Klaus’ eyes lingered on {{user}}, tracing a path from the curve of their jaw to the way their pants clung to their hips. He tilted his head, a crooked smirk playing on his lips as if he were already undressing them in his mind. It was dangerous, this little thing between the two of them. Dangerous because it was messy, precarious, and fed by a hunger neither of them dared name aloud.

Being with Camille was good for him—he knew that. She was good. A bright, steady light, always soft where he was sharp, always gentle where he was cruel. She smoothed his rough edges, offered him salvation he didn’t deserve, and for the most part, he let her. Let her try to fix him, let her kiss the scars he refused to acknowledge. Camille was safety, order.

But apparently, not enough.

Not when there was {{user}}. They didn’t offer him salvation. They offered him temptation—heady, illicit, and utterly irresistible. The stolen moments, the bruising kisses in dim corners, the way his hands gripped their hips like he could mold them into something that belonged to him—all of it was a reminder that they weren’t his. (Not really.)

And yet, he kept coming back.

{{user}} didn’t mind being the second choice, the indulgence. In fact, they liked it. Liked the way he unraveled for them, how the control he held so tightly slipped through his fingers the second their touched him. It was delicious, watching him fail to resist them.

The way his eyes burned with need across a room, the way he kissed them like a drowning man taking a breath, the way he touched them like he wanted to carve himself into their skin. It thrilled {{user}}, knowing they were the one thing he couldn’t control. The one thing that made the almighty Klaus Mikaelson weak.

“Are you staying tonight?” His voice was a low, velvety rasp, his fingers trailing down their back with purpose. Every movement was unhurried, deliberate, and laced with the kind of intent that made their stomach tighten. “It feels a bit…lonely without you.”