( 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. )
[after weeks of stumbling around almost in a haze she feels alive in a way she hasn't in a while. while his words had been cutting, they had been effective. and his touch, his tongue and. lips, are lighting a familiar fire inside of her. the way he watches her with both envy and desire, enraptured by the show she was putting on, it only made her more insanely turned on.
she pinches her nipples, groping and playing with her breasts still as she rides his mouth. her wetness only grows as she feels that pleasure begin to build inside of her. no matter how many times they do this, she's always impressed by how good he is at it -- it probably helps that he's had centuries to practice and perfect the skill, but she thinks it's more about the enthusiasm in which he eats her out. he treats her cunt like a delicacy that he can't get enough of -- and that's vastly appealing.]
( as far as he's concerned, it is a delicacy. how could she not be, so gorgeous and sensual above him, taking and giving to herself all that she wants? his gaze traces the underside of her soft breasts to her fingers working at them, to the sway of her hair and back down to the curve of her tummy as she rides. they've done this enough — and yes, he has done this enough — to know just what she wants, just how she likes it, and when he's done something new and exceedingly right.
his chin is wet from her dripping arousal, her legs growing tense and limp in turns. he cannot help but smooth his hands over them to knead her skin and then reach for her arse, grabbing the flesh once before bringing his hands back to spank both cheeks hard.
he knows what she needs. he needs it too: to feel and want and for it to matter, if only right now. )
[she knows what she wants, and she knows he is willing to give it, that he needs and wants it too, and that alone makes everything all the better. she feels his hands slap against her ass, hard, and she cries out in surprise, the sound a mixture of pain and pleasure.
she rocks against his mouth with more urgency now, knowing that she's close to reaching that peak, the release she's seeking as his beard scratches pleasantly at her sensitive flesh. her head tilts back and her eyes begin to glaze over a little as her hands continue to play with her breasts. she knows it won't be much longer now]
( just as her head tips back, just as he senses the change of restlessness of her pace, he slaps her arse again, the sound resounding in the small space. it mixes and muddles with his constant streams of moans; a soft grunt or two punctuating particularly rough and seeking grinds of her hips. he pulls at her thighs, tips his head up, all the better pay unending, ceaselessly merciless attention to her clitoris with his suckling mouth, chasing her climax just as fervently as she. only then does he spank her again, just as before. )
[another cry escapes her lips as he slaps her ass again. between the slight change of angle, and the way he relentlessly pursues her orgasm, it doesn't take much more for her to finally come. as she climaxes she feels him slap her. yet again, causing her to lurch forward, placing her hands on the bed to balance herself as she rides it out, a consistent stream of moans and sighs that eventually gives way to heavy breathing.
she rolls off of him to lie down on the bed for a moment, to catch her breath before they continue.]
( between her rutting hips and the unbridled sounds she's making, klaus is absolutely and blissfully lost in the tremors of her orgasm, his hands grasping at her hips to keep her close, his moans and grunts and heavy breaths answering her own. the satisfaction she feels is nearly paramount to his own, and he cannot help but reach for his cock in the midst of her involuntary writhing, slipping his hand beneath his thin lounge wear and wrapping a tight, stroking fist around the base of himself to temper and stoke his pleasure.
utterly gratified and yet not at all at the same time, he lets her go and pulls in a breath as she rolls over next him, removing his hand from his throbbing erection to drag a hand from his upper lip to chin, wiping away the arousal still wet on his face. he's catching his breath too, chest heaving, contented eyes on the ceiling.
eventually, he drawls softly, ) Please knock on my door more often, ( and turns his head just enough to peer over at her with a slight smirk. )
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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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she pinches her nipples, groping and playing with her breasts still as she rides his mouth. her wetness only grows as she feels that pleasure begin to build inside of her. no matter how many times they do this, she's always impressed by how good he is at it -- it probably helps that he's had centuries to practice and perfect the skill, but she thinks it's more about the enthusiasm in which he eats her out. he treats her cunt like a delicacy that he can't get enough of -- and that's vastly appealing.]
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his chin is wet from her dripping arousal, her legs growing tense and limp in turns. he cannot help but smooth his hands over them to knead her skin and then reach for her arse, grabbing the flesh once before bringing his hands back to spank both cheeks hard.
he knows what she needs. he needs it too: to feel and want and for it to matter, if only right now. )
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she rocks against his mouth with more urgency now, knowing that she's close to reaching that peak, the release she's seeking as his beard scratches pleasantly at her sensitive flesh. her head tilts back and her eyes begin to glaze over a little as her hands continue to play with her breasts. she knows it won't be much longer now]
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she rolls off of him to lie down on the bed for a moment, to catch her breath before they continue.]
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utterly gratified and yet not at all at the same time, he lets her go and pulls in a breath as she rolls over next him, removing his hand from his throbbing erection to drag a hand from his upper lip to chin, wiping away the arousal still wet on his face. he's catching his breath too, chest heaving, contented eyes on the ceiling.
eventually, he drawls softly, ) Please knock on my door more often, ( and turns his head just enough to peer over at her with a slight smirk. )
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