Rave On Ch 2
I'm not sure if there is a story here, but I have a few more ideas. Please let me know what you think. I also had to post something after tonight's TVD. I'd much rather think about this and Klaroline.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
The lights flashed, signaling that the show was about to begin. Klaus lifted the brandy to his lips and sipped. Anticipation ran through him as he sat back in his seat. For the occasion, he dressed up in black slacks and a black button down shirt open at the throat. When in Rome…except this was Paris.
The City of Light was as beautiful as it ever was. Art and culture, along with the long delays, traffic, and crime, oozed from its pores. He was glad she came, although he would have appreciated an invitation to join her.
The crowd grew quiet as the music began. Dim light caught the chandeliers and glasses on the tables. The large red velvet curtains fringed with gold tassels began to slide back.
The music changed into the first number. The dancers came out on stage in perfect unison. Their shimmering panties and elaborate headdresses caught the eye along with their bared breasts. The women came in all colors, with sleek bodies and gorgeous legs only a professional dancer could hope to attain. With precision, they moved as one, seducing the crowd of couples and groups of men.
He sat alone at his table in the center of the room, waiting to see her.
It wasn't the first time he'd been to this particular establishment. It was world famous after all. This was the first time he'd felt himself waiting with baited breath though. He wanted her to dance for him.
Loud applause echoed through the vast space when the first dance was done.
Klaus signaled for a fresh drink that was filled immediately. The euros splayed out on the table called for quick attention and his flawless French had the wait staff vying to attend to him.
The music changed and the featured dancers came on stage. These five women had the most beautiful and intricate costumes. The thong bottoms had gold sequins. Rather than going topless, they wore elaborately decorated bra-style tops that were as beautiful as the lingerie the French were famous for. Long gloves were the backdrop to the elaborate bracelets.
She was there, the middle dancer, of the five. His smirk grew and he half-hardened under the table. Her legs went on for days as she kicked. Her breasts filled the top and her cleavage called to him. Her blonde hair was done in the style he remembered well from the 1920s, slick against her head in waves. The stage makeup bordered on garish, but her looks surpassed the decoration. No one who looked at her could look away.
She'd taken jazz and tap as child he remembered. She had to have used compulsion to create an opening in the cast, but she certainly fit in.
For the rest of the show, Klaus watched every lift of her leg and jiggle of her breasts. His eyes caught the long lines of her arm movements. The accessories, including large feathered fans, would reveal and then conceal, teasing at more to come. The other woman meant nothing to him. He was there for her and the seductive net she was weaving around him and all of them.
He wouldn't say she was enjoying herself since she didn't care. Her eyes glittered though. She felt powerful. He could tell.
The show ended and he grinned. She was a star. If only the gang at home could see her. Little Caroline Forbes was all grown up.
He waited outside the stage door for her, scaring off her bevy of admirers. All except one that is. He kept the best looking guy behind for himself, compelled to wait right there and not make a sound.
When the door opened, Klaus sank his fangs into the man's neck, taking his fill, healing, and compelling him to forget and move on.
"Don't you make a pretty picture," he heard her say. "Was he one of mine? I'll share. I would have liked to have seen you bury your fangs here." Her fingers went under her mini skirt a few dangerous inches.
Klaus smirked, wanting a reaction, and she winked.
Leaning back against the cool brick as he licked his lips, his eyes traveled up and down her body. Her hair was loose around her head. Her lips were still fire-engine red, but the rest of her makeup was off. Her red skirt was short and her black top was cut low, exposing the clasp of her bra in the center.
"Hello, sweetheart."
"Klaus," she said as she began to walk.
"You find the time to come to Paris, but not the time to see my city? I'm hurt." His hand went to his chest.
She smiled at him and stopped. Slowly leaning forward, she kissed him and he tasted the blood lingering in her mouth and he knew she must have tasted the blood in his. His hand tangled in her hair and kept her in place.
"I don't care," she whispered against his lips and let him go to keep walking.
"You're always kissing me and running away," he said amiably as he followed her.
"This isn't running," she said as she exaggerated her walk, sliding her hips from side to side. "Still don't care," she sang.
"You were amazing out there. Seducing men and then drinking from them in your dressing room. Quite clever. Your fellow dancers too, Caroline? How provocative."
They turned onto the main road. Klaus signaled and his driver brought the car to him. Klaus opened the door, gesturing inside, and since she was waiting for a cab, she joined him.
Smiling at the driver as Klaus got in beside her, she gave him an address nearby in the 18th arrondissement.
Klaus nodded subtly when the driver looked to him.
"Montmartre?"
"Oui," she pronounced carefully as she sat back, crowding into his space, picking up his hand and stroking his long fingers. "I pose. They paint."
Her thigh pressed against his. Klaus smelled of cologne and alcohol, not of the cigarettes she must have smelled amongst her European suitors.
"The Belle Epoque was the time of the real artists in Paris. You would have loved it." Leaning in, she put her lips against his throat. He waited for her bite, but it didn't come. She was trying to distract him and it was working. His words came out strangled. "I'm an artist, Caroline. I'll paint you."
Her tongue flicked out and traced the vein in his neck. Her hand found him hard under the fine fabric of his trousers. That's when the car came to a stop. She left the red print of her kiss on his neck. It was her stamp.
Taking a breath, holding her hand, he dismissed the driver for the night and they got out. It was quieter, but there were lights on in some apartments despite the late hour.
Pulling her into an alley, he pushed her against the wall.
"Why?"
It had been three months since he made his offer, but she still hadn't visited New Orleans.
"Stefan could get me to turn it on. It made him feel good about himself after rejecting me, still would if he's back to feeling anything." Her hand tugged his curls. "You could have me turn it on too and I rejected you. Which is more dangerous?"
His lips crashed into hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and her lifting her legs to wrap around his waist. Her admission fueled him.
Her taste was intoxicating, that unique blend of salty and sweet. Lust and desire poured off her. He burned where her center met him, heat radiating from her.
Breaking the kiss, she looked closely at him and he wondered if she could see what she did to him and if she would use it to destroy him. "He's all earnest and self-sacrificing. You're all predator. It hurts you to see me like this." His grip on her ass got tighter. "He thinks he knows what's best for me. You I think I know what's best for me." She leaned up to his ear to whisper. "You're more dangerous."
His hand cupped her head against his neck opposite where her lipstick print remained. "Drink," he commanded and she complied. Her fangs pierced his skin and she suckled. It was torture he didn't want to end.
When she had enough, she leaned back again, blood dripping from her fangs.
His own hybrid features came out. From the way her lower body was moving against him and what he could smell, she liked it.
"I am more dangerous," he growled, his voice deep and gruff.
Her finger stroked one of his fangs. She pushed her finger against the sharp incisor until a drop of blood appeared, then a few more.
"Whoops," she said with no inflection. Clearly it was no mistake at all.
Slowly, her bloody finger traced his lips and his tongue greedily flicked out to taste her. He sucked on her finger when she let him. She never freely gave her blood to him before.
"I need the cure," she smirked and dove back into his neck to drink. His hands pushed and pulled her hips against his, rubbing her up and down his covered length. The pleasure was exploding around him. She was holding him tight with her arms and legs wrapped around him. She was taking what she needed from him. He was sustaining her.
When she was done, he set her on her feet and resettled her skirt. Her nipples were hard and her pupils were enlarged. He tried not to follow her lips and fingers as she cleaned up her mouth.
He put his hands on her face so she would look at him. He saw she didn't fear him using compulsion and it touched him even though it wasn't a voluntary reaction.
"I can give you what you need. Come to me, Caroline," he said and then he left her with a bemused look on her face. It was hard letting her go, but he would see her again. He'd make sure of it.
"Giving me orders never works," she called out. "I can get what I need myself. I may come. I may wait until I'm ready. I may never come. My choice. Oh and Klaus? Lose the stubble."
He turned his head. "It's always your choice. Save Rome for me. Barcelona is nice this time of year and you could take Ibiza by storm."
She smiled and nodded.
He felt like a weight had been lifted and he smiled when he ran a hand over his stubble. He craved her, but they always played on her terms. They always would.