Ever since I was a boy. ( the answer comes while his gaze lingers on the canvas. while she may see something worthy, he sees something uninspired, not quite realized; he hasn't pinpointed the right vision. perhaps the subject itself is all wrong. perhaps what he wants is not hell molded to his purposes, but hell on fire. perhaps he doesn't want hell at all.
he lets out a heavy sigh and plops his brush in a jar of paint-muddied water. ) This one's not right. ( there's a soft thread of frustration in the pronouncement, just a hint of the broiling underneath. he wipes his hands on a stained hand towel quickly, takes his glass from her, and downs half.
it burns his throat and warms his belly. as much as he'd like to, he doesn't quickly imbibe the rest. he's experienced a few hangovers recently he'd rather not repeat too identically. instead he grabs the side of the canvas and shoves it with sudden and contained violence into the wall. it thuds and smears; the easel clatters with it to the floor. he paces away and takes another sip. )
[she doesn't really know enough about art to really say if it's good or not. she's never had a lot of exposure to that kind of stuff. it's not like purgatory is a cultured sort of town with an art museum or anything.]
Are any of them right?
[it's not an accusation so much as a curiosity -- she notices a few other destroyed canvases around the room and imagines that getting something right in their current situations would be impossible.
wynonna drains half her glass herself. she's had more than a few hangovers lately, some nastier than others, but it doesn't seem to deter her -- maybe because she's used to it.
and yet, when he throws the canvas into the wall she can't help but flinch in a way she wouldn't normally -- her startle response still on overdrive, as much as she wishes it wasn't.]
( if he sees or senses her visceral flinch, he doesn't show it. he doesn't let on. if he had, quite frankly, it would make no difference to him. he stops at the foot of his bed and answers her, plain even in his discontent. ) No. ( they are not right, as the others before this one were not, as none of them have been even as his mind turns and follows paths and contingencies with increasing vigor and desperation. as he hits walls and shortcomings and uncertainties he's at current unwilling to risk. powerful though he is, klaus' true advantage has always been his mind, but at present neither seem to be working up to snuff.
and her. dejected and dispirited, walking around like a husk after her trauma, aimless and disoriented and altogether not herself. too much herself. the anger in him festers at the reflection of such helplessness.
he brushes his wet lips on the back on his hand and turns back to her. he speaks with cruel glibness, knowing the provocations will cut true and deep. ) Why are you here?
Sex? ( his brow lifts with suggestion; he gestures to the bed. despite their dalliances, they've never been so personal as to tumble in the suite. ) Comfort? ( that's it. ) Company in which to imbibe that bottle of alcohol until you can't see straight? ( as she's had every night. )
[because i thought you would understand. i don't want to be alone. i want to feel something other than empty, i thought you understood what that was like
wynonna thinks of many answers to his questions, but she doesn't offer them. not when she feels attacked, as she does in this moment. her hackles are up now, and honestly, even feeling angry is better than the sad and hollow emptiness that has been plaguing her.
so instead she tries to turn it around on him, as she always does when she feels backed into a corner, when someone cuts a little too close to the truth for her liking. similarly to doc, klaus is good at seeing through her bullshit, cutting to the core to make it hurt and fester, she had almost forgotten the dangers that come with someone who can really see you.
her mistake]
Why did you let me in? Because if it's just to be an asshole to me, I can find better company.
( he smiles. there's nothing kind about the expression. her response does not deter him. on the contrary, his reply is unhesitating and instant. ) But you don't want better company, you want me. ( this wasn't a mistake. what else could she have possibly wanted, coming to him? to someone who knows her; to someone so alike? he begins to stalk forward as he speaks. ) Why else would you slink in during the middle of the night, weeks after suffering under Lucifer's hand, as if waiting until you couldn't help yourself? ( he's a few feet away now and he doesn't stop until their breaths touch. ) Perhaps the reason I let you in is because I tire of watching you tip toe around, afraid to break to pieces, and I thought I'd do you the mercy of getting it over with.
[he's so close now, and other certain circumstances that might be tempting (who is she kidding? they're tempting under these circumstances, anger and lust have always been a fine line for her) but she does not kiss him, she instead gives into a more primal, visceral urge.
she slaps him across the face. and one might think she's only doing it because he has no power to stop her right now -- but even if he had his powers she would still try to. there's a fire, a spark in her eyes that's been lacking lately. maybe that's why she came.]
I didn't break for him, and I'm sure as hell not going to break for you.
[because she was broken a long time before lucifer ever got his hands on her. she's been damaged since she was twelve years old, probably longer if she's really, really honest with herself. ]
( he doesn't stop her. he wouldn't, even if he had his abilities; he wants her ire. there's victory and solace in bringing it forth because that is why she came but it is also why he is provoking her now.
the sting of her hand is hot and burning. his face turns to the side with its force.
she wants to feel something, yes. he's tired of her defeated steps, as if every one is more difficult than the last, when she's right. his eyes were closed as she speaks, but they open now; he turns his head back.
she's right. she was tortured and she didn't break. the worst is done. this ensuing fragility is naught but useless drivel. ) So then why are you afraid? ( a challenge. )
[she doesn't slap him again, but she also doesn't back down, she meets his gaze, he accepts his challenge.]
Because every time I close my eyes, that's all I can see, all I can remember, I'm not afraid, I'm exhausted. And I came to you because I thought, for some stupid reason, you might understand. And yeah, maybe I did come her for sex, or for comfort, or for both, but at least I'm man enough to admit it.
If anyone here is afraid here, it's you, hiding away here in his rooms with his paintings. The tortured artist. I didn't realize you were such a fucking cliche.
[she's just...being insulting now, lashing out because she's hurt, because she's angry and because she doesn't want to let him win. ]
( he does understand. more than she could possibly know; he knows what it's like to suffer at someone else's hands in endless, helpless agony. he knows that fear, because he's felt it time and time again. he feels like now, regardless of how it's sharpened over the centuries into a tool. he feels lifetimes of that exhaustion weighing at his shoulders. he understands the weight.
he sees it all, burning in her eyes. the despair twisted up with wrath, the bone-wearied heaviness. and he feels the sting of it in her reply, the mirror held up to his own fear and exhaustion and helplessness. there's something terrible and bright in his eyes; it's not the words but how they land that have him stepping into her, his hands wrapping around her arms in a rough grasp.
he cannot hurt her. even if he could, he realizes the moment she's in his hold he won't. that's not what he wants. that's not what he's capable of, in more ways than one. his lips collide against hers instead, hard and bruising. )
[when he roughly grabs her, she is not afraid, and even though he does not have his abilities he could still hurt her, humans hurt other humans all the time. but she knows somehow he won't, even if as heated and volatile as this moment is -- if he had wanted to hurt her, he would have done so a long time ago.
not that that couldn't change, but if he wanted to hurt her he probably wouldn't have let her in in the first place, tonight. he has been cruel and she has responded in kind, but they both need that anger right now, need something beyond just fear and despair and hopelessness.
so when his lips crash against her she responds in kind, bruising and unrelenting. her hand comes up to press against the back of his neck, her nails digging into his scalp some. ]
( this is what he needed, what he craved: her jagged edges harsh against his. he has his wish; this base need for something other than quiet and inaction fulfilled. to hurt and be hurt. his lips press and move with hers, the kiss hungry and brutal and pleasurable only in its rawness. it's not until her nails score crescents into his scalp that he feels a pure flare of lust. his breath is heavy through his nose as he makes a sound: a low rumble at the bite of pain.
his fingers, still hard as a vice around one of her arms, let go. his mouth softens and opens to hers as his arms wrap like a cord about her waist, pressing and pulling her in. )
[it was what she had needed as well, someone who would challenge her instead of walk around her on eggshells like everyone else, someone who would recognize that she needed to feel something, that even anger is better than despair and nothing.
he pulls her flush against his body and lust spreads through her body like a jolt of lightening. her mouth opens for his as she gasps in pleasant surprise. he had been right before: their dalliances have never been so personal to happen inside of the suite, but she doesn't care enough right now to suggest they go somewhere else, and she certainly doesn't want to stop long enough to make such a thing a reality.]
( he doesn't care where they are or how they've arrived at this point. klaus is not one to stop and think when he has what he wants; or at the very least, he's not one to stop. he doesn't now, the tip of his tongue slipping past the parted seam of her lips to meet and massage her own. he lets out a soft growl of breath through his nose and walks forward, his hands dropping to her thighs to hitch her up in time to tumble over her onto the bed. )
[the last thing wynonna wants to do is stop. she groans softly at the feel of her tongue entwining with his own. and then she's suddenly being tipped backwards on the bed. she grabs him by the shirt, tugging him down with her so he falls on top of her. she finally breaks from the kiss for some air before pressing her lips against his jaw and neck, sucking and biting at the skin there.]
( everything, from the moment his powers were stripped from him, has been transformed from a beautiful symphony into a dulled chorus: sight, tough, taste, sound. this is more or less the same, but at least the familiar newness still takes him unawares with its pleasures: from the warm solidity of her below him to the caress of her mouth against his skin. klaus moans at the sensations, turning his cheek to expose his neck to her attentions, the scratch of his stubble more of a caress from his neglect with a razor.
lesser through his senses may be, he still feels an ache starting in his groin and filling his cock for her. it's an angry, eager, yearning lust for anything and everything more. one of his hands slips up into her shirt, fingers counting her ribs and skimming back down her side, her hip, her thigh into the crook of her knee. )
[if the extra scratchiness of his stubble bother wynonna at all, she doesn't say anything about it. the neglect shouldn't make him more attractive to her, but it kind of does -- he wears it well. plus there's an appeal to the idea that for once she could actually leave a mark on him, that he won't instantly heal as she sucks and bites at his neck, leaving a small hickey in her wake.
a familiar ache has begun to settle between her legs as his hand slips into her shirt, brushes against her bare skin (it's late enough that her bra has been long discarded for the sake of comfort). no matter what else has been changed about him, his touch still feels familiar, as desperate and angry as she is for anything more than what they have been dealt with lately.]
( a startled groan leaves him on sudden exhale of air, brought about by a particularly rough press of her teeth around the suction of her mouth. the hurt lingers as his hips bear slightly down on hers; he folds her leg at the knee to feel her thigh brush up against his hip. he doesn't think of the marks she may leave on him, but he relishes the attention all the same.
still, it's not enough, and his arm slides under her waist, catches her to his chest as he rolls them over and sits up, all the better to grab the hem of her thin shirt and lift it over her head. he does not pause but ducks his head, his mouth encircling the rosy peak of one breast, drawing its pebble into his mouth, rolling and pinching it against teeth and tongue. )
[he rolls them over, sits them up, and before she knows it his moth is covering one of her nipples, causing her to let out a surprised groan at the unexpected, but welcome, attention that causes her bud to begin to harden and tighten in arousal.
but it is not enough for her either, which is why she begins to tug at his paint stained shirt, making him pull away just long enough so she can remove it and toss it aside. she lets her hands explore he exposed skin of his chest, nails lightly dragging across the surface. ]
( a shiver runs up his spine at the stroking graze of her nails; his half-lidded eyes lift to her face, the fingers of one hand curling into the fall of her chocolate hair down her back. he's torn between the desire to lavish attention double-fold to her neglected nipple or to pull her reddened lips back to his, though he doesn't hesitate to pull her in by the waist, the wet of his saliva cool on his skin and the press of her soft breasts even more alluring. nor does he stop there; his arm lowers to her hips and pulls her deeper into his lap, grinding her hard against his erect cock between them. the frustration and lust is clear in his expression, even as his eyes and body soak her in — the two are intertwined and stitched together, but what truly pauses him is her face, the reflection of need and the reverberation of their cutting words.
they cut still. he wants them to cut and to soothe and to see it there, in her eyes. he hates to need it and wants it all at the same time, this flammable speak between them. )
[the frustration in his eyes, in some ways, is as appealing as cock grinding against her. because she needs it to cut too. she needs him to feel it, to want it the way she does. if it was just about sex -- she could have found plenty of willing participants, even in her lowest moments wynonna never doubts her sex appeal, it's one of the few things she's consistently confident about -- but she came to him because she wanted him, knew that she needed something that more than just scratched an itch. he wouldn't coddle her or treat her like she was breakable --
and she's grateful for that.
she groans as he grinds against her, a wetness beginning to grow in response, before claiming his lips in another searing kiss, her hands grasping his face to lead it back to hers.]
( if he could tear the remaining clothes from her body, he would. it's the only thought; only impulse in his mind as her lips descend on his, making the decision for him as simple as that: he moans against her mouth, against the demand of her hands holding his face and the neediness of it.
he hasn't wanted anyone. anything but quiet and vengeance and focus, all burning with the molten rage in him. not since before the riots; since lucifer stripped him of his very nature, the offense and terror and helplessness seeping deep and piercing him true. but he wants now. he wants in ways he did not realize he wanted, needed; in ways that fit seamlessly into place as her and with her now.
his hands clutch the silk of her hair and smooth across the lean, toned muscles of her back; they grab and knead at her perfect arse and thighs. a soft growl sounds of the back of his throat as he holds those thighs and pitches her around and forward, her back hitting the bed. he kneels before her, hands grabbing at the hem of her pants and tugging them down with strong, impatient pulls. )
[wynonna has been trying to find something she could feel, something she could want since she was released from the dungeons, almost desperate to feel something other than numb. she had needed the reminder that even though touch can hurt (and it had, relentlessly, during her time with lucifer), it can also feel good. and fuck if his hands don't feel good on her.
she moans in surprise and delight as he shifts their positions yet again, placing her back on her back so he can impatiently pull at her pants. luckily they're a loose pair she wears for sleeping instead of the tighter stuff she wears during the day so they come down easily. she kicks them off, leaving herself bare to him. she doesn't generally wear underwear under her sleep clothes anymore than she does a bra.
she nips at his lower lip playfully, trying to take her fill of his lips on hers. her hands come up to rest on his head again, to thread through the messy curls of his hair. she breaks away from the kiss only to gently tug his head downwards, as she is eager to feel his talented lips on other parts of her body.]
( the soft sound he makes is one of distracted pleasure and impatience both at the slide of her lips and the bite of her teeth. what he wants right now is between her legs, his hand already hooking underneath her thigh to spread her. just the thought of her bare and wet and untouched has him hungry, and while the caress of her fingers through his hair is undeniably pleasant, it's only when she guides him down that he groans and follows with all willingness. his thumb is drawing a line down her inner thigh, tracing the artery and stopping to rub the puckered white scar of his teeth. his fangs itch his gums, his cock so stiff and heavy now that the mere brush of fabric against it borders on pain.
he wants so badly to duck his head to worry and suck on her ignored nipple, and the perfect pink of it is too alluring to leave entirely unattended: his hand moves to pinch the peak hard in promise to her and himself. how she feels, tastes, and smells is incredible, no less enchanting for his tempered senses, and he wants it all, in time. his mouth drops in fervent haste to lick the etched, curved line of her abs above her belly button; his face is warm as he nips, licks, and kisses down to the apex of her thighs.
his eyes stall as he reaches there and he moves his thumb to stroke from her beaded clitoris and down her glistening sex. he delves into and massages those wet lips, a soft, appreciative curse on his lips— )Fuck... ( —before he dips his head and draws her clitoris into his mouth. )
[.as good as all of his touches and kisses across her body are, she's as impatient as he is. she can't help but squirm some as he pinches her nipple, licks her aps, and traces the scar on her thigh. a scar that she had chosen, unlike the ones she now bears unwillingly. not that she wants to talk or think about that right now. she doesn't want to think about anything except how sinfully good it feels when his mouth finally captures her clit.
and yet, it's not enough.she groans loudly in response and takes the moment to wrap her legs around his head, and placing her hands on his shoulders so she can flip them over, with him on his back, and her sitting on his face. from here she can more easily rock her hips against his ministrations.
this position also makes it easier to bring her hands up and cup her own breasts, her fingers pinching her nipples, adding to the already overwhelming pleasure she feels from him eating her out.]
( klaus is utterly submissive to wynonna's sudden maneuver, and not only because his mind is concerned with other, more delectable pursuits. in point of fact, his only objection is the slight breach of service the movement affects before she settles her cunt above his mouth; his soft sound of surprise is followed by a groan as he hooks his arms over her thighs and bears her down further and with all fervor into the wet, hungry kiss of his mouth. his breath is heavy and muffled, his eyes peering up to catch sight of her fingers pulling at her nipples in a show that stirs in him both envy and satisfaction. that, and the sweet and tangy taste of her, make his hips buck slightly as she rocks over him against his caressing mouth. his lips encircle her clit again, his tongue stroking at he sucks it deftly into his mouth. )
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he lets out a heavy sigh and plops his brush in a jar of paint-muddied water. ) This one's not right. ( there's a soft thread of frustration in the pronouncement, just a hint of the broiling underneath. he wipes his hands on a stained hand towel quickly, takes his glass from her, and downs half.
it burns his throat and warms his belly. as much as he'd like to, he doesn't quickly imbibe the rest. he's experienced a few hangovers recently he'd rather not repeat too identically. instead he grabs the side of the canvas and shoves it with sudden and contained violence into the wall. it thuds and smears; the easel clatters with it to the floor. he paces away and takes another sip. )
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Are any of them right?
[it's not an accusation so much as a curiosity -- she notices a few other destroyed canvases around the room and imagines that getting something right in their current situations would be impossible.
wynonna drains half her glass herself. she's had more than a few hangovers lately, some nastier than others, but it doesn't seem to deter her -- maybe because she's used to it.
and yet, when he throws the canvas into the wall she can't help but flinch in a way she wouldn't normally -- her startle response still on overdrive, as much as she wishes it wasn't.]
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and her. dejected and dispirited, walking around like a husk after her trauma, aimless and disoriented and altogether not herself. too much herself. the anger in him festers at the reflection of such helplessness.
he brushes his wet lips on the back on his hand and turns back to her. he speaks with cruel glibness, knowing the provocations will cut true and deep. ) Why are you here?
Sex? ( his brow lifts with suggestion; he gestures to the bed. despite their dalliances, they've never been so personal as to tumble in the suite. ) Comfort? ( that's it. ) Company in which to imbibe that bottle of alcohol until you can't see straight? ( as she's had every night. )
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wynonna thinks of many answers to his questions, but she doesn't offer them. not when she feels attacked, as she does in this moment. her hackles are up now, and honestly, even feeling angry is better than the sad and hollow emptiness that has been plaguing her.
so instead she tries to turn it around on him, as she always does when she feels backed into a corner, when someone cuts a little too close to the truth for her liking. similarly to doc, klaus is good at seeing through her bullshit, cutting to the core to make it hurt and fester, she had almost forgotten the dangers that come with someone who can really see you.
her mistake]
Why did you let me in? Because if it's just to be an asshole to me, I can find better company.
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she slaps him across the face. and one might think she's only doing it because he has no power to stop her right now -- but even if he had his powers she would still try to. there's a fire, a spark in her eyes that's been lacking lately. maybe that's why she came.]
I didn't break for him, and I'm sure as hell not going to break for you.
[because she was broken a long time before lucifer ever got his hands on her. she's been damaged since she was twelve years old, probably longer if she's really, really honest with herself. ]
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the sting of her hand is hot and burning. his face turns to the side with its force.
she wants to feel something, yes. he's tired of her defeated steps, as if every one is more difficult than the last, when she's right. his eyes were closed as she speaks, but they open now; he turns his head back.
she's right. she was tortured and she didn't break. the worst is done. this ensuing fragility is naught but useless drivel. ) So then why are you afraid? ( a challenge. )
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Because every time I close my eyes, that's all I can see, all I can remember, I'm not afraid, I'm exhausted. And I came to you because I thought, for some stupid reason, you might understand. And yeah, maybe I did come her for sex, or for comfort, or for both, but at least I'm man enough to admit it.
If anyone here is afraid here, it's you, hiding away here in his rooms with his paintings. The tortured artist. I didn't realize you were such a fucking cliche.
[she's just...being insulting now, lashing out because she's hurt, because she's angry and because she doesn't want to let him win. ]
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he sees it all, burning in her eyes. the despair twisted up with wrath, the bone-wearied heaviness. and he feels the sting of it in her reply, the mirror held up to his own fear and exhaustion and helplessness. there's something terrible and bright in his eyes; it's not the words but how they land that have him stepping into her, his hands wrapping around her arms in a rough grasp.
he cannot hurt her. even if he could, he realizes the moment she's in his hold he won't. that's not what he wants. that's not what he's capable of, in more ways than one. his lips collide against hers instead, hard and bruising. )
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not that that couldn't change, but if he wanted to hurt her he probably wouldn't have let her in in the first place, tonight. he has been cruel and she has responded in kind, but they both need that anger right now, need something beyond just fear and despair and hopelessness.
so when his lips crash against her she responds in kind, bruising and unrelenting. her hand comes up to press against the back of his neck, her nails digging into his scalp some. ]
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his fingers, still hard as a vice around one of her arms, let go. his mouth softens and opens to hers as his arms wrap like a cord about her waist, pressing and pulling her in. )
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he pulls her flush against his body and lust spreads through her body like a jolt of lightening. her mouth opens for his as she gasps in pleasant surprise. he had been right before: their dalliances have never been so personal to happen inside of the suite, but she doesn't care enough right now to suggest they go somewhere else, and she certainly doesn't want to stop long enough to make such a thing a reality.]
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lesser through his senses may be, he still feels an ache starting in his groin and filling his cock for her. it's an angry, eager, yearning lust for anything and everything more. one of his hands slips up into her shirt, fingers counting her ribs and skimming back down her side, her hip, her thigh into the crook of her knee. )
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a familiar ache has begun to settle between her legs as his hand slips into her shirt, brushes against her bare skin (it's late enough that her bra has been long discarded for the sake of comfort). no matter what else has been changed about him, his touch still feels familiar, as desperate and angry as she is for anything more than what they have been dealt with lately.]
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still, it's not enough, and his arm slides under her waist, catches her to his chest as he rolls them over and sits up, all the better to grab the hem of her thin shirt and lift it over her head. he does not pause but ducks his head, his mouth encircling the rosy peak of one breast, drawing its pebble into his mouth, rolling and pinching it against teeth and tongue. )
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but it is not enough for her either, which is why she begins to tug at his paint stained shirt, making him pull away just long enough so she can remove it and toss it aside. she lets her hands explore he exposed skin of his chest, nails lightly dragging across the surface. ]
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they cut still. he wants them to cut and to soothe and to see it there, in her eyes. he hates to need it and wants it all at the same time, this flammable speak between them. )
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and she's grateful for that.
she groans as he grinds against her, a wetness beginning to grow in response, before claiming his lips in another searing kiss, her hands grasping his face to lead it back to hers.]
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he hasn't wanted anyone. anything but quiet and vengeance and focus, all burning with the molten rage in him. not since before the riots; since lucifer stripped him of his very nature, the offense and terror and helplessness seeping deep and piercing him true. but he wants now. he wants in ways he did not realize he wanted, needed; in ways that fit seamlessly into place as her and with her now.
his hands clutch the silk of her hair and smooth across the lean, toned muscles of her back; they grab and knead at her perfect arse and thighs. a soft growl sounds of the back of his throat as he holds those thighs and pitches her around and forward, her back hitting the bed. he kneels before her, hands grabbing at the hem of her pants and tugging them down with strong, impatient pulls. )
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she moans in surprise and delight as he shifts their positions yet again, placing her back on her back so he can impatiently pull at her pants. luckily they're a loose pair she wears for sleeping instead of the tighter stuff she wears during the day so they come down easily. she kicks them off, leaving herself bare to him. she doesn't generally wear underwear under her sleep clothes anymore than she does a bra.
she nips at his lower lip playfully, trying to take her fill of his lips on hers. her hands come up to rest on his head again, to thread through the messy curls of his hair. she breaks away from the kiss only to gently tug his head downwards, as she is eager to feel his talented lips on other parts of her body.]
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he wants so badly to duck his head to worry and suck on her ignored nipple, and the perfect pink of it is too alluring to leave entirely unattended: his hand moves to pinch the peak hard in promise to her and himself. how she feels, tastes, and smells is incredible, no less enchanting for his tempered senses, and he wants it all, in time. his mouth drops in fervent haste to lick the etched, curved line of her abs above her belly button; his face is warm as he nips, licks, and kisses down to the apex of her thighs.
his eyes stall as he reaches there and he moves his thumb to stroke from her beaded clitoris and down her glistening sex. he delves into and massages those wet lips, a soft, appreciative curse on his lips— ) Fuck... ( —before he dips his head and draws her clitoris into his mouth. )
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and yet, it's not enough.she groans loudly in response and takes the moment to wrap her legs around his head, and placing her hands on his shoulders so she can flip them over, with him on his back, and her sitting on his face. from here she can more easily rock her hips against his ministrations.
this position also makes it easier to bring her hands up and cup her own breasts, her fingers pinching her nipples, adding to the already overwhelming pleasure she feels from him eating her out.]
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