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The Sexth Sense

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Klaus isn’t sure how it started.

If it was something that happened organically, all his siblings drawing close after sensing his need. Or if it was something discussed and planned out between them. And if that was the case, and if Klaus was still capable of feeling humiliation he’d feel it then, that he’s become some kind of project.

But he doesn’t feel humiliation. Mostly. Usually.

Okay, sometimes maybe he does.

Anyway, he hopes it’s the first. But even if it isn’t, he’s not about to say no.



Klaus opens his eyes, fingers twitching against the sheets as he turns his head slightly, seeing Luther stand in the doorway. He’s taking up almost all of the space and if it wasn’t too much effort, Klaus would make some kind of smart remark about blocking the light.

But he doesn’t. His throat is too dry, his lips cracked, ants crawling over his skin as he lies on his bed and pulls in shuddering breaths. Sometimes he thinks it would be easier to just stop, but each time he’s tried, he’s always come back.

“Klaus,” Luther says again, and ignoring the lack of response, he steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. “What can I do?”

Klaus bites at his lip, trying to focus on that pain and not the fact his whole body is burning. He feels dried out and shaky, cravings so bad that all he wants to do is crawl from his bed and find something to take -- anything to take.

“Right now I could snort the dried sweat from your body,” Klaus says, eyes closing as he curls on his side, knees drawn up to his chest. “It would be fucking fantastic.”

“It would be gross,” Luther corrects, sounding perplexed as he sits, causing the bed to dip at one side. “Also, wouldn’t do anything. Sweat wouldn’t give you a high.”

“Not the point.” Klaus rolls with the dip so his knees are pressed against Luther’s thigh, drinking in the scant contact. “The act would help.”

“If you say so.” There’s a pause, then the feel of Luther’s hand against Klaus’ side, his fingers digging in slightly as Luther says, “You can if you want. Not snort my sweat, that’s gross, but if you want to lick? Yeah.”

“You’re giving me permission to lick you?” Klaus would laugh, but suspects if he starts he’ll never be able to stop. “Why?”

“Because you need it,” Luther says, and his hand is warm, his touch sure as runs his thumb over the curve of Klaus’ hip. “Because I know what it’s like to be trapped with only the thoughts in your head.”

Klaus does laugh then, he can’t help it, something sharp and jagged sounding as he reaches for Luther. “I hate those thoughts.”

“They’re the worst,” Luther agrees, moving his hand further, so his fingertips are pushed under the tight waistband of Klaus’ pants. “But you have to push them away.”

Klaus opens his mouth, about to ask how to do that, how Luther manages to muffle his own thoughts, but the words never form. How can they when, in a sudden fluid move, Luther pushes Klaus flat on his back and then kneels above him.

“Is this okay?” Luther asks, and he’s straddling Klaus, leaning forward, solid and immovable, his concern obvious. “If it’s too much...”

Klaus feels held down and blanketed, Luther surrounding him on all sides. It should be suffocating, but it’s not. Instead, for the first time in days, Klaus feels protected and safe. “It’s not.”

“Okay,” Luther says, the words a rumble over Klaus’ chest. And then, after a long pause, “You can still lick me if you want.”

Klaus turns his head so his forehead is against Luther’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat, coarse hair tickling his face as he shakes his head and says, “Maybe later.”

“Okay,” Luther says, and remains solid in place, saying nothing as Klaus clings and remembers how to breathe.