Work Text:
After he collects her from Stefan, he takes her back to Alaric’s apartment. It’s unfamiliar in ways that it shouldn’t be, and she can’t quite determine where Alaric ends and Klaus begins.
Outside of the open apartment door, Klaus is warm behind her as he waits at her back, guarding or blocking her as if he’s actually capable of fear. She wonders if he thinks she’ll turn and flee. Her feet remain planted on the floor, Converse shoes lead that pull her further and further down beneath the water. But Elena doesn’t drown as she expects to. His claws dig softly into her back like she’s the earth keeping him upright; warm and unwavering, his hand keeps her afloat.
Hand brushing the small of her back beneath her shirt for the umpteenth time, she tugs in a sharp breath and sinks uncomfortably in her throat. His fingers linger possessively on her back in a familiar way to how Damon often tries to cage her in.
The apartment’s spotless and impersonal like it’s guts have been hacked out from its belly. Alaric’s desk in the school is littered with pencils and papers, post-it note with half-written scribble not even she can decipher despite her intimate knowledge of him. She had always imagined his home would be littered in half-written thoughts and barricaded with the thick spines of historical tomes and journals. She finds herself disappointed with the treasure trove at her feet.
Stupidly, she thinks she should’ve known the moment he swaggered into the classroom it wasn’t him.
Standing by the door, he doesn’t pull her forward. He brushes by her like she’s debris in the water that he anticipates will make it to the shore; he steps inside of the room with that same familiar swagger. She observes the hard lines of his back, the length of his spine. From head to toe, Klaus stands tall, an unwavering lighthouse that won’t chip even when berated by a tumultuous, powerful storm. But this lighthouse isn’t one that will guide her to safety.
Watching him turn slightly, her gaze settles on his chest. When he had put her into his car like she was made of nothing, Elena had tried to smash her balled fists into the softness of his belly but had only met hard muscle and a thousand year old impenetrable wall. She wonders what he looks like, if it’s skin hidden beneath his tucked in and wrinkled shirt or something older and harder to break.
Peeling his jacket off like a second layer of soft skin, she watches the way the apartment bows to his presence. He commands it in silence, in the soft footfalls of his covered feet. Everything about him is unbreakable. She wonders if his heels are soft for a stake to plunge into.
He wears armour on his skin like he was born with it while she stands at the precipice of a dangerously rocky and wavering cliff without hers. Her necklace is gone, an uncomfortable nakedness that she can’t help but lift her hands to brush her fingertips against. Her nerves sit on her skin like flames.
He’s looking at her, eyes bright and laughing at her. His smile makes him look disarmingly young.
"Calm down, please," he says with a smile. Against her will, her body and mind settle, the storm inside of her quelling immediately as it folds in on itself and disappears. The anxiety that had been building up to wrap her up falls away quickly, drowning. "Make yourself comfortable."
Klaus glides over to the kitchenette and pours himself a glass of refrigerated water. He glides noiselessly, opens the fridge quietly, pours his water silently. Elena remains standing, shallow breathing sounding as loud as an earthquake.
He sighs loudly, a gust of breath that disturbs the tense tether that connects them. "Take off your shoes." He doesn’t look at her; he floats back to the fridge. "It’s rude to wear them in another’s house."
She doesn’t know if she does it because she wants to or because he’s firmly requested it of her. She toes off her Converse shoes, nudging them to sit against the wall near the front door. She stands uselessly at the edge of Alaric’s apartment, afraid to venture any further inside of the wolf’s den. His muzzle’s closed, lips curved upward in a loose smile but she’s waiting for his cheeks to tense and for him to snap his jaws in the brimming anger she thinks is humming beneath the surface.
She watches as he comfortably carries his glass of water to the couch, leans forward and drags a coaster on the coffee table closer to him, and sets his glass down on top of it in the very centre. Dropping onto the couch like he’s boneless, Klaus slouches on it with his legs spread and a look of utter boredom on his face.
He’s far too comfortable on the eve of her death. Five centuries of preparation has led him here; two years has guided her to stand on this precipice barefoot and utterly angry. It surges inside of her, crashing against every bone in her body. He barely looks at her while she stares openly at him.
"Make yourself at home, Elena," he says, not once looking up at her. It bristles her to not have his attention after all the time he’s spent hunting her, threatening her friends, torturing those who have the audacity to look like her.
She steps closer, intending to sit on the furthest chair away from him. She brushes her hands against the back of her jeans and spies him watching her from the corner of his eye. Something tugs in her gut. Damon had looked at her like that once before subtlety had abandoned him to wear his heart more obviously on his sleeve. It had dripped everywhere, slicking up the earth that refused to absorb its blood. He’d slipped and he’d fallen and he’d broken her into pieces. She’d gripped that beating organ in her hands multiple times, digging her nails into it in an attempt to both control its beating and stop it.
She wonders if Klaus’ heart hammers in his chest, joining the chorus of her own. Her pulse beats sharply in her neck. Anger swells inside of her.
Elena tugs her pants down her hips and leaves them crumpled on the floor. Standing before him with her head tilted up defiantly, she dares to arch her brow at him. Klaus merely watches her, the corner of his lips curved upward. His gaze rises from her bare feet up her legs to her panties.
Despite her flush, she ensures to remain tall. He may be the big bad wolf, but no matter how many times he huffs and puffs, she refuses to bow down. Sheep bite back, too.
When he lifts his gaze up to hers, it’s hungry. Elena swallows too thickly and loudly, heart stopping to only start and stop again. Wonders briefly if this had been a mistake, but her iron gut remains steadfast. She’ll make him waver; with a huff and a puff, she’ll blow his armour down.
She watches as his lips curve upwards. Blood rushes to the surface of her skin. She doesn’t try to control her breathing, wondering if he’s distracted by what still remains hers.
"This was never a part of the sacrifice," he says with a smirk.
She shrugs flippantly. "I don’t care." Boldly, she takes two long steps towards him and climbs onto his lap. Clenching her hands by her sides, she hates the way he only peers up at her in amusement like he’d expected her to try and sit on him like he’s an object for her to elevate herself upon. She’s not the only object in the room.
His hands remain by his sides, planted on the couch. She narrows her eyes, angry at him for refusing to touch or pull at her now.
"You said to make myself comfortable. I’m making myself comfortable." Her hands grip his shoulders tightly as she tries to break his bones. It’s an impossible feat, but she tries to indent the pressure of her fingertips against him, to claw at him in the way he’ll claw the life right out of her in a matter of hours.
Heart shaking her bones, she shifts against his hips sharply, wanting to sink the weight of herself onto him so he remembers she was here. Elena Gilbert wasn’t as soft and forgotten like that of a feather. She wants to leave a crater inside of him like she’d an asteroid that’s catapulted itself angrily to smash into the earth.
His hands are big and warm as he palms the naked small of her back. She inhales, smelling his cologne and a tinge of blood, and he keeps his hands at bay like a good dog.
He’s still smiling like she’s amusing.
"Are you trying to get out of your sacrifice?" His brow arches up.
"No," she says. There’s no hope weighing her lungs down at the possibility he could look at her and think of her as fondly as Elijah does his Katerina. No matter how much bad blood lingers between them, five hundred years is a long, long time to wait to punish someone.
Klaus isn’t capable of kindness. She knows that. Doesn’t allow herself to be blinded by the way he smiles up at her and touches her softly. She’s had hands touch her like that before, and those hands broke brittle bones to punish her.
She curves her fingers around his shoulders and moves them, massaging her tension, grief, anger and self-hate into his bones. "I meant what I said. You have my word that I’m not going to run."
His hands only bloom against her back. He smiles up at her, lips tense. "I’m not my brother."
"And I’m not Katherine."
His gaze dips to the hollow of her neck as she sucks in air sharply. "We’ll see about that."
Her back is cold when his hands fall away from her sharply. Hands at her jacket, he tugs at it harshly off her shoulders and arms. He tosses it onto the floor and glides his hands roughly up her torso to cup her breasts over her shirt.
"Katerina liked it when I was rough," he says, his gaze sharp on her collarbone.
"I’m not Katherine," she snaps. Heart leaping into her throat, she tugs in a breath, feels her entire body grow tight as it tries to coil around him.
He tugs at her shirt, pulling it roughly over her head. She anchors her hands firmly against his shoulders, digging her nails—hers—into him through his shirt. Bowing his head, he nuzzles the hollow of her neck, licking his way to her breasts. "You smell like you are," he murmurs. His hands curl around her ass, fingers digging into her skin as he pulls her forward.
"I’m not," she says, tilting her head to the side. She closes her eyes and imagines he’s Stefan, even as his hands tug at her bra to pull the cups away from her breasts. His mouth is hard and his tongue is rough as he licks at her nipple. She tries to swallow her moan, but he chuckles against her breast as he palms the other roughly. "I’m not."
Arching her chest into his hands and mouth, Elena slides her fingers roughly into his hair to tug him closer. She doesn’t care that he can hear the pounding of her heart and smell her growing arousal as she shifts on his hips. Let him remember the sound of her. She wishes to embed herself into every shell he sees, lifting it to his ear to listen to the call of the sea.
She shoves at him and he doesn’t move, laughing against her nipple. He sucks on her breast hard and she moans, shifting her hips against his legs as she tries to seek friction on his lap. She shoves him again, harder this time, and he still doesn’t relent. When she grabs his hair tightly and tries to throw his head back, he allows himself to fall against the back of the couch, staring up at her with a reddened mouth and wide, hungry eyes.
"Isn’t this what you wanted?" He pants softly, affected by her. Pride blooms in her chest.
Using his shoulders, she pushes herself up and wedges her leg between his. Straddling his thigh, she rocks her hips against him, closing her eyes as she pants. Rubbing her clit against his pant leg, her dig deeper into the couch with each thrust. When she opens her eyes and peers down at him, he’s staring openly at her, lips no longer curved upward in amusement.
"Stop," he says. She doesn’t want to. Gripping his shoulders tightly, she tries to fight against the desire to give into his words, but she feels them tug at her mind gently, lulling her. Elena stops.
Staring at him, she swallows hard. Her chest heaves as she peers down at him, feeling like she’s been mauled by a wild animal, but he’s the one who looks it, thick hair in disarray, eyes wide, lips looking like they’ve been bitten by wolf teeth.
He lets his gaze drop to her breasts. Her skin flushes red. She thinks he’s listening to her frantic heart.
His silence discomforts her. Wanting to shift against his leg, all she can manage is to curl her toes against the couch. "I’ll give you me if you promise not to hurt the people I leave behind," she says, panting hard. She stares him down, pinning him in place. His lips crack open into a smile. "Promise me."
He presses his lips together, licking them, and then shakes his head. Her heart thunders in her chest; she peers down at him angrily, wanting to strike him like a lightning bolt, but a wolf is different to a lost man; she can’t bully him the same way she can his brother.
"Fine," he says. Arching her brow up at him, he smiles. "You have my word."
The words hit differently, insincere in the way he seems to be too amused to be genuine, but Elena isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. She gazes down at him hungrily. Rather than rock herself against his leg, she drops her hands to his jeans and undoes them, much to his pleasure. She’ll possess him as intimately as he’ll be possessing her, walking around the earth with her blood thumping in his veins.
He helps her pull them down his hipbones, and then she tugs his briefs down to reveal his hard cock. She stares at him for a second, afraid to touch him. For such a monster, he’s still a man. It’s the one lesson she refuses to learn. Monsters living inside of men; men living inside of monsters. Sometimes she thinks one lives deep inside of her. Its fingers tug at her insides, trying to split her chest wide open.
"Come on, love," Klaus smirks. His face is tinged pink, but she doubts it’s from embarrassment. "Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about this."
Elena licks her bottom lip, inhaling deeply before she reaches out to grab his cock. Let him think what he wants. Her touch is hard and unpracticed, and she strokes him roughly, struggling with her grip. Nerves alight her entire body as she blushes red, and he chuckles, hearing her blood rise to the surface of her skin and her clit pulse with want.
He sucks in a breath when she touches her thumb over the slit of his cock. Licking her lips again, she lifts her leg out from between his, moving to rest her knees on either side of him on the couch. Her knees brush against the the side of his thighs.
"These need to come off, don’t they?" His hand slides between her legs, fingers rubbing her wet cunt through her panties. Elena straightens, holding her breath, refuses to moan despite his fingers petting her and his gaze seeking to pull a hiccup of breath from her.
She gasps when he rips it off of her, dropping her torn panties on the couch beside her.
He slides his fingers along the seam of her cunt, touching her like she’s a prized possession. Elena inhales sharply, throat constricting, doing her best not to rock her hips or moan, but a sound emerges from her and she pushes her hips down against his hand desperately.
Gaze still capturing hers, she can’t look away. She doesn’t think she’s strong enough to. His eyes are dark, lips slightly parted, the curve to them no longer viciously cruel. He looks like a man beneath her, and he feels like one when he slides his finger inside of her, humming appreciatively. Losing her breath, she grips his shoulders tightly to try and steal from his lungs. Curls his finger inside of her, her warm slickness inviting him in.
She whimpers when he withdraws his hand, lifting it to his lips. Heat shoots through her and tinges her skin red when he makes a show of sucking on his finger. Her eyes narrow as her body betrays her, chest heaving as her thighs clench as if that’s enough to summon the warmth of his hand back.
Lifting his hand, he traces her parted lips with his wet finger. She sucks his finger into her mouth. He stares at her, lips parted, and dark lines bleed against the pale skin beneath his eyes. She wonders who he’s seeing, if it’s her, Katerina, or another ghost. It doesn’t matter. She reaches for his hard cock, grip firm, wanting to cage him with her in this moment. He’ll remember her.
Withdrawing his hand, he grips her hips tight enough to leave a bruise, and he moves her as she holds his cock. Droping her hand, she’s on his lap again, knees flanking his sides like she’s capable of protecting him. His cock enters her sharply and she cries out, his hands curving around her ass. He pinches her before he starts moving her, and she grips his shoulders roughly, digging them in to try and leave her mark on his skin.
She’s slow to pick up the rhythm, letting him fuck himself on her. He moves her in a way that’s almost feral, hands possessive, blunt nails marring her skin. She tries to fight his tight grip as she rolls her hips, wanting to slow him down, give him one last fight.
He chuckles and moans Katerina’s name, and Elena bears down on him harder, eliciting a howling laugh from his belly.
His hands venture up her back as he releases control to her, bowing his head to kiss the valley of her breasts, biting at the swell sharp enough to draw blood. Elena gasps, moaning and rocking against him. Peering up at the highest point of the wall, she imagines he’s Stefan. But his hands are too rough, his bite too sharp, and he bucks his hips underneath hers angrily, wanting to drive himself deeper inside of her to try and claw her apart.
Elena closes her eyes and bows her head to rest her chin against the top of his head, panting against his hair. Desperate to hide the way her face feels slack, her body tenses beneath his hands and around his cock. She hums, gasping, the quiet tension of Alaric’s apartment growing thicker with her arousal.
He bites at her breast and she feels a sting and a tug. Gasping, she tries to pull back, but his hand is against her spine and presses against her firmly as her breast stings and his teeth sink into her skin. Tongue lapping at her, he bites at her nipple; she can feel the tug of blood as he teases himself with an appetiser.
His hand slides between them as he rubs at her clit. Elena gasps, pulls back against his hand and feels the skin at her breast tear. Gripping him tightly, her hand slides up the back of his neck to grip his hair sharply. Mouth stained with her blood and eyes remaining a dark, tumultuous blue, she reaches out to touch his chin, the sharp line of his jaw. His skin doesn’t cut her the way his teeth have and will. He’s traitorously soft beneath her hands.
She rocks against him, bearing down on his cock. Tries to take from him the way he has and will take from her. Rocking her hips against him, she tries to pull from deep within him: a vulnerability, a way to hurt him. But all she can feel is his cock inside of her, hands pressing against her, and his breath burning her skin as he pants sharply against her breasts.
She comes around him with a cry, her mouth bowed into his hair to try and muffle the sharp sound. She curls into him, spine sharp against his hands that grip her to him like she’s his lighthouse bringing him home.
Heat licks at her body. She refuses to let it consume her so she’s ash in his lap. She rises within it, unburnt. Peering down at him, she curves her hands around his shoulders, hips trying to forge into unmovable lead.
He keeps moving beneath her, fucking up into her. Elena wants to pull off of him and not give him what he wants, but his hands are tight and unmoving on her hips as he shackles her to him. Moving her up and down, his teeth sink firmly into her other unmarred breast to leave his mark on her skin.
Panting, she winces at the sting of his teeth and the way blood pools and slides down her skin. Gripping his hair tightly, she tries to tug at him to pull him back—or push him forward, one palm curving to his scalp—and rocks against him despite her clit feeling spent and her hips aching.
He comes with a muffled cry against her chest, his teeth tearing at her skin. He pushes her down against his cock so hard that she wonders, briefly, if he’s trying to disappear inside of her. His mouth is wet and bloodied as he withdraws it from her chest. Staring down at him, she softly flinches when he lifts his hand to brush his fingers through her hair.
Elena stares down at him, her gaze on his stained mouth. He wears her like she’s always meant to stain his mouth. The corner of her lip curves upward. Lifting her gaze to his eyes, there’s no blue. She stares into the darkness of death, his thick eyelashes pronouncing the veins staining the skin around his eyes.
She wonders what his gaze will look like as a hybrid.
Big hand sliding up the ladder of her spine, she moans at how sensitive she feels when she shifts against his cock.
Cupping his face gently, she spies his eyes widening, blood-red lips parting. Surprise softens his eyes but hardens his features, lips tensing along with the sharpness of his jaw. His hand is firm on her back, fingers grasping at the ends of her hair as if in preparation of stopping an approaching battle.
Undeterred, Elena bows her head and presses her mouth firmly against his, licking against his teeth. Grazing her own human fangs against his lips, she drags her tongue along his upper teeth, feels the point of his fangs, and tries to cut herself on them as she consumes him. His mouth is hard and possessive against hers, teeth sharp against her lips as he cuts and slices into her. She feels with each brush of her tongue and taste of her blood that she’s slowly dismantling his armour.
Forcing her head back, his teeth let go of her stinging bottom lip. Her mouth and chin are stained with her blood.
Klaus peers up at her, mesmerised. His face is a smeared painting of red, blood staining his lips, chin, the curve of his cheeks. Brushing his hand against her side like the bristles of a brush, his fingertips are soft as he glides his nails over her sore hipbone. Up the length of her torso, his hand settles against the underside of her breast before he fans his fingers out to touch the swell of her possessively. He cups her breast and digs his fingers into her skin, pads seeking out the solid, reliable beating of her heart.
Breathing hard, she keeps her spine unwavering and tall. Her skin’s flushed, heart pounding in her chest, and her blood rushes in her ears in a bid for her to flee. But she remains locked to him with him soft inside of her.
"You best get ready, Elena," he says quietly, still breathless. He doesn’t push her off of him like she’s a mere doll for him to play with. His hands are gentle and firm, holding her like she’s his delicate and breakable salvation. She supposes she is.
Licking her bottom lip, she pulls off of him sharply, groaning low in her throat. On shaky legs she stands and bends to pick up her top, jacket, and jeans, and leaves her torn panties on the couch as she escapes into Alaric’s small bathroom.
As she stands naked in the little box of a cage, cleaning the blood away from her mouth and chest, she brushes her fingers against the stinging and sensitive bite marks and tears at her breasts. Looking at herself in the mirror, she thinks she sees herself for what she truly is. Mauled and torn apart by death.