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klaus mikaelson

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Are you coming over?

It's the text that makes her chew on her lip, that makes her type four answers and delete them and then type again and then delete that, because it's not so simple as yes or no, and she's spent the last four hours going what am I doing and being weirdly girl-power-self-affirming because she's making a choice for herself, but then wondering what the hell Bonnie and Elena would say, and then wondering what Tyler would do, but she's not thinking about Tyler, because she's not letting her think about Tyler, because- because. Because she's not. Because she doesn't love Klaus, she loves Tyler, but this thing she's got isn't dating, and-

And it's sort of crazy. Of course it's crazy.

But he sends her a text asking her if she's coming over, and she starts tearing through her clothes after she goes back and forth, but she just sort of gives up, and ends up in leggings and a t-shirt that's belted like a dress and flipflops, but she's got makeup on and she's trying to balance between not looking like she tried too hard or too much, and looking nice.

It's a delicate line, and as she's walking to his room, she walks halfway, and then turns around and walks back, and then stopped again, turning back, because she's going to do this, and when she gets to his room, she hesitates but the door's open and she's got a pillow under her arm because it's hers and she just goes in. "I'm spending the night," she informs him, and she looks at him like What're you going to do about it? and she sort of flops into one of his chairs, folding up her feet, like she wasn't here like six hours ago.

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"Your headache?" Her brows furrowed in concern. "Did you way overdo it last night, too?" She didn't really remember him being totally plastered, and Klaus doesn't exactly strike her as a lightweight, but unless somethings the matter or you have the worst hangover ever, vampires don't really get headaches.

"Let's call it a brain sprain," he answers, because he has to tell her something, and he spoke without thinking and didn't want her to know. She doesn't have to know, but since she asked he's trying to brush it off as nothing big, barely worth a joke, and maybe she'll get what he means and maybe she won't. "What's the Gilmore Girls?"

No, he has no idea.

She makes a face at him, and that gets the eyeroll because he's being weird, and she wonders if Ye Olde Iceland or wherever he's from doesn't use the word hangover, and she's about to say something but it just sort of skips away because he doesn't know what Gilmore Girls is, and she's trying not to laugh. "Did you live under a bridge for the last decade?" And then she stands up and she's grabbing his hand and pulling him to the bed before she sits down and scoots over, leaning against the headboard, glancing at him expectantly before she starts looking for it on her communicator, and she's totally wishing for a TV right now.

"That must be it," he answers, a little painfully, not because he's hurt, but because he's anticipating some painful show about teenage girls. That's what it sounds like to him, anyway, but still he joins Caroline on the bed, and sits beside her. He's glad he did when she relocates, and leans against him rather than the headboard, and his arm's around her shoulders and he can press a kiss to her hair as she looks through her communicator for what he is quite certain is going to be a very painful hour of his life.

Except the video that starts playing is nothing like what he expected. The "Girls" in question hod sixty years on what he expected, the theme song is terrible, and the whole thing looks like the corniest comedy he's ever laid eyes on, and he can't help but laugh. "Tell me this isn't it."

She's staring at it, and she's making a face because this is horrible, and she makes a disgusted noise, because he's laughing, and she's like, half huffing-in-anger and half laughing, but no, it's not it, and she hits exit, and then sighs. "No. No, it's totally not it." She sighs, and tosses her communicator onto the blanket, and instead she toes off her flipflops and shoves them off the bed, leaning against him still. 'What sort of TV do you like? And reality shows totally do not count, or are in any way valid answers."

"Did you see a television anywhere in our home?" Klaus asks. There are a few - one in the sitting room, but it's hidden inside a cabinet, and one in Rebekkah's bedroom, but he sees no reason why Caroline would ever have been there. There are probably other sets, but honestly, he doesn't remember, much as he bought them, because he hardly ever watches telly. It used to be a new thing, but it became an old thing much too quickly. "I think the last - and only," he adds after a second's thought, "series I watched from start to finish was the Prisoner."

He might have seen bits and pieces of reality shows, but he never stopped to watch more than ten seconds. He has better things to do with his life.

"Well," she says, "That doesn't mean you didn't have one like.. I don't like, like ten years ago." She sighs, and she pauses, and then, she says carefully. "So, the TV sucks, and it's late." She can't stop the slow smile on her lips. "I mean there's something we can do."

And yeah, she's innuendoing, and she doesn't know if he'll get it, and maybe if he doesn't get it, that's fine, because it's not like, the number one thing you do, but when there's nothing on TV and you're not talking and you're sitting on a bed, it all sort of points to one thing.

"Really?" Klaus can't help but laugh softly as he asks. "I'm second best to the Gilmore Girls?"

It's a gorgeous smile on her, and it's tempting to kiss her, but when they start this, he doesn't want it to be with her drunk, or with her bored. He wants it to be with her there, and wanting him.

Caroline rolled her eyes. "I would have showed you the first episode because you wanted to know what it was. I've seen it a billion times. We're just moving up the schedule, but if last night was just a fluke, that's fine. We can just go to bed." Her mouth slowly curved into a smile, and she turned her head, her mouth skimming his jaw to whisper in his ear, her voice low. "To be really honest, I'd pass on TV, but if you're really not interested...." She trailed off, before shifting away from him. "I should go shower before bed." Her voice was chipper, and her eyes sparkled because she was totally yanking his chain.

"For future reference," he tells her once she's quite done, and he only stops smiling in order to talk, but he's also following her so that she might be shifting away, but his lips end up inches from hers by the time he's done with his sentence, "wondering what something is does not mean that I insist on being subjected to an hour of modern American television."

And with that said, he smiles slowly, and then he kisses her. He really kisses her. Like the world might end in a few seconds and he needs, needs his fill of her before, like she's the only thing in the world and she might just consume him but he doesn't care, he'll throw himself in with all he's got. It's the sort of kiss you only see in American television, but for him it's just the sort of kiss he's learned to give when he wants to. He's had a thousand years of practice, after all.

She's torn with how he talks because she likes TV, okay? But then he kisses her, and he kisses her like she's never been kissed, and she can't deal, can't play it cool. She moans into his mouth, and she's leaning into him and if he moves she's going to fall on her face, but she shifts forward and the moan becomes more of a needing whimper and she wants him- no tv. Not a priority. Ever. Again.

Once he knows he's got her, he pulls back, and he finds it in himself to smile, as if he didn't want to keep on kissing her until they both stop breathing, because it's just a reflex with them, it's not like they could die of asphyxiation. But he smiles, and brushes her hair back from her face, and only then kisses her again, softer, warmer by opposition to hotter.

"Now," he tells her, holding her gaze, "now you want it like I want it."

It's not a smug thing, it's not a point he's making, or if it is it's about emotions and balance, not about being right or proving anything. Because sex can just be sex, but if he's going to have sex with her, then he's going to make love to her, and it shouldn't ever be anything close to second best.

Caroline stared up at him, her eyes dark and vulnerable, and she makes a noise when he kisses her again, warm and sweet. "Klaus.." She breathed his name, and it's sort of a question, but she moves closer and she leans up to kiss him again, slow and drugging. It's weird, because this isn't fun, and it's not angry and it's not hormones- and she thinks this is the first time it's been this way ever for her, and her hands slip into his hair and she's giving herself into it, her hand slipping down onto his chest again. "I want this," she whispers against his lips, before she breaks the kiss to skim her mouth down his jaw to his neck, when she breathes his name get again.

The words he wanted to hear, and the look he wanted to see in her eyes, the sound of her breath, the desire behind it all and the feelings that come with it, mirroring the state he was in last night, with that thing inside that is inevitably drawing them together, and he pulls her into his lap as she kisses him, a hand in the small of her back, the other behind him to lean on. His hands slides up her back to push his fingers into her hair when she kisses his neck, and when she hits that particular spot he moves in a heartbeat, with all the speed he's still capable of, turning them over so she's on her back on the bed, and he's over her and kissing her again.

She breathlessly laughs when he flips them, and it's not because it's funny but because it's wonderful and she runs her thigh against his hip. She kisses him sweetly, then deeper, delicate fingers tugging up the back of his shirt to both get it off and because she wanted to touch his skin.

But she's not letting him control everything, and she flips them if he lets her so she's straddling his hips, and she ducks her head, her tongue skimming that spot on his neck, a low sound in her throat that was close to his name.

He lets her, of course he lets her. This isn't about domination or power, this is about them, and in just under a second he's shirtless and on his back, her warm hands on his chest, his on her waist, following the belt that cinches her waist and he makes a noise when she finds that spot, that one spot that makes his hips rise slightly, and she can have no doubt about exactly how into her he is just then. He makes a noise that's almost a moan but mostly a sigh, and his hands find her belt buckle and undo it, throwing the belt off the edge of the bed to follow his shirt, and he can finally get his hands under her t-shirt and onto her skin.

She whimpers when he shifts under her, and she grinds her hips down against him, feeling him hard against her and she kisses him before she shifts down. Caroline sucks a mark on that spot on his neck before moving down, pressing a trail of biting kisses down his chest then further down, her fingers skimming his waistband before she asked quietly. "Let me?"

She didn't know if he'd let her, but she wanted to make this good, and she wanted to see what he was like when he lost control.

"Caroline, love," he smiles at her, and she's beautiful, and she's offering, and he might be a thousand years old but he's still a guy, and yet he tugs her back up, if she'll follow, "we've got plenty of time. C'mere." He's leaned up on one elbow, his other hand tugging on the sleeve of her t-shirt, because there's no rush, and they're only just starting.

She follows, but her brows knit, and she says quietly- "But-" And then she stops, and her cheeks are burning because she's embarrassed, and she ducks her head, so very self-conscious where she was not before. "I want this to be good for you," she says, and it's a whisper against his skin, because her forehead's almost against his shoulder - she's hiding, even if she doesn't want to admit it.

"What," he starts, but interrupts himself, because she's not looking at him, so he puts a finger to her chin and tilts her head up so she does, and only once he has her gaze does he ask, "what makes you think this won't be good for me if we take our time?"

Once a first time was over, it could never be relived, and it was much too precious to squander away. His hand cups her face, and he kisses her with a smile. "Humour me, love. I swear I'll make it worth your while."

"Because-" And she feels dumb saying it, and she's staring into his eyes, and she bites her lips together as her voice lowers. "Because this- I mean, I love it, but... for you?" And she's so red, and she doesn't pull away from his hands but she's so embarrassed and earnest that she thinks he's not going to like what they're doing unless it involves more direct means. Or - he'll like it, but that doesn't mean it will be good. Not the same sort of good.

"If you're telling me you couldn't feel how much I love it as well thirty seconds ago, I'm going to feel offended," he points out with a half-smile, to try and pull the embarrassment away from her. He kisses her again, thumb stroking her cheekbone, and he thinks that Tyler really didn't deserve her, if she still viewed sex like this. "We're going to take our time, and it'll be so much better for it. For both of us. Trust me, love."

"I trust you," she murmurs, and she leans in to kiss him again, sweet and slow and it's not about sex but about him, about the sort of guy who'd turn that sort of stuff down not because he doesn't like it but because he wants to spend more time with her, and she makes a low noise in her throat, one that's sort of shy, but she is pouring herself into the kiss and her arms end up slipping around his neck. Kissing, she can do. Kissing--

She likes kissing. Always have, always will, and embarrassed or not, it makes her feel good.

There, better, and he welcomes that kiss and can feel her relaxing in it, which would make him smile if he wasn't busy kissing her. There's a hint of a smile on his lips, a happy smile, but he's kissing her again the next moment, and making a noise into the kiss that is very purposeful, a noise that means yes, see, we could do this for hours and I would love it. He means that as literally as possible, and he's still leaning up on the one elbow, and his other hand is under her t-shirt, sliding over the soft skin of her back to settle there, fingertips playing with the bumps of her spine.

She kisses him like he's what she's been looking for, and when he makes that noise she can't help but make one in response, can't help but move her hips against his - she's still in his lap, and the slow roll of her hips has her trembling, just slightly, when things rub the right way and she's so his she can barely take it.

She pulls back, her eyes half-lidded as she bites her lip, and she repeats herself from last night, and she's sober and there's nothing stopping him. "I want you to touch me," she whispers, and then she's kissing him again, losing herself in it.