message from Caroline about their lunch plans, and the restlessness returns in full force. She hasn't seen her friend since she got back from her honeymoon, and the thought of enduring her questions and searching looks makes her want to crawl under the covers, never to reemerge.

No, she isn't Klaus. Klaus wouldn't wrack himself with guilt for speaking his mind, nor think twice about keeping things private as he deemed necessary.

Not for the first time curiosity grips her about how he's dealing with all this. Is he dogged by her absent presence? Does he dream of her? Does he wake up wanting to-

She jumps at the kettle whistle, hurrying to pour herself a large cup and sorely tempted to spike it with bourbon.

She's sure Klaus would have no qualms about that either.

"Klaus- don't stop...please..."

Her moans and soft, breathy cries are magic, like she's weaving a spell while he makes her come. Her salt-sweetness floods his tongue and throat and mouth, the wet rich scent of her sex makes him dizzy, each pass of his name between her lips pulls him deeper until all he can taste, all he can breathe is her. All he knows is her-

It's Vincent who finds him nursing a third glass of bourbon at Gerard's.

"Rough day?" the warlock queries, ordering himself a whiskey sour.

Klaus glares by way of reply.

Vincent raises an eyebrow. "That bad huh?"

"Unless you've devised a way to slice this tattoo from my flesh I suggest maintaining your distance," he grouses, raising his hand for another refill. Vincent and Sophie had clearly neglected to mention the nastier affects of marriage tattoos, but he'd stab himself with white oak before detailing the nature of his symptoms to either of them.

Vincent chuckles and sips his drink, handing Camille a generous tip before turning back to Klaus, "So, you don't wanna know about the lead I might have on the folks who tattooed you?"

A galvanizing energy penetrates the haze of bourbon and frustration that's followed him around for weeks. "Where? When?" He climbs off his barstool and bears down on Vincent with feverish intensity.

"Easy," Vincent leans away from him. "I said it might be a lead-,"

"I'm not in a mood for mincing words, Regent," he bites out, gripping the bar counter with nearly enough force to damage the wood.

"I can see that," Vincent eyes him with concern before speaking in a lowered tone, "Look, it may be nothing but...last night some kanimas broke into Lafayette, took off with some witch bones, left a mess behind."

Kanimas. Klaus had encountered the creatures once or twice: reptilian shapeshifters whose venomous bite was fatal to humans and not without impact for wolves and vampires.

Vincent continues, "One of Jackson's people tracked them to the swamp, which is where Sophie and I are headed soon as I finish this drink. I thought we might be able to come to an agreement, get them to return the bones in exchange for something else but, turns out they're part of a smuggling ring. Which means-,"

"They are unlikely to yield their prize without a fight," Klaus finishes.

"Yup," Vincent mumbles, taking a swig. "Anyway, kanima venom is one ingredient in the ink for marriage tattoos. If these guys have been around the city lately - hell, they may have sold some to your culprit."

Klaus feels a smile stretch across his face. Before the night is over he might have some answers and enjoy the reprieve of hunting, killing. Sinking his teeth into prey and feeding the restlessness festering inside him. He downs the rest of his drink and claps Vincent none too gently on the back. "Let's hop to it, mate," he urges cheerfully. "Those reptiles won't hunt themselves."

Vincent appraises him. "You sure you're up to this?"

He feels the wolf color his eyes as he leans forward, "I could furnish a reply here, or in the swamp with the creatures giving you trouble. Which would you prefer?"

"Bon, are you feeling okay?"

Just fucking peachy actually. I'm having erotic dreams about Klaus every night. I can't sleep. I think about having sex with him all the time. I can't sleep. I'm even starting to think like him sometimes. All because of a magical tattoo I can't have removed for two more months because we consummated our fucking marriage like idiots. Did I mention I can't sleep? I feel like I'm losing my mind.

"Just tired," she replies with a thin smile, reaching for her drink. "So, how was Athens? Your Facebook pictures looked amazing."

Caroline's pursed lips indicate her refusal to be thrown off track. "How's your dad?"

How do you think?

Bonnie stifles the snappy voice in her head with a sip of sangria. "He has good days and bad days. He still remembers basic stuff most of the time, he can dress and clean himself. Not exactly fun details," she finishes, bristling at the dawning pity on her friend's bright face.

"Oh...okay then," Caroline replies with a touch of pique.

"I'm sorry, I just haven't been getting much sleep lately," she mumbles, picking at her salad.

Bonnie wants to scream into the awkward silence that thickens the air. They should be having fun dammit. Caroline should be excitedly showing her a plethora of pictures and divulging too many details about her and Stefan's wedding night. She should be updating Caroline on the town gossip and complaining about the old farts on the Council. This lunch should be a reprieve from everything else, not an exercise in avoidance.

"So...," Caroline ventures, stabbing a strawberry with her fork, "are you divorced yet?"

"Nope," Bonnie replies evenly, "three month waiting period in Louisiana."

Caroline's brow furrows a little. "Can't Klaus just Compel a city official?"

"It's...not that simple."

"He goes down to the office, looks into someone's eye and tells them to sign your divorce papers. What's not simple?"

Bonnie feels her teeth grind. The irritation she swallows is coated painfully with guilt: she ran out on Caroline's wedding reception to get drunk and marry Klaus. No amount of diligent striving can erase that blemish from her Perfect Best Friend Track Record. She almost wishes Elena were here. She might not have had any helpful advice, but she would understand in a way that Caroline didn't how sometimes you only need dip your toe for the current to sense your hunger and pull you swiftly beneath the waves.

But Elena was gone. She'd burned her bridges and never looked back. And as much as Bonnie marvels at the doppelganger's ability to follow her own happiness beyond any reasonable horizon, she also knows her own limits. She's not Elena, she's not Klaus. She can't set sail on an expedition of selfish desire without looking back. Without regret.

"It's not a big deal," she lies, smoothing her face into something like nonchalance. "It's a piece of paper, it doesn't affect our daily lives. Why go through any trouble for something that's gonna be over in two months? We both have other things to worry about." Bonnie smiles again, willing her friend's doubts and questions to disappear. "Now are you gonna tell me about Athens or am I gonna have to hack your phone again?"

The inquisitive gleam doesn't quite leave Caroline's eyes but she relents and fishes out her phone, plunging into details about the weather and the clothes and the food that Stefan kept making her try. Bonnie settles back into the shoes she'd flagrantly absconded the night she fled the reception, nodding and smiling, grateful to see her friend so happy. They don't fit like they used to, but there's a comfort in the familiar she's not yet ready to release.

"Got some of that tension out?" Sophie asks with a lifted eyebrow, watching him kick a severed, scaly limb into the lake. The kanimas had put up a delightfully fierce fight, but more importantly they'd divulged the names of three sellers who'd recently purchased venom from them.

"For now," Klaus replies, wiping his hands on one of the dead men's jackets. "I'm admittedly saving myself for the man or woman who inflicted me with this tattoo."

"Inflicted?" Sophie snorts.

"Cursed, afflicted, branded, I could go on," he counts off words as the three of them pick their way between the trees.

"You know what your problem is?" Sophie begins, earning a quiet groan from Vincent. "You don't want to accept that sometimes, there aren't any loopholes or easy answers. Sometimes, when you play with magic, you just have to ride out the consequences."

A muscle flares in his jaw as the rush of the kill fades into disquiet. The very idea of being subject to a greater power is an anathema to him, particularly when he considers that his partner in crime is most likely experiencing little to no difficulty in comparison. Unlike him and his sensual appetites, Saint Bennett is probably sailing through her days, the tattoo only a mild irritant easily overcome by the sheer force of virtuous pride. His hands flex in empty air. He almost wishes this magical affliction lasted longer so he could see her resilience give out, see her dislodged from her pedestal, make her feel even an inch of this shameful craving-

"That being said...," Sophie continues, getting the words out with some difficulty. "Thank you."

He cuts her a glance of mild surprise.

"We appreciate the help," she adds.

"I would've brought my umbrella if I foresaw this shower of gratitude," he replies without bothering to curb his sarcasm.

"Someone's touchy," Vincent laughs, shaking his head. "Sucks being away from the wife huh?"

He's about to remark on how easily he could murder them both and toss their bodies to the gators when he hears the ambush coming.

There's a split second before the kanimas strike that Klaus sees what could happen, sees himself dodge their claws and teeth that sink into Sophie instead, sees the light leave her eyes before she hits the ground. Sees Vincent hewn with grief. Himself echoing, Ride out the consequences.

The gift of preternatural senses contains more than a deep awareness of the sensory world. You hear things on the wind, see what's coming before others do. In many ways, you get to choose your future, choose self-preservation every time.

Only this time, he pushes Sophie out of the way and takes the hit. It's a movement that lacks finesse or precision, marked instead with a reckless heroism both new and familiar-

Bonnie.

A venom-barbed kanima tail hits his chest, piercing the space between heart and shoulder, in the inky center of a month-old tattoo.

Bonnie sways against the kitchen sink, gripped by a cold fear that comes in waves. She can't move, can't shake the feeling that something's wrong-

Her tattoo is ice along the back of her neck.

Klaus...

A dish slips between her soapy hands to shatter at her feet.

A/N: Don't hate me! LOL. Lemme know your thoughts!