OTA ; Don't Stop, Make it Pop, DJ Blow My Speakers Up

[walkingheroin]

Who: Lucifer Morningstar and OTA
Where: Deux Lux, Floor 6, Room 66
When: Anytime in March
Rating: TBD, probably PG-13 or so
Summary: Lucifer does what he does almost every other night - he has a party. Shenanigans and conversation ensue. This is essentially a catch-all for March for him. Let me know if you want something specific.
The Story:

[Once the drama of New Years dies down and he's drunk the entirely of his bar two or more times, Lucifer finally reopens his club to the public, seemingly no worse for the wear. He's chatted with a few specific people, reflected (marginally) on himself a bit, and has come to several conclusions.

All of which he'll be keeping to himself for the most part.

That said, he seems a bit brighter than even when he first arrived, as if there's a bit of weight off his shoulders, and he's almost less of a businessman and more of a guest in his own place as the nights continue on. He drinks along with everyone else, dances when he pleases, and plays the piano often, lending his singing voice more than occasionally.

Still, a few things weight on his mind that he'll need to take care of, but on the whole, he's quite chipper and easily approaching....or as approachable as the Devil can be.

That said, he's not seen a whole lot outside of his nightclub or his penthouse up the stairs, which means he might be a little more reclusive still than he first appears...]

Comments

[poppycock]

[ casual intimacy has never come easy to him. it doesn't now, particularly with her, when so many of their interactions have been thick and drawn and defined by the negative space between them. he has always wanted to be closer, to touch her, and in doing so he has always been careful, cautious, calculated. she has never recoiled in disgust but stayed stiff with hostility, and her desire to lean into him now, to seek him out, unsettles and confounds him.

it's all he can do but adjust, uncertain at first but then calming. he breathes once, twice, after her head rests at his shoulder. after a quiet moment he props his chin against her hair; then his cheek. he breathes her in, sunshine and flowers and citrus, and weaves his fingers into the hair at her neck and strokes his palm down her shoulder.

it will be worse before it gets better. the fear still breathes inside of him but it is muted now, soothed by her consummate touches and words; her compassion. but it will be worse. klaus closes his eyes as if to savor the moment, and then the memories flood.

tyler. blood at his mouth, screams rattling his throat, mouth agape and filled with fangs, his eyes yellowed in the visage of a hybrid. there's indifference to his pain and suffering, owing to the power of what he'll become, and of what he'll become for klaus' purposes. (he's lonely and violent and scared and angry. he has never been more that then, than before. caroline's voice, begging for mercy in the background, sounds, but he doesn't hear it. he doesn't care.)

it's her birthday. her room is full of all yellows and shadows, and caroline is limp, pasty white, and fading. he did this and he is not sorry. he is never sorry for what he has—what he wants—to do. are you going to kill me? she asks, a thread of fear in her voice. no, he will not, and something stirs in him sitting beside her on that bed. something human and far away. there's a whole world out there waiting for you... is what he tells her and he feels it. he feels his eternity just as surely as he feels hers. he feels her fear and her disdain for him and her desire for it. all you have to do is ask and i don't want to die. her teeth are pinpricks on his skin; his blood is given freely. he likes the feel of it taken by her mouth; he likes that she chose it. he likes that she chose life. (like he did. like all he has ever wanted to do.)

he leaves her a bracelet. it's the one she rips off her wrist that night they danced in circles at a ball, when he couldn't take his eyes off her, wanting so dearly the graze of her notice and regard that the feeling got caught in his throat. there's indignation, but it's because she is right: lively and fearless and right, rolling her eyes and dealing her cutting barbs. —you compel people, sire them, try to buy them off. you don't connect with people because you don't even try to understand them. he's careful drawing the lines of her cheek afterwards, wondering what it would feel like beneath his fingertips as he shades the delicate slope, what her hair would feel like under the same, already knowing what her sharp tongue and mind can do. when he signs the note, he is grateful. he finds he means it: thank you for your honesty.

it comes in flashes, that night at the grill, how stunning she looks. i'd rather die of thirst and get to know me and i'm too smart to be seduced by you and that's why i like you. his fingers curled with fright and panic and anger at her arms when he feels the loss of his brother. it's a rouse; he knows it's a rouse at the end and he burns her pictures, but it makes no difference. he cuts in during the twenties dance, her eyes full of passion and ire that hook him in, the tension thick and his heart bruising at her words. i'm leaving town tomorrow. perhaps one day, in a year or a century, you'll turn up at my door— and that heat in her eyes, that thought, that moment she scoffs away. small town boy, small town life, he accuses of her, jealous and hurt and sure and not at all at once, it won't be enough for you.

he's speaking to stefan of loneliness at christmas, the air crisp and biting. he's speaking of victims and the letters he collects and death. there's blood on his hands that night, thick and vicious and flowing. there's rage, the same he showed her before, boiling and selfish and scared and insurmountable. he kills them all, every last one, because that is what he does, laying waste to the treacherous army of what he's begot—and why wouldn't he? why shouldn't he, in the end? it's what mikael predicted, what he deserves, what he held onto with vicious hands. carol lockwood's neck is thin under his grasp. he speaks to her of poetic symmetry, to take all tyler has away from him. she fights but there's nothing but ice inside of him and her last breath is a quiet, desperate gasp; he feels power and desolation as she slips away. (tyler took all he had.)

he watches his brother die in flames, hot and consuming. he smells the burnt flesh long after, trapped in a room to stare at kol, nothing but a charred husk on the floor. he endures tyler's taunts and her own, tyler's thirst for vengeance, but he has his own. he is a live-wire and a vicious one; he does not hesitate to sink his teeth in when caroline comes close: to make them all pay. her blood is exultant and rich on his tongue but the terror on tyler's face is richer. he tries not to linger on the sickness in his gut when she can't even look at him—tries not to linger on the sad calculation in her eyes while she's dying, or the words like lead in his gut that she murmurs. i know that you're in love with me. i've caught myself wishing that i could forget all the horrible things you have done. anyone capable of love is capable of being saved.

i guess i'll never know. he can't look at her, his voice ground out from his throat like rocks against the coming tide. it's inevitable, that she sees through him, even now, even now as she is dying by his hands and ruthlessness: she knows he is weaker than her for fearing to admit it. his terror is stunned, stunted, calling her name—because he knows and she knows that letting her go was never a possibility. he presses his open wrist to her mouth and holds her until he can breathe again.

we're the same, he tells her later. you prefer the girl you are now to the girl you once were. strong, ageless, fearless. he knows this, a stone still weighing down his heart; she asks for his compassion and he gives it the only way he knows how, watching the horror on her face at its hunger and mercy. it was all for you, he tells her. (it was. it is, but she won't realize he tried.)

defiance flashes in her eyes at the salvatore boarding house. she can hate him, is what she says. she can and will hate him for tyler, but there's a flash of heat between them later, the anticipation of touch that follows the focus of wanting and waiting. it takes his heart despite his better senses. you've never felt the attraction that comes when someone who's capable of doing terrible things for some reason cares only about you? he wants her to say it, wants her to feel it. he knows that she does and not at all. i did once, when i thought he was worth it is her response, dealt with a scathing harshness he deals back with cruelty later, after her hands have shed blood and there is dirt under his fingernails from burying her dead. why don't you find someone less terrible you can relate to? he regrets how her face crumples, and he can't.

she's the only one he can trust, the ghost of white oak lodged in his back. he feels her hands cradling his face; he sees the emptiness in silas' eyes after the affection stills him. she does come. real and solid, with reluctance and then a stubborn fire that riles and annoys and humbles him. i should have walked away from you ages ago! the sudden feeling of relief; you brought me back and her hands enveloped by his. i'm not exactly scouring the world for him, he says softly to her later, and he isn't. he isn't, for her. friends? there's a lump of expectation in his throat when she smiles.

all i can think about is how much i want to show it to you, he says to her on the phone, surrounded by trumpets and art and music. he's looking into hayley's eyes, wide and afraid and hopeful in a mausoleum in new orleans. he's hearing his child's heartbeat for the first time. it's a reckoning, a reverent moment that possess him, a sound that stuns him as if he's never felt his own heart beat before. he has now, owing to this precious thing, this undeniable thing, this most important thing. his child. his hope.

they are standing together on a warm night and he's promising her the world in ways he has never promised her before. he's your first love. i intend to be your last. however long it takes, he vows. the sun is warm and rejection chokes his throat. you'll never again have to look me in the eye and cover our connection with hostility or revulsion. you'll never have to loathe the darkest parts of yourself that care for me, in spite of all i've done. i will be gone and you will be free. i just... want you to be honest with me. his voice trembles. i'm in college. i'm building a life for myself. i have plans and a future and things that i want and none of those things involve you. okay. none of them.

yes, i do cover our connection with hostility, because yes, i hate myself for the truth. so if you promise to walk away... like you said, and never come back, then yes... i will be honest with you. i will be honest with you about what i want. he feels her breath against his breath; he sees the light in her eyes. her lips are a whisper against his—

he breaks away with a quiet gasp. ]

[persevere]

[Her eyes softly close just as his memories swarm into her head, as her chest fills with his thoughts and the sensation of what he was feeling in the moment of each of them. It makes sense that he would feel things as strongly as she does, maybe even more so considering what he is, but to have it crashing against her own makes it difficult to process everything properly, to sort what she feels and what he does...

...except it becomes clear rather quickly that that is because it all feels similar, that they were connecting on a level beyond the surface, that they were nearly the same, only counter-acting each other at different points in time.

Each of his crimes against her are played out in startling detail. She can hear her own voice, sometimes angry, sometimes weak, sometimes begging for mercy. Caroline can hear the voices of her friends, suffering at his hands. And he can hear his own misery, echoing in his head as the visions flutter through her brain one by one, in contrast with the apathy he felt in the beginning.

His apathy turned into something else, very quickly. Hers was slower, but that was because she started with hate.

He hurt her, and he saved her, and he lied to her and told her vicious truths. She hurt him, taunted him, tried to understand him, and manipulated him in equal measure. So many people died in the crossfire of both of their lives, and with every one of them all stacked up in such near proximity, it's hard to tell which of them deserved their pain more.

He left, and he wanted her to come to him. Then he came back, and left because she asked him to. She listens to her own voice explain how she felt, hears her own mouth claim that she hates herself for the truth, and it reminds her so much of how she has done such similar things here, without these memories. Tried to push back against something that might be impossible to ignore, that had gotten so deep under her skin that it would never entirely go away.

And she doesn't hate herself. Not here. And it's hard to be as horrified by his actions when she hasn't lived them, when she hasn't endured every little detail in perfect clarity, when the whole experience is colored by Klaus' own internal turmoil over the whole thing. No doubt she thought he only cared about himself as he did these things.

But she knows why now. Seeing it through his eyes? She was no better. He'd said that they were the same, and he was right in so many ways.

Caroline knows where this leads. She can see it in his memories without actually having to witness it, she can hear it in her own voice, and she knows how she feels right now, being in this moment.

And then he breaks it, the visions sucked away from her in the space of a moment, and it feels like being torn away from something very important. Perhaps that's because it's a moment in his life that he feels that way about?

She sucks in a shuddering breath of air, the sound mirroring his gasp, and she realizes as her eyes open that her grip on him is white-knuckle and tight, that her heart is beating faster than it ever has, that she has no idea what she's supposed to do now. Caroline is distinctly aware of how intimate that whole experience actually was, how sharing all this with her couldn't have possibly been anything resembling easy, and it takes her the span of many long moments to remember how to breathe.]

...oh my god.

[poppycock]

[ every moment with her is one he has never wanted to be pulled from: that night especially. only in quiet moments he has not counted does he remember how she tasted, how she felt, and the look hanging in her eyes as they said goodbye. it's the reason he pulls away—not only to spare her the intimacy of moments she need not be privy to, but to spare himself and her the rawness of his longing. of the depth of it. the relief and exploration, the joy and finding. some things should be his and his alone, and he wants this to be: being with her, saying goodbye.

he feels that same decimation of disconnect, weighing down on his chest and choking him as he comes back, as he opens his eyes to the shadows of the room, the crackling of the fire, and of her in his arms. him in hers. uncertainty fills him; fear, lesser than before but no less potent. he knows the load he has given her and he knows the fright of its contents. he knows she needs time; he would pull away and give them both space if not for her death grip anchoring them together—he's thankful for it. selfishly, inordinately grateful for it, for it means he does not retreat and she does not recoil.

the silence is long. he leans back only slightly, enough to look down at her, his hand moving up her shoulder. she utters her soft oath and after a moment, he murmurs back, ] Are you all right? [ are you going to be all right? is what he means. ]

[persevere]

[As her sense of self starts to come back to her, she feels the ache in her hands as the clutch at him, the tension in her muscles, the clench of her jaw, the stinging in the back of her eyes.

She had been deeply affected by Klaus' own story, but she could also mentally separate herself from it. She could sympathize, but it wasn't hers. None of it belonged to her. It made her heart ache in all its horror, but this...

This was her. Her friends. Her family. And if she was reading all this correctly, her first love. It was nightmarish, the things they had done to themselves, to each other, and yet still, for some reason, they came together when the entire world seemed to be against it. Even she had been against it.]

...I don't know.

[Her voice is small and distant. It's so much to take in all at once, and her eyes don't quite focus on anything for a while, staring off but not seeing.

Finally, though, she turns her head slowly to look at him, her eyes wide and almost frightened, though of what, not even she could say. A few things do occur to her, though one in particular she has to say aloud or it'll never leave her alone.]

...I don't think I actually wanted you to leave.

[It hadn't been about what she wanted. It had been about what she thought she needed, about the other people in her life, about doing what she'd promised for herself that she might not get if he stayed. It had been about giving herself the one thing she'd actually wanted at that moment in time while giving it up for everything else in the same breath.

If she had to take a guess, anyway, but she knew herself pretty well.]

How long has it been since then? For you?

[poppycock]

[ she's not angry, disgusted, disdainful. if she had felt or feels a part of any of these things they are not enough to move her to go, and it takes klaus the length of a searching moment to realize, to accept, to feel the ease of at least that. what he does not feel with the benefit of ease is the affrighted look in her eyes, as wide and rounded as his. he meets her gaze head-on, equally stunned by her confession: it takes his voice and his breath, his lips parting, the blue of his eyes bright and full of longing.

he cannot tell her if it is true or not. a part of him... knows, hopes, wanted it and let it go for some possible and bittersweet future in which she would want him. would want to want him. it's precisely why it grips him, wrings him, and not only because it awakens aches and desires within him. (he tempers both; it's not fair of her, no matter what he knows is not a malicious intention. she may not mean it; it may not be true, and so he puts those flares of emotion aside to consider later.)

because there's also what is true, without doubts. there's also the path his life took after her. his daughter. his family. all that has happened from that moment to now, no matter the pain and agony and misery. (he had to leave. now, he knows he wanted to. not to leave her, but—

he would not give up nor regret any of choices that led him to this. how—and how could he—say that here and now?) he pulls in a shallow breath and lets it out shakily, looks away to the side. his fingers flex around hers involuntarily and he fidgets slightly, groping for words that will not tactlessly hurt her. ] Nearly three years, [ he answers, looking back to her. ]

[persevere]

[She doesn't mean to be cruel. In the moment, she doesn't mean to be anything. She's just simply trying to exist in this space between the past and the future and all it entails. How is she supposed to come to terms with something that hasn't even happened yet?

She doesn't even know where to start. There's so much more here than just the two of them, and she really should have expected that. Even so, there's so much she hasn't seen, things barely understood on the edges of their story, and she's not sure how to feel about any of it except tiny broken fragments of hope scattered amongst the loss and the pain.]

Three years...

[She repeats him softly, as if three years sounds like a lifetime. Enough could certainly happen in that amount of time when it came to their lives to count as one.

He pulls back one of her hands to wipe at her eyes, because it's suddenly getting difficult to see again. She breathes out a heavy breath as she tries to push the majority of her emotions down into a box to deal with a little at a time. He offered her the truth, and she'd accepted it, and it wouldn't be fair if she didn't focus on the parts that were about him. About them.

Caroline finally meets his gaze then, solidly, her expression hesitant, yet determined.]

Okay, then I'll ask you again. Why are you doing this?

[What does he want from her? What is she supposed to be? Some reminder of someone he used to know, a friend that he can playfully banter with, or something else?

Because simply guessing is only going to get her hurt, in one way or another.]

[poppycock]

[ he knows she is confused. he knows she would not intend to be cruel and he does not receive the confession as such; on the contrary. she's trying to understand, he knows. she's trying to make sense of herself and of all he has shown her and he knows there is little he can do, could do, to assist. it's why he is silent, weathering his own emotions, and why he embraces the fealty for more quiet: for her and for himself.

his gaze moves through the space around them and back to her. (he has rarely felt time. three years could and has meant very little to him, but that is not the case here. knowing her, his time in mystic falls, breaking his curse and seeing his family again. leaving for new orleans and all that he has gained and lost after; those years have meant more to him than entire centuries. they have changed him just as surely as they will change her.

they've allowed them both the allowance to grow.)

he squeezes her hand in an earnest attempt to lend her understanding before she pulls away. those years are just as large and meanignful inside of him; his fingers flex at her shoulder at her tears.

he's silent still as her eyes meet his, as her question and the force of her takes away his capacity for words: he does not know. he does not know why he is here, why he has found it in himself to share this with her, or why he would choose to do so. he does not know, besides the undeniable and inscrutable truth of what he has never forgot: how he feels about her.

klaus blinks; his jaw sets, his voice thickened with the certainty of his feelings. ] Because I care about you. Because I want to be. Because when I think about my future, I think about you. [ the confession leaves him and tightens his throat with its truth. with his fear of it, his surprise of it opening his eyes—not because he didn't know it, deep in his bones, but because he can feel it given life; he can feel it give him breath. he pulls it in, lashes fluttering. ] I hope... [ he swallows. what he hopes is without words; he hopes. he has hoped about many things: his family, his daughter, his life—and her. ] I hope.

[persevere]

[She's changed so much in the past year already. Her entirely life was uprooted, shifted, even her world view is completely different than it was not so very long ago. There are moments when she misses how simple her life used to be, but in this moment, she realizes something very important.

He's right. If she had the chance to go back? She wouldn't do it. She doesn't think Klaus would, either. She hopes he wouldn't, because the person she knows him to be seems like the person he's supposed to be, the one that was still cursed seems almost a pale comparison.]

I care about you too. [The confession sounds so small in the vastness of the room.] Maybe I shouldn't, but I just can't help it.

[But no one here, not even Elena herself, has told her to hold back. He'd already crawled his way in before she knew about so much of what will occur, and as awful as it is? He wouldn't hurt her like that. Not again.

She wants to believe that, and so she does.]

Like you said, I'm immortal, right? I find it hard to believe you'd never see me again. Somehow.

[It doesn't answer the question of now, but maybe there isn't one. Caroline has so much to process before she can really be honest with herself, and doing it while her head is swimming with memories and emotions isn't the time. He's clearly made some realizations that he hadn't even formulated himself until just now.

Maybe it was right. But it wasn't right now.

Despite not having a real resolution, the tension in her body starts to release, along with a heavy exhale. Her hand comes up to loop loosely around his hand at the top of her arm. Her head tips forward as she leans toward him, settling her forehead against his shoulder.]

I guess you could say I have hope, too.

[She has so many more questions, but none of them matter in the immediately moment. She has too many thoughts racing through her head already, and she just wants them to quiet for a little while, to deal with them when she's alone and not trying to be strong for the sake of someone else.]

[poppycock]

[ he's content. the closest thing to, cordoned off with the rest in this place to suffer unknown fates. despite the horrors and desolation and uncertainties that await him at home. the loneliness, despair. the pain he no doubts feels there, and here, without his family, without his child.

the things she says nestle into him; they relieve him with quiet, unassuming comfort. with peace. they lessen the load, his features softened, his lips hinting at a curve, his eyes full and lightened. so is his heart, warmed just as he is by the leaning of her body so close, the welcome pressure of her.

it does not seem so desperate, his circumstances. he does not feel so alone, hoping and unremittent with her; wanting for better, for something. his own limbs relax and he exhales, his eyes closing as she rests into him, his head bowing above hers. he feels the tickle of her hair against his nose. he reaches to wrap his other arm around her, his hand resting on her arm, thumb stroking her skin. buries his face against against the crown of her head, and breathes her in. ]

[persevere]

[She stays there awhile, his warmth keeping her turbulent emotions quiet for the time being. Her heart stops beating quite so quickly in her chest, and she even closes her eyes for a long few moments, knowing that when morning comes, things won't be quite so simple again.

But at least she'll know, and that makes it not quite so scary.

It's hard to say how much time passes before she finally stirs, lifting her head slowly so that he can do the same, before leaning in to press her lips against his cheek, a promise that everything was going to be okay.

She might not be quite there right now, but she would be fine.

Her teeth tug on her bottom lip before her mouth curls into a mischievous smile.]

So, how about we go get my horse?

[poppycock]

[ there's only the crackle of the fire, the whisper of the wind outside, and her. he's more than satisfied to linger in the moment, to give to her and to relish it himself; to share in it. his eyes blink open at one point, but when she stirs it still feels as if he's waking from a dream, one that intensifies in its warmth when he pulls back and feels her lips against his cheek. it prompts a helpless, bashful smile; he sucks in breath before he looks at her.

everything will be fine. he knows it, looking at her, because he can feel it. she will be fine, because if not by her own strength, then he would move whatever mountains to make it so.

slowly, he brightens at her expression, his smile turning sharper, eyes glinting with a bit of alike wickedness. ] I suppose you were promised one, [ he concedes, and stands, offering her his hand up, ] and I hate to disappoint.

[persevere]

[She's promised they would still go after all was said and done, and for a little bit there, that promise had seemed to be on shaky ground, at least from the outside.

But Caroline doesn't make promises she won't keep, and even then, she wants to do this. She wants to end this night on a happy note, not a messy one.

She reaches for his hand, taking it and pushing herself to her feet, not letting go of it right away.]

Looks like we're both keeping our promises tonight. I'm so proud.

[poppycock]

It certainly bodes well for perseverance. [ it takes him a moment, his hand in hers, his gaze lingering in hers, and the softening of his smile, to realize how deeply he would like that. at least in the yellow of the firelight the pink rising in his cheeks might be masked, though he doesn't particularly care if it's not. his thumb traces from knuckle to knuckle down of one of her fingers and with a sucked in breath he realizes he should let go, and so he does.

he gestures to the door. ] Will you at least tell me what color you're thinking?

[persevere]

[She wonders briefly if he's going to hold her hand as they walk when his thumb brushes over her skin, only for him to release her a moment later, and it's hard to keep the slight feeling of discontentment that comes over her as he leads her toward the door.]

I'm thinking a light auburn, but with a darker mane and tail. Maybe dark socks, too.

[She likes contrasting features, clearly.]