A/N: so listen, this chapter was a rather erm, delicate experience for me, since I didn't know if my weird smut is "your" weird smut, if you get what I'm saying. I don't know if this will work for you, but I say give it a try. Bless the trash fam for the reviews and support, I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 10: where one makes love to the snow
He is supine, like a branch leveled by a strong gale.
She threads a web of magic around him, trapping him in her confines, like a spider and her fly.
She moves her fingers up and down his shaft with regular, lazy strokes, enjoying the coarseness of his skin, the ridges of his cock which, when caressed slowly, send shocks through his body.
The witch has no right to be this good at something so base. Perhaps she's not. Perhaps her movements would be clumsy if she were anyone else, if this were any other moment in time. But he can't find the strength to breathe when her smell and her touch invade him. The knowledge that her nimble fingers are trying to run him dry make his muscles clench painfully.
She rubs the tip again, fascinated by its ability to control the rest of him.
She admires his marble-sculpted chest, the physique of an Olympian who has toiled over a furnace. There are cracks inlaid in the stone by age and war. This mighty god who might've braved giants can do little but turn his head left and right.
"Bonnie, please."
She has never heard him beg, and the sound of it is enthralling. She wants him to plead. Not because she wants to humiliate him, but because when he is vulnerable, he becomes so much more supernatural.
He hisses under his breath as she makes a fist around his shaft and speeds up her ministrations.
He is leaking again, but she doesn't want him to come yet. That would put a pin in this delicate arrangement.
So, Bonnie Bennett, young virgin witch of Mystic Falls, lowers her head gently, curiously, and darts her tongue out, tasting salt.
The growl which issues from his throat is feral and electrifying in its clean-shaven despair. He lashes out in vain against her magic, but the strength of his anguish is enough to create a ripple in her web. Bonnie raises her eyes an inch. She does not look smug. She does not smirk. She is, after all, unaccustomed to these violent delights. Klaus stares back with a look that she might have misread as hatred many moons ago. But she's learned to read him better, and there is only shameless want on his face. Not desire or avarice, but a simple, atavistic want which is at the root of all life.
She wavers slightly under his fiery gaze, uncertain whether she can ever fulfill his need, but she lowers her mouth and takes him in her mouth, slowly, carefully.
Klaus cries out, dropping his head against the pillow, feeling the dark waters crash over him, taking him under by degrees.
"Holy fuck," he groans against the sheets, and Bonnie revels in his profanity, because he does not make a habit of cursing often. In fact, he avoids it when he can. She has noticed this about him; he is brutish and devil-may-care in many ways, but he's careful with his words. He doesn't have a natural knack for formality, like Elijah does, but he will not resign himself to vulgarity.
And so, when he emits a second quiet "Fuck", she takes him in deeper, choking a little on his length and bathing him in her hot saliva.
"Gods be bloody damned, witch!" he howls craning his neck in time to see her mouth bobbing up and down his cock, while her fingers cradle his length, and he falls back down and slams his empty fists against the bed.
The feeling is suffocation, for both parties. She can't breathe, she almost feels like gagging, but she wants to swallow everything he has to offer. It's like a fever has taken over, and even if she wanted to stop, she couldn't.
Klaus is whispering a litany of curses, one more colorful than the next, and his body is arched so painfully against her web that his flesh opens up in ruby-red slashes. His mouth is opened, his teeth exposed, like a wolf being hunted down.
Bonnie is mesmerized by his transformation. She leans forward and folds her lips against one of his cuts, shyly licking at the blood.
"Oh fucking – hell – Bonnie –" Klaus gasps, unable to utter any more.
His blood tastes oddly sweet. Like pomegranate seeds. It terrifies her.
For a forgetful moment, Bonnie eases her hold on him.
He is vigilant even in the throes of pleasure. He's managed to pry one hand through her web of magic and he sinks it clumsily in her hair, tugging at it desperately, urging her on, holding the locks like an anchor.
She has never felt someone's fingers in her hair quite so deeply, and this gesture is somehow more intimate than taking him in her mouth. She feels his calloused thumb digging a jagged line against her scalp and she shudders around him.
"Come…up…here…" he begs feverishly, pulling on her curls with need.
Bonnie makes a low protest in the back of her throat; she doesn't want to release him now. She has acquired a taste for it, and she wants to explore him further, even if he shatters in her mouth.
Klaus growls in rage and wonder. She won't listen to him. His skin burns, but inside, he feels a chill, a kind of cold that strips him bare. He is reminded of freezing nights in the tundra, when he and a handful of courageous explorers undertook to find the Northwest Passage. They died, one by one, from starvation and sickness. The papers reported cases of cannibalism between crew members. But it was him alone and the warm blood and the moonlight bathing the North Pole in a blue halo.
Bonnie Bennett feels like a journey into icy fjords, where one loses a sense of time and purpose. Where one makes love to the snow. She is untouched snow, candy-like, between his teeth. And her tongue draws little whorls around his tip, because he is candy for her too. The forbidden sugar that her parents and her friends warned her against. She laps it up.
His moans become fragments of an ancient language. He is calling for her in Aramaic.
The words sound like gibberish to her, but there is a quality to them, like a river pouring down her back. She is bathed in history and she feels the names and faces and whispers of all the other witches run down her shoulder blades and pool at her feet.
Bonnie holds his cock to her mouth and her question ghosts over his flesh.
"What did you say?"
His every breath is a torment, but he stares at her, unwilling to give her the translation.
"Tell me what you said," she insists, gripping his cock until she elicits a hiss from him.
But no matter how much she wants to punish and control him, her need to understand is greater. She has always tried to understand her enemies.
"If this is what you want," he grits, and before she knows what is happening, he has managed to remove both arms from her web and is dragging her up towards him - the wolf about to fill his snout with snow.
Bonnie shrieks in surprise.
She doesn't want to let go of him, she wants to feel him come undone right here and now, if it's the last thing she'll do (he does not get to take this away from her), and she twists her body away from his arms, until she has her back to him and her hands latch greedily around his manhood.
But she has not taken precautions.
She feels a loud tear behind her.
His fingers, almost as sharp as claws, rip her dress into shreds and leave her exposed. He takes hold of her waist haphazardly, not even stopping to marvel at the softness of her skin or the honeyed fullness of her thighs. He is afraid, always afraid, that the darkness will come, that she will be snatched away from him, that she will turn and run from this bed. So he seizes her, without thinking of the marks he might leave there, and he positions her hips above his head.
Bonnie exhales violently as his mouth ascends to heavens. Under different circumstances, he might have teased her, like he did many moons ago, but now there is a drought in his body, and this is the only spring. He grinds his teeth against her clit and pauses, latching his lips around the small nub and devouring it with little to no elegance. He is on the fjords, and there is no room for the illusion of civilization.
Bonnie cries out in anguish. Her body is frozen by the sudden onslaught of pleasure, and she flounders helplessly against his warm body, trying to find her footing and slipping, always slipping.
"Ooooh…."
His tongue plunges between her lips with no precision and no end in sight, because this is not just about pleasuring her, but rather drinking from her before the dream ends, before he is alone again. His mouth suspends and releases a heavy breath against her core, making her shake with spite and need, but he is not toying with her; he wants to remember this. He pauses because he is choked with hunger and the absence makes him yearn more. The absence makes it real.
Desperate lovers ache in short, fragmented gulps. He grazes her clit and then he folds back, only to taste once more.
The maddening rhythm of touch – untouch – touch – untouch – propels her to reach for his cock and slip it hungrily into her mouth. She tastes her own saliva and his pre-cum, a heady combination, as his fingers dig deeper into the flesh of her thighs.
"Aaahhh," she mewls and it sounds like glass shattering against the wall. At first she doesn't notice the pain, mixed like a mongrel with the pleasure. But slowly, she feels the warm blood trickling down her leg.
"K-Klaus! Oh God, Klaus –"
He tears into her sensitive flesh with no regard for her innocence, sharp fangs leaving mean punctures along her lip, as his tongue laps at her clit faster and faster and faster –
("Klaus, please, please, please –" she rants as blood gushes out of her in waves)
- until she can feel herself slip entirely through her bloodstream and she sucks on the tip of his cock without shame, feeling at that moment like a murderer. She has murdered herself in her own blood.
Klaus moans against her cunt and sinks his fangs deeper, taking her further away from solid land. Bonnie grips his cock painfully and runs her fingers down his length in ungainly jerks, coating him over and over in her spit until he is too stiff to touch and –
"Gods – fuck!" he cries out as her mouth blooms with his cum and his mouth blooms with her blood. Bonnie lets the salt run down her lips and feels a quake in her bones, a chill that severs her body from the waist down.
"I'm gonna – I – please – aaah!" she screams as his thumb works over her clit and his nostrils fill up with her blood, over and over again.
A fine layer of snow covers them both.
The room spins for several precious moments and then it stands very still.
Bonnie slams her head against his stomach, exhausted.
Klaus presses a blood-spattered kiss to the inside of her thigh.
They both look like a funeral.
"What were you saying?" she asks hoarsely. "Before…what language was that?"
Klaus looks up at the ceiling. Drops of blood are still falling on his eyelids.
"Nothing…" he replies without voice. "I was only praying."
Bonnie feels like choking on laughter. She looks up at the crucifix nailed above the bed. It has not wavered.