Actual Trash™

The woman blinked up at him, her eyes struggling to focus. She was clearly intoxicated, swaying slightly even with his support. Her costume, some sort of golden-winged angel with a flowing white dress, was slightly disheveled, one wing bent at an awkward angle from their collision.

"Oh," she said, her voice carrying the distinctive slur of someone who'd had several drinks too many. "Sorry 'bout that. I didn't see you there."

She made no immediate move to extract herself from his grip, instead tilting her head to study his face with exaggerated concentration. A small furrow appeared between her brows as she squinted up at him.

"Are you supposed to be dressed as Klaus Mikaelson?" she asked suddenly, the question so unexpected that Klaus actually blinked in surprise.

"I beg your pardon?" he responded, genuinely caught off guard—a rare occurrence for the Original hybrid.

The young woman nodded sagely, as if confirming her own suspicion.

"The vampire from the quarter," she elaborated, gesturing vaguely around them. "The Original hybrid. You've got the look down, but..." She leaned in conspiratorially, nearly losing her balance again. "I don't know, you should work on your accent more. It's not quite right."

For a moment, Klaus simply stared at her, torn between amusement and irritation. Then, despite himself, his lips curved into a smile that held genuine humor—another rarity.

"Is that so?" he asked, deliberately emphasizing his accent. "And what, pray tell, is wrong with my accent?"

The woman waved her hand dismissively, oblivious to the fact that she was criticizing the very person she thought he was impersonating.

"It's too... I dunno, forced? Like you're trying too hard." She patted his chest sympathetically. "But the rest is pretty good! The necklaces are a nice touch. Very authentic."

Klaus found himself unexpectedly charmed by her brazen critique and complete lack of self-preservation instincts. Most humans in the Quarter had at least heard rumors about him—enough to give him a wide berth, especially after dark.

"Perhaps I should practice more," he suggested, playing along. "What's your name, angel?"

"Y/N," she replied, attempting a small curtsy that nearly sent her tumbling again. "And I'm not really an angel. It's just a costume."

"I gathered as much," Klaus replied dryly, steadying her once more. "Real angels are far less entertaining."

Y/N's eyes widened comically.

"You've met real angels?" she asked, clearly impressed by his commitment to the role. "Wow, you're really in character. That's dedication."

Before Klaus could respond, Y/N suddenly lurched to the side, her face paling alarmingly.

"Oh no," she mumbled, pressing a hand to her mouth. "I think I'm gonna be—"

With vampire speed that she was too intoxicated to register, Klaus guided her to a nearby alley, just in time for her to empty the contents of her stomach against the brick wall. He grimaced but didn't leave, instead pulling her hair back from her face with unexpected gentleness.

"There, there," he murmured, his tone caught between disgust and reluctant sympathy. "Better out than in, as they say."

When she'd finished, Y/N straightened up shakily, looking mortified despite her drunken state.

"Oh god," she groaned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I just threw up in front of Klaus Mikaelson. Or, you know, a really good cosplayer. Either way, super embarrassing."

Klaus couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here he was, one of the most feared creatures in New Orleans, holding back a drunk woman's hair while she vomited in an alley—and she thought he was in costume.

"I think we can safely say I've seen worse in my thousand years," he assured her, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her.

Y/N accepted it gratefully, dabbing at her mouth.

"Thanks," she mumbled, then added with a weak laugh, "A thousand years, huh? You don't look a day over 900."

Despite himself, Klaus found his smile widening. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him with such unguarded candor, without fear or ulterior motives.

"Where are your friends, Y/N?" he asked, glancing around the empty alley. "Surely you're not wandering the Quarter alone in this state?"

Y/N's face fell, and she leaned back against the wall, suddenly looking very young and vulnerable.

"They left," she admitted, her voice small. "We had a fight. Something stupid about... I don't even remember now. But they went to another bar and I stayed behind, and then I decided I'd show them I could have fun without them, so I had a few more drinks, and..." She gestured helplessly at herself. "Here I am. Angel with vomit on her dress. Super dignified."

Klaus felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy. He knew all too well what it was like to be abandoned, even if the circumstances were vastly different.

"Well, you can't stay here," he decided, taking in her disheveled appearance and unsteady stance. "Where are you staying? I'll escort you back."

Y/N looked up at him with wide, grateful eyes that made something in Klaus's chest tighten uncomfortably.

"The Hotel Monteleone," she said, then added with a hiccup, "But you don't have to. I'm sure fake Klaus Mikaelson has better things to do on Halloween than babysit a drunk girl."

Klaus offered his arm with a slight bow, his expression a mixture of amusement and something more difficult to define.

"As it happens, I find myself at loose ends this evening," he told her. "And it would be remiss of me to leave a lady in distress, especially one who's offered such helpful critique of my accent."

Y/N giggled, linking her arm through his with more force than necessary as she pushed away from the wall.

"My hero," she declared dramatically, then promptly stumbled again. "Oops. The ground is very...tilty tonight."

"Indeed it is," Klaus agreed solemnly, supporting more of her weight than she probably realized. "Perhaps we should find you some water before we continue. Sobriety is generally helpful when navigating tilty ground."

As they emerged from the alley back onto the crowded street, Klaus found himself strangely protective of the inebriated woman on his arm. It was an unusual feeling. He was far more accustomed to being the predator than the protector.

The walk back from the French Quarter was anything but direct. Y/N weaved unsteadily along the sidewalk, occasionally stopping to admire Halloween decorations or wave at passing revelers, all while maintaining a steady stream of conversation that jumped between topics with dizzying speed. It was an exercise in patience for Klaus, who found himself slowing his pace to accommodate her unsteady gait.

"You know," she announced as they turned onto a quieter residential street, her voice carrying in the night air, "I actually read about you. Or, well, the real Klaus. Not that you're not real! You're just...you know what I mean."

Klaus arched an eyebrow, genuinely curious despite himself.

"Is that so? And what exactly have you read about me—or rather, him?"

"Mmm, lots of things," Y/N nodded sagely, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk before Klaus steadied her. "He's supposed to be this super powerful hybrid. Half vampire, half werewolf. First of his kind."

She looked up at him with wide, earnest eyes.

"But the thing is, everyone talks about how dangerous he is. How scary. But I think..." she lowered her voice to a stage whisper that was likely audible half a block away, "I think he's probably just lonely. I mean, who wouldn't be after a thousand years? Everyone you love either dies or betrays you eventually."

Klaus's steps faltered slightly, caught off guard by her unexpected insight.

"That's...an interesting perspective," he managed, his tone carefully neutral. "Most people focus on the more violent aspects of his reputation."

"Well, yeah," Y/N waved her free hand dismissively, "but that's boring. Bad guy does bad things, news at eleven. I'm more interested in the why. No one just wakes up and decides to be the villain, you know? Something makes them that way."

She stumbled again, and Klaus tightened his grip on her arm to keep her upright.

"Careful, love," he murmured, the endearment slipping out automatically.

"See! That's good," Y/N exclaimed, brightening. "The 'love' thing. Very Klaus-like. You're getting better at this."

Klaus couldn't help the genuine laugh that escaped him.

"I'm pleased to have your approval," he said dryly. "I do strive for authenticity."

Before Klaus could respond to this observation, Y/N suddenly changed course, tugging him down a side street.

"This way," she announced. "I don't actually live at the Monteleone. That's just where my friends are staying. I have an apartment over on Dauphine. It's not far."

Klaus raised an eyebrow but allowed himself to be redirected.

"And you thought it wise to give a stranger, one dressed as a notorious vampire no less, your actual address?" he asked, genuinely curious about her reasoning.

Y/N waved dismissively, nearly hitting a streetlamp in the process.

"You're not a stranger anymore," she declared with drunk logic. "We've been talking for like...forever. Plus, you held my hair while I threw up. That's basically a friendship blood oath."

"A friendship blood oath," Klaus repeated, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. "I suppose by that standard, we're practically family."

"Exactly!" Y/N beamed up at him, her smile bright enough that it momentarily distracted from her smudged makeup and disheveled costume."Besides, I'm an excellent judge of character. You might be dressed as the scariest vampire in New Orleans, but you're actually nice."

Something flickered in Klaus's eyes at that. A brief unreadable expression that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Am I now?" he asked softly. "You might be the first person in centuries to think so."

"It's this building," Y/N announced suddenly, gesturing to a three-story brick apartment building with a small stoop. "Second floor, apartment 2B. For 'Bee,' because I keep telling my roommate we should get a pet bee, but she says that's not a thing people do."

"A wise decision on her part," Klaus commented, helping her up the steps. "Bees generally prefer the company of other bees."

"You're smart," Y/N informed him solemnly as she fumbled in her small purse for her keys. "I like smart people. Everyone thinks I'm just a pretty face, you know? But I'm getting my master's in art history. Focusing on Renaissance portraiture. That's actually why I know about Klaus. There are rumors he was a patron of several Italian artists."

This revelation genuinely surprised Klaus. Most humans who knew of him focused solely on the supernatural aspects of his existence, not his contributions to art history.

"Is that right?" he asked, watching as she finally extracted her keys with a triumphant "Aha!"

"Mm-hmm," she confirmed, struggling to fit the key into the lock until Klaus gently took it from her hand and did it for her. "There are these paintings from the 1500s that some people think he commissioned. The brushwork is incredible. I'd love to see them someday."

Klaus turned the key, a strange warmth spreading through his chest at her words. Those paintings were currently hanging in the east wing of the Mikaelson compound, away from the prying eyes of visitors.

"Perhaps you will," he said softly, more to himself than to her.

The door swung open, and Y/N immediately kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief, wobbling slightly as she stepped into the apartment.

"Home sweet home," she declared, flicking on the lights to reveal a cozy, if somewhat cluttered, living space. Books were stacked on nearly every surface, and the walls were covered with art prints and photographs. "My roommate's out of town for the weekend. Visiting her boyfriend in Atlanta."

She turned back, confusion crossing her face when she realized Klaus was still standing in the doorway, one hand resting against an invisible barrier that prevented him from entering.

"What are you doing?" she asked, tilting her head in puzzlement. "Aren't you coming in?"

Klaus maintained his position, a small smile playing at his lips.

"I'm waiting to be invited," he explained, his tone deliberately light. "It's only proper."

Y/N stared at him for a moment before understanding dawned on her face, followed by a delighted giggle.

"Oh my god," she laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Wow, you're really committing to this vampire bit, aren't you? That's dedication to the costume."

She made an exaggerated sweeping gesture toward the interior of the apartment.

"Please, come in, Mr. Mikaelson," she invited with mock formality, adding a wobbly curtsy for good measure. "My humble abode is yours to enter."

Klaus stepped across the threshold with measured steps, his eyes briefly scanning the apartment for threats out of long-established habit.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he replied, matching her formal tone with a slight bow that made her giggle again.

"You're funny," she informed him, swaying slightly where she stood. "I didn't expect Klaus Mikaelson to be funny. In the stories, he's always so serious and murdery."

"Perhaps the stories don't tell the whole truth," Klaus suggested, closing the door behind him. ""Let me get you some water," Klaus said, spotting the kitchenette and moving toward it. "You'll thank me in the morning."

Y/N waved a hand dismissively but didn't protest, instead making her way to the couch where she collapsed with a dramatic sigh.

"My wings are killing me," she complained, reaching awkwardly behind her back to try and unfasten the now-bedraggled angel wings.

Klaus returned with a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table before moving to help her with the troublesome costume piece.

"Allow me," he offered, deftly unfastening the harness that held the wings in place.

"My hero," Y/N sighed, relief evident in her voice as the cumbersome accessory was removed. "Those things are way heavier than they look."

She accepted the water when Klaus handed it to her again, taking a few reluctant sips before setting it aside. When she looked up at him, her expression had shifted, a hint of something warmer in her gaze.

"You know," she said, patting the spot beside her on the couch, "you're really handsome. Has anyone ever told you that you look like the real thing?"

Klaus sat beside her, maintaining a respectful distance that Y/N immediately eliminated by scooting closer.

"The real thing?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well what she meant.

"Klaus Mikaelson," she clarified, reaching out to touch one of his necklaces."The actual vampire. Not that anyone knows what he really looks like, I guess. But the stories all say he's hot."

A smirk tugged at the corner of Klaus's mouth.

"Do they now?" he asked, genuinely amused by this revelation. "And what other insights do these stories provide about the fearsome Original hybrid?"

Y/N's fingers moved from his necklace to trace along his jawline, her inhibitions clearly lowered by the alcohol still coursing through her system.

"They say he's dangerous," she murmured, her voice dropping to what she probably intended to be a seductive whisper. "Powerful. That he's lived for a thousand years and seen everything. Done everything."

Her hand slid to his chest, her intentions becoming increasingly obvious.

"But I bet there are still some things that would surprise him," she added with a clumsy attempt at a wink.

Klaus caught her wrist gently, stilling her wandering hand.

"Y/N," he said softly, his accent wrapping around her name in a way that made her shiver despite his rebuff, "you're in no state for the kind of surprise you're suggesting."

She pouted, the expression making her look even younger than she was.

"I'm not that drunk," she protested, the slur in her words contradicting her claim. "And you're hot, and it's Halloween, and—" She yawned suddenly, the action seemingly taking her by surprise. "And I'm...actually really tired."

Klaus chuckled, releasing her wrist to brush a strand of hair from her face.

"I believe that's my cue to help you to bed," he said, standing and offering her his hand. "To sleep," he added firmly when her expression brightened.

Y/N sighed dramatically but accepted his help, swaying slightly as she got to her feet.

"You're no fun," she complained, even as she leaned heavily against him. "But fine. Bedroom's through there."

She pointed toward a door off the main living area, and Klaus guided her toward it with gentle efficiency. The bedroom was small but neat, with a double bed covered in an array of pillows and a colorful quilt.

"I should change," Y/N mumbled, looking down at her costume with a frown. "Can't sleep in this."

Before Klaus could suggest he wait outside, she reached behind herself for the zipper of her dress, struggling with it for several seconds before looking at him with pleading eyes.

"Help?" she asked, turning to present her back to him.

Klaus hesitated briefly before stepping forward to assist, carefully lowering the zipper only as far as necessary for her to manage the rest herself.

"There you are," he said, stepping back immediately. "I'll wait outside while you change."

Y/N turned back to face him, holding the front of her dress in place with one hand while the other reached for him.

"Or you could stay," she suggested, her attempt at a sultry look somewhat undermined by another massive yawn. "Help me out of this dress properly..."

Klaus took her hand and placed a gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Another time, perhaps," he said smoothly. "When you're less likely to fall asleep mid-seduction."

As if to prove his point, Y/N's eyelids drooped heavily, and she swayed on her feet.

"I'm not going to fall asleep," she protested, even as she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "I'm just resting my eyes for a second."

Klaus smiled, shaking his head slightly as he backed toward the door.

"Of course," he agreed. "Just call when you're changed."

He closed the bedroom door behind him, listening with enhanced hearing as Y/N mumbled to herself while presumably attempting to change. There was a thud, likely her dropping something, followed by a soft curse, then the unmistakable sound of her collapsing onto the bed.

After a minute of silence, Klaus knocked gently on the door.

"Y/N?" he called softly. "Are you decent?"

When no response came, he eased the door open to find her sprawled across the bed, still partially in her costume but with a t-shirt haphazardly pulled over the top, fast asleep. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing deep and even, her earlier seduction attempt clearly forgotten.

Klaus couldn't help but laugh softly at the sight. He moved quietly into the room, carefully removing her remaining shoes and pulling the quilt over her sleeping form. He placed a glass of water and some pain relievers he found in her bathroom on the nightstand that she would undoubtedly need them in the morning.

As he straightened, his gaze caught on a sketchbook lying open on her desk. Curiosity piqued, he moved closer, examining the drawing that was visible. It was a surprisingly skilled rendition of the French Quarter at sunset, the detail impressive even to his discerning eye.

"Talented little thing, aren't you?" he murmured, glancing back at her sleeping form.

Y/N stirred slightly but didn't wake, her breathing already deepening into the rhythm of sleep. Klaus watched her for a moment longer, an unfamiliar protective instinct stirring in his chest.

He should leave now. He'd done his good deed for the decade, escorting a drunk human safely home. There was no reason to linger.

Yet something compelled him to take a piece of paper from her desk and scribble a brief note, which he left propped against the water glass he placed on her nightstand, alongside two more aspirin.

With one last look at her peaceful face, Klaus slipped silently from the room and out of the apartment, closing the door securely behind him. The night was still young, and he had his own affairs to attend to.

But as he walked away, he found himself smiling at the thought of Y/N waking tomorrow, reading his note, and realizing that perhaps her "fake Klaus Mikaelson" hadn't been so fake after all.

The note read simply:

Y/N, 

Your critique of my accent has been duly noted. Perhaps next time we meet, I'll have improved it to your satisfaction. Until then, drink water, take the aspirin, and do try to be more careful about who you stumble into on Halloween night. Not everyone in the Quarter is as gentlemanly as I.

—Klaus Mikaelson (the genuine article)

🏷️: @ariesandwolves @idontknowwhatimdoinginiife

Y/N,

Your critique of my accent has been duly noted. Perhaps next time we meet, I'll have improved it to your satisfaction. Until then, drink water, take the aspirin, and do try to be more careful about who you stumble into on Halloween night. Not everyone in the Quarter is as gentlemanly as I.

—Klaus Mikaelson (the genuine article)

She read it once. Twice. Three times, her confusion deepening with each pass.

"What the hell?" she muttered, turning the paper over as if expecting to find some explanation on the back. There was nothing but blank space.

Critique of his accent? Stumbling into someone? And the signature—Klaus Mikaelson, the genuine article—was that supposed to be funny?

Y/N pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying desperately to summon any memory of the previous night. There was nothing. Just a black void where several hours should have been.

She grabbed her phone from where it had somehow ended up on the floor, the screen cracked slightly more than it had been yesterday. A dozen missed texts from her friends, mostly from the group chat.

Melissa: okay so are we not gonna talk about how you just DISAPPEARED???

Sara: girl where did you go we looked everywhere

Melissa: if you hooked up with someone at least tell us you're alive

Sara: she's probably passed out somewhere lol

Melissa: Y/N ANSWER YOUR PHONE

Y/N typed out a quick response:

Y/N: I'm alive. Somehow made it home. No idea how. Did one of you guys bring me back and leave this weird note?

She attached a photo of the note and hit send, then immediately regretted it when her phone buzzed with rapid-fire responses.

Sara: what note? we didn't bring you home we thought you left with that guy

Melissa: WHAT GUY

Sara: the one she was hanging all over at Lafitte's

Y/N's stomach dropped.

"No," she whispered to herself, staring at the note with growing horror. "No, no, no. I did not go home with some random guy. I wouldn't—"

But the evidence suggested otherwise. She was in her apartment, wearing a t-shirt she didn't remember putting on over her costume dress, which was now bunched awkwardly around her waist. Her angel wings were discarded on the floor, one of them bent at an unnatural angle.

Another text came through, this time from Melissa alone:

Melissa: okay but Klaus Mikaelson??? Really??? Someone's having a laugh. Unless you picked up a guy who was REALLY into his costume lol

Y/N groaned, dropping her phone onto the bed. This had to be some kind of elaborate prank. Maybe one of her friends had doubled back, helped her home, and left the note as a joke. That made way more sense than the alternative.That she'd actually encountered someone claiming to be an infamous vampire from New Orleans folklore.

Except her friends' texts suggested they genuinely didn't know where she'd gone or how she'd gotten home.

She glanced at the clock and swore loudly. 8:47 AM. She was supposed to be at the museum by nine for the opening shift.

"Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, scrambling out of bed and immediately regretting the sudden movement as her head protested violently. She steadied herself against the nightstand, taking a few deep breaths before making her way to the bathroom.

The hot shower helped marginally, though looking at herself in the mirror afterward was a mistake. Her mascara was smudged halfway down her cheeks, her hair was a tangled mess, and there was what looked suspiciously like glitter in places glitter had no business being.

She dressed quickly in her work clothes, dark jeans and a burgundy blouse that wouldn't show stains if a tourist spilled their coffee, and pulled her hair into a somewhat presentable ponytail. The note sat on her nightstand, taunting her with its mysteries.

On impulse, she folded it and tucked it into her pocket. Maybe she'd figure it out later when her brain wasn't trying to escape through her eye sockets.

The walk to the museum was mercifully short, just four blocks through the Quarter. The morning air was crisp with that particular November quality, and the streets were littered with the detritus of Halloween. A ton of abandoned plastic cups, the occasional lost shoe, streamers hanging sadly from balcony railings.

Y/N arrived at the New Orleans Museum of Art's satellite gallery in the French Quarter 5 minutes after nine. The small building specialized in local history and folklore, with a particular emphasis on the supernatural legends that had made the city famous.

"You look like shit," her coworker Marcus observed as she stumbled through the employee entrance. He had changed out of his rather impressive vampire costume from the night before and was now behind the front desk in his usual museum polo shirt, already at his post.

"Feel like it too," Y/N admitted, gratefully accepting the coffee he offered her. "Halloween was a mistake."

Marcus laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet gallery.

"It always is," he agreed. "But we survive to make the same mistake next year. That's the beauty of it."

Y/N took a long sip of coffee, letting the caffeine begin its merciful work. As she moved to set up her station in the Renaissance wing, her favorite section with a collection featurning European paintings and artifacts from the 1400s-1600s—she couldn't shake the feeling that she was forgetting something important.

The note in her pocket seemed to burn against her hip, a tangible reminder of the hours she'd lost to alcohol and poor decision-making.

Klaus Mikaelson (the genuine article).

The words kept circling through her mind as she went through the motions of opening the gallery, checking that all the displays were secure, ensuring the temperature and humidity controls were functioning properly.

It was ridiculous, obviously. Klaus Mikaelson was a legend, a story people told to scare tourists and add mystique to the Quarter. He wasn't real. And even if he was, he certainly wouldn't be escorting drunk graduate students home from Halloween parties and leaving polite notes about their accent critiques…right?

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The morning dragged on with agonizing slowness. Every footstep of the handful of early visitors seemed to echo directly into Y/N's skull, and the fluorescent lighting felt specifically designed to punish the hungover. She was halfway through explaining the provenance of a 16th-century Venetian mask to a tourist couple when her boss, Dr. Catherine Roussel, appeared at her elbow.

"Y/N, a word?" the older woman asked, her French accent still thick despite decades in Louisiana.

Y/N excused herself from the tourists and followed Dr. Roussel toward the back offices, her curiosity momentarily overriding her headache.

"We've received a rather extraordinary donation," Dr. Roussel explained as they walked, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors. "It arrived this morning by private courier. Renaissance era, authenticated paperwork included. The preliminary assessment suggests it's quite valuable."

Y/N's interest piqued despite her physical misery. Donations of actual Renaissance pieces were rare and most of what the gallery received were reproductions or pieces from much later periods mistakenly believed to be older.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A painting," Dr. Roussel replied, leading her into the climate-controlled storage room where new acquisitions were kept before being properly catalogued and displayed. "Oil on canvas, appears to be Italian, possibly Florentine. Fifteenth century, if the documentation is accurate."

She gestured to a canvas resting on the examination table, still partially wrapped in protective covering. Even from where she stood, Y/N could see the rich colors and intricate detail that suggested genuine age and quality.

"I want you to handle the initial assessment," Dr. Roussel continued. "Your thesis work on Italian Renaissance art makes you our resident expert, hungover or not."

Y/N winced at the pointed observation but moved closer to the painting, her professional interest overcoming her discomfort.

"Who donated it?" she asked, carefully pulling back more of the protective wrapping.

Dr. Roussel consulted the papers that had accompanied the piece, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

"The documentation just lists the initials K.M.," she said with a slight frown. "No full name, which is unusual but not unheard of. Some collectors prefer anonymity. The courier service was paid in cash, apparently."

Something about those initials made Y/N's hand pause mid-reach. K.M. Her fingers moved unconsciously to her pocket, where the note from this morning sat folded.

"K.M.?" she repeated, her voice coming out slightly strangled.

Dr. Roussel looked up from the paperwork, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes. Why? Does that mean something to you?"

Y/N shook her head quickly, perhaps too quickly.

"No, no. Just...wondering if they'd donated before. Under those initials, I mean."

Dr. Roussel's expression suggested she didn't entirely believe this explanation, but she let it pass.

"Not that I'm aware of. But if this piece is authentic, and the preliminary carbon dating suggests it is, we should be grateful regardless of the donor's preference for privacy." She set the papers down on the table beside the painting. "I need to make some calls about insurance and security. You have until this afternoon to complete your initial assessment. Be thorough."

With that, Dr. Roussel swept out of the room, leaving Y/N alone with the painting and her growing sense of unease.

She pulled the rest of the protective wrapping away carefully, revealing the full canvas. It was a breathtaking portrait of a young woman in a Renaissance dress, rendered with the kind of technical skill that suggested a master's hand. The subject's dark eyes seemed to follow the viewer, and there was a knowing quality to her slight smile that reminded Y/N of the Mona Lisa, though the style was distinctly different.

The documentation was impressively complete. Provenance papers traced the painting's ownership back through several private collections, with gaps that weren't unusual for pieces that had survived five centuries. Carbon dating results, X-ray analysis showing the canvas's age and the paint's composition, even a letter from a certified art historian vouching for its authenticity.

Everything was in order. Everything was perfect.

Too perfect, perhaps.

Y/N pulled out her phone and the note from her pocket, laying them side by side. She pulled up the photo she'd sent to her friends earlier, zooming in on the signature.

—Klaus Mikaelson (the genuine article)

K.M.

"This is insane," she muttered to herself, staring between the note and the documentation for the painting. "This is absolutely insane. There's no way."

But the coincidence was hard to ignore. A mysterious donation arrives the morning after she supposedly spent the evening with someone claiming to be Klaus Mikaelson. A donation worth potentially hundreds of thousands of dollars, from an anonymous benefactor with the same initials.

She picked up the authentication letter, examining the signature of the art historian who'd verified the piece. The handwriting was different from the note. It was more cramped and less elegant but that didn't mean anything. People could alter their handwriting.

Y/N set the letter down and pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to massage away the headache that was intensifying with her confusion.

"Okay," she said aloud, her voice echoing slightly in the storage room. "Let's think about this logically. Option one: I got extremely drunk last night, met some rich weirdo in a Klaus Mikaelson costume, he brought me home like a gentleman, and then coincidentally his initials match someone who donated a priceless painting to my workplace the next morning."

She paused, considering.

"Option two: I'm still drunk and hallucinating this entire thing."

Another pause.

"Option three: I actually met a vampire who claims to be Klaus Mikaelson, he brought me home, and then donated a Renaissance painting to my museum because...why? Because I criticized his accent?"

She laughed at the absurdity of it, the sound coming out slightly hysterical.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Marcus:

Marcus: Dr. R says you're with the new donation. Is it as good as she thinks?

Y/N looked back at the painting, at the woman's knowing smile and ancient eyes.

Y/N: Better. It's incredible. Whoever donated this has serious money.

Marcus: Lucky us. Maybe they'll donate more

Y/N stared at that message for a long moment before typing:

Y/N: Do we have any way to contact anonymous donors? To thank them?

Marcus: Usually no, that's kind of the point of anonymity. Why?

She didn't answer, instead setting her phone down and turning her full attention to the painting. If this really was from whoever, or whatever, had left that note in her apartment, then there had to be some kind of message in it. Some clue.

She examined every inch of the canvas with a magnifying glass, looking for...what? A hidden signature? A message painted in code?

What she found was more subtle. In the bottom right corner, barely visible among the intricate details of the woman's dress, were initials. Not the artist's signature as that was clearly visible on the left side, but something else. Letters worked into the embroidery pattern of the fabric so skillfully that they could easily be mistaken for mere decoration.

K.M.

And beside them, newer additions that didn't quite match the age of the rest of the paint—she could tell from the way they caught the light. Letters that had been added much more recently, perhaps even in the last few hours.

Y.N.

Her initials.

Y/N sat back, her heart racing despite the rational part of her brain screaming that this was all some elaborate coincidence or prank.

"Okay," she whispered to the empty room. "Okay. So either I'm losing my mind, or..."

She didn't finish the thought. Couldn't finish it. Because finishing it meant accepting that the impossible might actually be possible. That the legends whispered in the Quarter's bars and told to wide-eyed tourists might have some basis in truth.

That she'd spent last night in the company of something far more dangerous than a man in a costume.

Her phone buzzed again. Another text, this time from an unknown number:

Unknown: I trust the donation met with your professional approval. Do let me know if my accent has improved when next we meet. I'm quite committed to getting it right. -K

Y/N stared at the message, her hands trembling slightly. She should delete it. Block the number. Pretend this whole thing never happened.

Instead, she found herself typing:

Y/N: Who are you? Really?

The response came almost immediately:

Unknown: I believe I left you a note explaining exactly that. Though I understand if you find it difficult to accept. Most do, at first.

Y/N: This is insane. You're insane. I'm insane for even entertaining this.

Unknown: Perhaps. Though insanity and truth are not mutually exclusive. Enjoy the painting, love. Consider it a thank you for the most entertaining Halloween I've had in decades.

Before she could respond, another message came through:

Unknown: And do try to remember our evening together. I'd hate for all those charming observations about my accent to be lost to alcohol-induced amnesia.

Y/N set her phone down with shaking hands, staring at the painting, more specifically at her initials hidden in five-hundred-year-old fabric. Put there by someone who couldn't possibly exist.

"I need another coffee," she muttered. "Or therapy. Probably both."

But even as she tried to rationalize it away, she couldn't shake the memory of elegant handwriting on a note, or the feeling that her life had just become infinitely more complicated than a simple hangover could explain.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The weeks following Halloween had been a study in controlled paranoia. Y/N found herself checking over her shoulder constantly, startling at shadows, and taking different routes home from work with a frequency that would have seemed absurd if she'd been thinking rationally.

But rational thought was in short supply when one was potentially being...what? Watched? Courted? Stalked by a thousand-year-old vampire who may or may not actually exist?

The painting was officially catalogued as "Portrait of an Unknown Woman, Italian School, circa 1480". It had become the centerpiece of the museum's Renaissance collection. Visitors stood before it daily, admiring the technical mastery and the subject's enigmatic expression, completely unaware of the hidden initials that Y/N saw every time she walked past.

K.M. Y.N.

She'd stopped looking at it directly after the first week. It felt too much like being watched.

The mysterious texter—Klaus, or whoever was pretending to be him—had gone silent after that initial exchange. No more messages. No more donations. No more evidence that any of it had been real except for the note she'd foolishly kept, now hidden in her nightstand drawer beneath a stack of unread novels.

Her friends had eventually stopped asking about Halloween night, though Melissa occasionally gave her knowing looks that suggested she thought Y/N was hiding a scandalous hookup story. If only it were that simple.

By the time Thanksgiving week rolled around, Y/N had almost, almost, convinced herself that the whole thing had been an elaborate prank. Some rich eccentric with too much time and money, getting his kicks by messing with a hungover graduate student.

The fact that this explanation made her feel oddly disappointed was something she chose not to examine too closely.

The museum's pre-Thanksgiving gala was the kind of event Y/N normally enjoyed. It was a chance to dress up, mingle with donors and art enthusiasts, and talk about the pieces she loved with people who actually cared. She'd been heavily involved in the planning, coordinating the display of several new acquisitions and not just the mysterious portrait, but several other pieces that had come in over the past month.

Her dress for the event was a deep emerald green number she'd found at a vintage shop and had taken to a tailor for alterations. Simple but elegant, appropriate for a museum employee who needed to look professional while not overshadowing the donors.

She'd planned to pick it up that afternoon, giving herself plenty of time to get ready before the seven o'clock start.

The tailor shop was tucked into a side street off Royal, the kind of place that had probably existed since dinosaurs roamed New Orleans. The bell above the door chimed as Y/N entered, and the elderly proprietor who’d been running the shop since before Y/N was even a concept looked up from her sewing machine.

"Hello, dear," Mrs. Chen said with a warm smile. "What can I do for you?"

Y/N returned the smile and stepped up to the counter.

"I'm here to pick up my dress. Y/N? It should be ready today.”

Mrs. Chen’s expression shifted into polite confusion.

"I'm sorry, dear. What dress?"

Something cold and unpleasant slid down Y/N’s spine.

“The green one? I brought it in two weeks ago. Hemming, taking in at the waist. You pinned it on me in that little mirror corner.”

Mrs. Chen shook her head gently, brows pulled together. “I don’t recall ever seeing you before, sweetheart. Are you sure you brought it here?”

Y/N blinked at her. Hard. She had definitely brought it here. She could practically still feel the pins scratching her thighs.

She dug into her purse and produced the receipt.

“Look. Right here. Your shop. Two weeks ago.”

Mrs. Chen examined it carefully, frowning, then looked back up with the same puzzled apology.

“This is our receipt…but I have no memory of this. Let me check the back room.”

She shuffled into the workroom, leaving Y/N standing there feeling like the floor was very gently tilting under her feet.

Several minutes later, Mrs. Chen returned, empty-handed and distressingly sincere.

“I’m so sorry, dear. There’s no green dress at all. Nothing matching this. I truly don’t know what happened.”

Y/N’s mouth felt dry. Her brain started clawing for explanations. Mix-up? Employee she’d never seen? A new system glitch? Had she actually dropped it off somewhere else and just…convinced herself it was here?

But the receipt was right there.

A stupid, irrational thought whispered through her mind. Those old vampire stories, the ones about people just forgetting things they shouldn’t, memories wiped clean like chalk from a board, but she shoved it down immediately. That was folklore. Campfire nonsense. She was stressed, not…feral.

“It’s…fine,” Y/N forced out, retreating a step. “Maybe I messed up. Sorry to bother you.”

She left before Mrs. Chen could say anything else, the bell chiming above her like it was mocking her.

Outside, the street felt too bright and too loud. Her heart hammered. She kept replaying the conversation. Remembering Mrs. Chen’s kind confusion, the missing dress, the receipt that proved she wasn’t losing her mind. Except right now she kind of felt like she was.

She called two other tailors she’d used in the past, praying she’d somehow swapped memories like a scrambled playlist.

Nope. No dress. No record. Nothing.

By the time she reached her apartment, she was seconds from a full meltdown. The gala was in four hours. No dress. No backup. No time. And the smallest, most ridiculous part of her brain kept circling back to that one impossible explanation she refused to take seriously.

Because who in their right mind thinks, hey, maybe something wiped a tailor’s memory of me?

Only someone who’s really, really desperate not to believe they’re losing it.

She took the stairs two at a time, fumbling with her keys as she reached her door. Her closet was modest and most of her wardrobe consisted of work-appropriate pieces and casual clothes. She had exactly two formal dresses, and neither was suitable. One was the bridesmaid dress from her cousin's wedding, a truly unfortunate shade of peach that had looked bad on everyone in the bridal party. The other was from her undergraduate graduation and no longer fit properly.

"Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, pulling out both dresses and holding them up critically. The peach monstrosity was at least the right size, even if it made her look like a sad citrus fruit. That would have to do.

She was debating whether she had time to try to find something at a department store when there was a knock at her door.

Y/N froze, the peach dress still in her hands. She wasn't expecting anyone. Melissa and Sara were both traveling for Thanksgiving. Marcus was already at the museum, helping with last-minute setup.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

She approached the door cautiously, checking the peephole. The hallway was empty. No one stood outside her door.

Y/N's hand hovered over the doorknob. Every instinct screamed at her not to open it. But curiosity, that same damned curiosity that had gotten her into this mess won out.

She opened the door slowly, peering into the empty hallway.

Nothing. No one.

Just a large white box sitting on her doormat, tied with an emerald green ribbon that matched the dress she'd lost.

Y/N looked left, then right down the hallway. Still empty. Still silent except for the muffled sounds of her neighbors' televisions and the building's ancient heating system.

She bent down, picking up the box carefully as if it might explode. It was surprisingly light for its size. A small cream-colored envelope was tucked under the ribbon, her name written across it in handwriting she recognized.

That same elegant script from the note she'd kept. From the authentication papers for the painting.

With trembling fingers, she brought the box inside and closed the door, engaging both locks and the chain for good measure. She set it on her coffee table and stared at it for a long moment before opening the envelope.

The note inside was brief:

Y/N,

I do apologize for the inconvenience with your original dress. Consider this a replacement, and my thanks for your continued dedication to preserving history. Even when that history includes pieces donated by "mysterious benefactors."

I look forward to seeing you wear it tonight. The color will suit you far better than that regrettable peach situation you were considering.

Do save me a dance.

—K

Y/N read it three times, her emotions cycling through anger, fear, confusion, and frustratingly a hint of excitement she refused to acknowledge.

"He can see me," she whispered to her empty apartment. "He can see into my apartment. He saw the peach dress."

The implications were terrifying. The fact that she was still standing here, about to open this box instead of calling the police, was perhaps more terrifying still.

But she opened it anyway.

The tissue paper inside was the expensive kind, rustling softly as she pulled it back. Beneath it lay a dress that made her breath catch.

It was stunning. Deep burgundy silk that seemed to shift between red and purple depending on how the light hit it. The neckline was elegant without being too revealing, the waist fitted, the skirt flowing in a way that suggested it would move beautifully. It was clearly expensive. Probably more expensive than anything she'd ever worn in her life.

There were shoes too, tucked into the bottom of the box. Heels in a complementary shade, the exact size she wore.

Of course they were. Because apparently, her mysterious vampire stalker—and yes, she was starting to accept that's what he was—knew everything about her.

Y/N sat back on her heels, the dress pooled in her lap, and tried to decide if she was more angry or scared or, horrifyingly, flattered.

"This is insane," she said aloud. "I should not wear this. I should throw this away and show up in the peach dress just to spite him."

But even as she said it, she was running her fingers over the silk, feeling the quality of the fabric, imagining how it would look.

Her phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number:

Unknown: The peach dress is a crime against fashion and your complexion. Please, for the sake of everyone who will have to look at you tonight, wear the burgundy.

Y/N grabbed her phone and typed furiously:

Y/N: Stop watching me. This is beyond creepy. This is restraining order territory.

His reply came instantly.

Unknown: I'm not watching you, love. Your window is wide open. Is that my fault?

Another message appeared a second later, almost teasing:

Unknown: If you don’t want people noticing your wardrobe choices, close the blinds.

Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs. She shot to her feet so fast the dress slid off her lap. She rushed to the window, grabbing the cord and yanking the blinds down with a frantic snap. The street below buzzed with the usual French Quarter chaos with tourists, musicians, someone arguing with a plant but no looming figure staring at her.

She pressed her face close to the gap between the slats anyway, peering out like a paranoid meerkat. Nothing. No one. Just normal New Orleans weirdness.

Her hands shook as she typed:

Y/N: I’m NOT wearing your stupid dress. I don’t care how expensive it is. I don’t care if it’s made from angel tears. I’m wearing the peach one.

The response came so fast it almost felt pre-written.

Unknown: You will.

That was it. No argument. No persuasion. Just certainty, like he already knew how the night would go.

Y/N locked her phone, tossed it onto the bed, and immediately unlocked it again because her brain was spiraling.

Y/N: Why are you doing this?

Unknown: Because you told me my accent needed work. I'm simply trying to make amends. Consider the dress an apology gift.

Y/N: A normal apology gift is flowers. Or chocolate. Not a dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent.

Unknown: I'm not known for doing things normally. Besides, I've had a thousand years to accumulate wealth. Might as well spend it on someone who appreciates Renaissance art and isn't afraid to critique an Original vampire's pronunciation.

There it was again. That casual confirmation of what he claimed to be. Said so matter-of-factly, as if being a thousand-year-old vampire was just another biographical detail like his height or hair color.

Y/N: I still think you're insane.

Unknown: Undoubtedly. Will you wear the dress?

Y/N looked at the burgundy silk, then at the peach monstrosity still hanging from her closet door.

Y/N: ...Yes.

Unknown: Excellent. I'll see you tonight.

She wanted to ask how, exactly, he planned to see her tonight. The gala was invitation-only, and the guest list had been finalized weeks ago. But she had a sinking feeling she already knew the answer.

Klaus Mikaelson didn't need an invitation. Not to her apartment, and apparently not to museum galas either.

Y/N set her phone down and held up the dress, checking it against her in the mirror. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Which somehow made the whole situation worse.

"I'm going to regret this," she told her reflection. "I am absolutely, definitely going to regret this."

But she was going to wear the dress anyway.

Because apparently, when it came to mysterious, possibly-immortal men who donated priceless artwork and left designer dresses on her doorstep, her self-preservation instincts had completely abandoned her in favor of curiosity and a deeply inconvenient attraction to danger.

She had three hours to get ready.

Three hours to prepare for whatever the evening would bring.

Three hours to convince herself that this was all still somehow normal and explainable and not the beginning of something that would completely upend her carefully ordered life.

The dress hung on her closet door, catching the afternoon light, beautiful and ominous and impossible to ignore.

Just like the man who'd sent it.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The updo had taken Y/N longer than anticipated. Her hands kept shaking as she tried to pin the intricate twists into place. By the time she'd finished her makeup and slipped into the burgundy dress, she looked polished and professional, even if she felt like her nerves were strung tight enough to snap.

The dress fit like it had been made for her. Which, she supposed with growing unease, it probably had been.

The museum gallery was already filling with guests when she arrived, fashionably late despite her best intentions. Soft classical music drifted through the space, competing with the gentle murmur of conversation and the clink of champagne glasses. The paintings had been lit to perfection, each piece glowing under carefully positioned spotlights.

Including the portrait. Her portrait, as she'd come to think of it, though she'd never say that aloud.

The woman's knowing smile seemed even more pronounced tonight, and Y/N deliberately turned her back on it.

"There you are!" Dr. Roussel appeared at her elbow, immaculate in a black evening gown. "I was beginning to worry. That dress is stunning, by the way."

"Thank you," Y/N managed, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter more for something to do with her hands than any desire to drink it.

"We have quite the turnout," Dr. Roussel continued, gesturing around the crowded space. "Several major donors, some collectors from out of state, even a few academics from Tulane. This could be very good for us."

Y/N nodded, only half-listening. Her eyes were already scanning the crowd, looking for…what? A man who'd been alive for a millennium? Someone who'd look out of place among the art enthusiasts and society types?

Except he wouldn't look out of place, would he? Klaus Mikaelson, if he really was who he claimed, would blend in perfectly. He'd probably been attending events like this since before the museum existed.

"Are you alright, dear?" Dr. Roussel's concerned voice cut through her thoughts. "You seem distracted."

"Just nervous," Y/N lied. "Big crowd."

Dr. Roussel patted her arm sympathetically before being pulled away by a donor wanting to discuss the provenance of a particular sculpture.

Y/N took a fortifying sip of champagne and moved toward her assigned section which naturally was the Renaissance wing. A small group had already gathered around one of the paintings, a 16th-century Flemish landscape, and she fell into the familiar rhythm of explanation.

"The artist used a technique called atmospheric perspective," she explained to the attentive faces, "where distant objects are painted with less detail and cooler colors to create the illusion of depth—"

The words died in her throat. Someone was watching her. Not the polite attention of the guests listening to her explanation, but something more intense. More focused.

She scanned the crowd, her pulse quickening. Nothing. No one obviously staring. Just the usual mix of interested faces and people more focused on their conversations than the art.

But the feeling didn't fade.

It continued throughout the evening. Every time she moved to a new painting, every time she engaged with a new group of guests, that sensation of being watched prickled along her spine.

She found herself studying every tall man with dirty blonde hair, her heart jumping each time before she realized it wasn't him. The hair was too dark, or the build was wrong, or they were clearly American tourists without a trace of a British accent.

By the eighth or ninth false alarm, she was starting to feel ridiculous. Maybe he wasn't even here. Maybe this was all part of whatever game he was playing. To make her paranoid, keep her on edge, never actually show up.

She was examining yet another possibility. A man near the bar with curled hair that could have been dirty blonde in the right light. Then…she felt it again. That electric awareness of being observed.

Y/N squinted, trying to get a better look at the man's face without being obvious about it. Was that him? The height seemed right, and there was something about the way he held himself, a certain confidence that—

"I'd be quite offended," a voice murmured directly behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of breath against her ear, "if you genuinely thought that's what I look like."

Y/N's entire body went rigid. The voice was cultured, British, with just a hint of amusement threading through it. And it was coming from directly over her shoulder, close enough that she could feel the presence of someone standing behind her.

She turned slowly, champagne glass clutched in suddenly nerveless fingers.

Klaus Mikaelson, and there was no doubt now that this was actually him, stood less than a foot away, regarding her with eyes that were indeed that distinctive blue-green she'd read about in countless folklore accounts. The dirty blonde hair was artfully tousled, and he wore a perfectly tailored black suit that probably cost more than her car.

But it was his expression that caught her. The equal parts amused and something darker, more intense. Like he was enjoying her discomfort but also genuinely interested in her reaction.

"The suit alone should have told you that wasn't me," he continued, his gaze flicking briefly to the man she'd been studying. "I would never wear something so poorly fitted. And the hair gel?" He shuddered dramatically. "Criminal."

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"You're real," she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Klaus's lips curved into a smile that was both charming and slightly dangerous.

"Very much so, love. And might I say," his eyes traveled down the burgundy dress and back up with clear appreciation, "the color suits you far better than peach would have. I do have excellent taste."

The words tumbled out before she could stop them, her voice small and breathless.

"Please don't kill me."

The champagne glass trembled in her grip, the golden liquid threatening to slosh over the rim. Around them, the gallery hummed with polite conversation and refined laughter. A world of normalcy that suddenly felt very far away.

Klaus's expression shifted, the amusement fading into something more complicated. He tilted his head slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her want to take a step back, though her feet seemed rooted to the floor.

"Kill you?" he repeated, his accent wrapping around the words with what sounded like genuine surprise. "My dear girl, if I wanted you dead, you would have been dead the moment I carried you home on Halloween. Certainly before I went through the trouble of procuring that painting for your museum."

He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted, and gently steadied her champagne glass with his fingers over hers. His touch was warm. She'd half-expected it to be cold, corpse-like, the way vampires were supposed to be in stories. But there was nothing cold about him.

"Your heart is absolutely racing," he observed quietly, and she knew without asking that he could indeed hear every frantic beat. "Though I suspect that's less about fear of imminent death and more about the confirmation that everything you've been telling yourself was impossible for the past few weeks is, in fact, quite real."

Y/N swallowed hard, trying to find her voice again.

"I've heard stories," she managed. "About you. About your family. The things you've done—"

"Oh, I'm certain you have," Klaus interrupted, his tone going dry. "New Orleans does love its ghost stories. Though I assure you, most of them are either wildly exaggerated or concern situations where someone was extraordinarily foolish." His eyes held hers. "You, however, have been nothing but intelligent. Cautious, even, despite your unfortunate habit of befriending strangers on Halloween."

"That was one time," she protested weakly.

"And I made sure you got home safely, didn't I?" He released her glass, taking a small step back to give her breathing room. "I even left a note so you wouldn't think you'd been compromised in any way. Which, I might add, is far more consideration than most men would show."

"Most men aren't thousand-year-old vampires who can compel tailors and leave designer dresses on doorsteps."

A smile tugged at his lips.

"True. Most men are terribly boring." He glanced around the gallery with casual interest, as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation at a perfectly normal event. "You've done lovely work with the exhibition, by the way. The lighting on the Caravaggio is particularly well done."

Y/N blinked at the sudden shift in topic.

"The...what?"

"The Caravaggio," he repeated patiently, gesturing toward a painting across the room. "The Denial of Saint Peter. Seventeenth century. I knew the man, actually. Temperamental artist. Brilliant, but absolutely terrible at staying out of trouble."

"You knew Caravaggio," Y/N repeated flatly.

"Briefly. Before he killed a man in a bar fight and had to flee Rome." Klaus's expression turned nostalgic. "He painted me once, though I'm afraid the piece was lost in a fire some centuries ago. Pity. It was quite good."

This was insane. She was standing in a museum, at a professional event, discussing Renaissance painters with a vampire who claimed to have known them personally. And the truly insane part was that she believed him.

A couple drifted past them, champagne glasses in hand, completely oblivious to the supernatural creature in their midst. Klaus smiled at them politely, every inch the cultured gentleman.

"You're blending in," Y/N observed, her voice still unsteady.

"I've had considerable practice," he replied. "A millennium teaches one how to move through human society without causing alarm. Though I must say, it's refreshing to have a conversation with someone who knows what I am. The pretense does get exhausting."

She should walk away. Make an excuse, find Dr. Roussel, lose herself in the crowd. Every survival instinct she possessed was screaming at her to put distance between herself and this dangerous, impossible man.

Instead, she heard herself ask:

"Why the dress? Why the painting? Why any of this?"

Klaus was quiet for a moment, his blue-green eyes searching her face.

"Because you were refreshingly honest," he said finally. "You looked at me, at someone you thought was just a man in a costume, and told me exactly what you thought. No fear, no deference, just genuine critique of my accent and my knowledge of Renaissance art." He smiled, and there was something almost vulnerable in it. "Do you have any idea how rare that is? How exhausting it is to be surrounded by people who either fear you or want something from you?"

"And that warranted a painting worth hundreds of thousands of dollars?"

"I have seventeen houses across three continents and more money than I could spend in several lifetimes," Klaus said with a shrug. "The painting was gathering dust in storage. Better it should be here, where people like you can appreciate it properly."

He paused, his expression turning more serious.

"As for the dress—that was an apology. I may have gotten a bit...overzealous in ensuring you wouldn't wear that peach monstrosity. Compelling your tailor was perhaps a step too far."

"You think?" Y/N's fear was starting to give way to indignation. "You literally erased someone's memory so I'd be forced to accept your gift."

"Yes, well." He had the grace to look somewhat sheepish. "I did say I wasn't known for doing things normally. And in my defense, you do look stunning in burgundy. Far better than peach."

Before she could respond, Dr. Roussel's voice called out from across the gallery:

"Y/N! Could you come explain the provenance on the portrait? We have some interested buyers."

Klaus's attention sharpened.

"Buyers?" His tone had gone cool. "For which portrait?"

Y/N didn't need to answer. They both knew which one.

"It's not for sale," she said quickly. "Dr. Roussel is just...she likes to talk about the pieces even when they're not on the market."

But Klaus was already moving, his hand settling lightly on the small of her back as he guided her toward where Dr. Roussel stood with a well-dressed couple near the mysterious portrait.

"Come along then, love," he murmured. "Let's go ensure that particular piece stays exactly where it is."

And despite everything, despite the fear, the confusion, the absolute insanity of the situation, Y/N found herself walking beside him, acutely aware of his hand on her back and the fact that her life had just become infinitely more complicated.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Klaus had attended more of these events than he cared to count over the centuries. Gallery openings, museum galas, private showings for collectors with more money than taste. They all blurred together after a while with the same pretentious conversations, the same superficial observations about technique and composition from people who wouldn't know a genuine Rembrandt from a competent forgery.

But watching Y/N explain the intricacies of a 15th-century altarpiece to a rapt audience of donors was...different.

Klaus stood slightly apart from the gathered crowd, champagne glass held loosely in one hand, his attention fixed entirely on her. She'd moved past her initial fear, or at least buried it beneath layers of professional competence, and had fallen into the rhythm of what she clearly loved.

"The use of gold leaf here isn't merely decorative," she was explaining, gesturing to a panel depicting the Annunciation. "It serves a theological purpose. The gold represents divine light, the presence of the sacred breaking into the mundane world. See how the artist has positioned it around the angel's wings and the Virgin's halo? It's meant to catch the light, to literally illuminate the moment of revelation."

Her hands moved as she spoke, tracing the lines of composition in the air, and Klaus found himself genuinely captivated. Not by the painting as he'd seen countless similar works in his lifetime, but by her enthusiasm. The way her entire face lit up when she talked about something she understood on a level that went beyond mere academic knowledge.

This was someone who truly saw art the way he did. Not as investment pieces or status symbols, but as windows into human experience, into the minds and souls of people long dead.

"You can actually see where the artist made changes," Y/N continued, pulling a small penlight from her clutch and carefully illuminating a section of the panel. "There's an underdrawing beneath the paint. You can just make it out here in the angel's drapery. The composition shifted during the painting process."

An older gentleman in the crowd, one of the museum's major donors, if Klaus remembered correctly, leaned forward with interest.

"How can you tell?"

"Training," Y/N replied with a modest smile. "And a lot of time spent staring at these pieces under different lighting conditions. Once you know what to look for, you start seeing the artist's hand beneath the finished work. It's like...reading someone's rough draft instead of their final manuscript."

Klaus saw his opening. He stepped forward, seamlessly inserting himself into the gathered group.

"What about the perspective?" he asked, his tone carefully calibrated to sound like genuine curiosity rather than a test. "The architectural elements in the background. They seem slightly off compared to what we'd expect from this period."

Y/N's eyes found his, and he saw the flash of recognition. She knew what he was doing. But after a moment's hesitation, she played along.

"You have a good eye," she said. "This piece predates the full development of linear perspective as codified by Brunelleschi and Alberti. The artist is using what's called intuitive perspective. They're creating depth, but not according to strict mathematical principles. You'll notice the orthogonals don't quite converge on a single vanishing point."

She moved closer to the painting, and the crowd shifted with her, hanging on her words.

"But that's actually part of what makes these transitional pieces so fascinating. You can see the artist grappling with how to represent three-dimensional space on a two-dimensional surface. They're working toward something they can feel is right but don't yet have the theoretical framework to fully execute."

Dr. Roussel had joined the group now, and Klaus could see the pleased surprise on her face as she watched her junior curator command the room's attention.

"Ms. Y/N is being modest," Klaus interjected smoothly. "I'd wager she could write an entire dissertation on the evolution of spatial representation in Quattrocento altar pieces."

Y/N shot him a look that was half-gratitude, half-warning to not overdo it.

"I'm more interested in the symbolism than the technical aspects," she deflected. "These pieces were designed to be read, like visual texts. Every element means something."

The group had grown larger now, other guests drifting over to hear what had captured everyone's attention. Klaus stepped back slightly, content to watch as Y/N fielded questions with increasing confidence.

She was in her element, and it showed. The nervousness from earlier had evaporated, replaced by the assured presence of someone who knew her subject matter inside and out. She made complex ideas accessible without being condescending, engaged with questions thoughtfully, and clearly loved every moment of sharing her knowledge.

"The use of tempera versus oil paint in this period is also significant," she was saying in response to another question. "Tempera dries quickly, which means less time for blending but more precision in detail work. You can see it in the fine gold lines here.​ Those would be nearly impossible to achieve with the slower-drying oils that became popular later."

Klaus caught Dr. Roussel's eye and saw the older woman was practically beaming. This was exactly the kind of engagement that brought donors back, that made museums vital rather than dusty repositories.

And Y/N was making it happen naturally, without any of the forced enthusiasm or dumbed-down explanations that so often characterized these events.

After nearly twenty minutes, the crowd began to disperse, moving on to other pieces or refilling their champagne glasses. Dr. Roussel touched Y/N's arm briefly.

"Beautifully done, my dear. Simply wonderful." She glanced at Klaus with polite interest. "I don't believe we've met. Are you a collector?"

Klaus offered his most charming smile.

"In a manner of speaking. Klaus Mikaelson. I have some pieces in storage that might be of interest to the museum."

"Any relation to the donor of our recent portrait acquisition?" Dr. Roussel asked.

"Distant cousin," Klaus lied smoothly. "Family holdings, you understand. Scattered across various estates."

Dr. Roussel's eyes lit up with the particular gleam of a museum director scenting potential donations.

"Well, we would love to discuss that further. Y/N, perhaps you could exchange information with Mr. Mikaelson? Given your expertise in Renaissance pieces, you'd be the perfect person to evaluate anything he might want to loan or donate."

Klaus saw Y/N's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, but she maintained her professional smile.

"Of course, Dr. Roussel."

"Excellent! Now if you'll excuse me, I see the Prescotts have arrived. Y/N, I'll leave you to it."

Dr. Roussel swept away, leaving them alone—or as alone as one could be in a crowded gallery.

Klaus turned to Y/N, his expression one of innocent inquiry.

"Shall we continue the tour, love? I believe you were about to explain the symbolism in that rather dramatic Judith and Holofernes in the corner."

Y/N crossed her arms, the professional mask slipping slightly.

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Guilty," Klaus admitted without shame. "Though in my defense, you are genuinely brilliant when you talk about art. I haven't heard someone analyze the theological implications of pigment choices in at least two centuries."

"Two centuries," she repeated weakly.

"Give or take. I met a Franciscan monk in the 1820s who had some interesting theories about color symbolism in medieval manuscripts. Bit obsessive, but thoroughly knowledgeable." He paused. "You remind me of him, actually. The passion for the subject matter, the way you see layers of meaning others miss."

Y/N stared at him.

"You can't just casually mention knowing people from two hundred years ago."

"Why not? It's true." Klaus took a sip of his champagne. "Though I suppose it must be disorienting. My apologies. I forget sometimes that my frame of reference is rather different from most people's."

She was quiet for a moment, clearly processing. Then:

"The Judith and Holofernes isn't symbolism. It's just violent."

Klaus laughed, genuine and delighted.

"Oh, I do like you. Come, walk with me. Show me what else your museum has acquired, and I promise to only make moderately unsettling references to my advanced age."

He offered his arm, the gesture old-fashioned but somehow fitting. After a long moment, Y/N took it, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow.

"This is insane," she muttered.

"Undoubtedly," Klaus agreed cheerfully. "But you're still here, aren't you?"

She didn't have an answer for that. Or perhaps the answer was in the fact that she was indeed still there, walking beside him through the gallery, pointing out paintings and sculptures while he asked questions designed to make her shine.

And Klaus, who had long ago stopped being surprised by much of anything, found himself surprised by how much he was enjoying a simple museum gala in the company of a woman who saw beauty in gilded altarpieces and wasn't afraid to tell a thousand-year-old vampire that his accent needed work.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Y/N had fully intended to maintain her professional distance. To treat Klaus Mikaelson like any other wealthy patron with potential donations to discuss. To absolutely not let her guard down around a literal vampire who could probably snap her neck without breaking a sweat.

That plan lasted approximately fifteen minutes.

"You cannot be serious," she said, trying and failing to suppress a smile as they stood before a marble bust of some forgotten Roman senator.

"Completely serious," Klaus insisted, his eyes dancing with mischief. "The sculptor absolutely despised his subject. Look at the ears. They're intentionally asymmetrical. And the nose? Far too prominent. It's a subtle insult rendered in stone."

"How would you even know that?"

"Because I knew the sculptor. Dreadful man, terrible gambling habit. He lost a fortune on chariot races and had to take commissions from senators he couldn't stand." Klaus leaned in conspiratorially. "He told me once that he made all his least favorite clients look slightly cross-eyed. You have to get quite close to notice, but once you see it..."

Y/N leaned forward, squinting at the ancient marble face. And then…damn him, she saw it. The eyes didn't quite track the same direction.

She burst out laughing, then immediately tried to stifle it, glancing around to make sure no other guests were watching.

"That's terrible!"

"That's art, love," Klaus corrected, and when he smiled, really smiled, not the polite version he'd been giving other guests, a dimple appeared in his left cheek that had absolutely no business being that charming.

She looked away quickly, focusing on the sculpture.

They moved through the gallery together, and despite herself, Y/N found her careful walls crumbling. He was just so...easy to talk to. Yes, he was impossibly old and casually mentioned knowing Renaissance painters like other people mentioned their college professors, but he listened when she spoke. Actually listened, asked thoughtful questions, offered perspectives she'd never considered.

"The thing about Caravaggio's Judith," she was explaining as they finally reached the painting she'd dismissed earlier, "is that it's not just violent for shock value. It's about female agency in a time when women had almost none. Judith is the hero of her own story, and she's absolutely unflinching about what needs to be done."

"You sound like you approve," Klaus observed.

"I approve of the artistry," Y/N corrected. "The way he captures the moment of action, the psychological complexity in Judith's face. She's determined but not enjoying it. Her handmaid is horrified but loyal. And Holofernes is caught in that terrible moment of realization that he's been outwitted."

"Hmm." Klaus studied the painting with the air of someone genuinely reconsidering it. "I always thought it was rather gratuitous, but you make a fair point about the psychology."

"You've seen the original?" Y/N asked, then immediately regretted the question. "Right. Of course you have. You probably watched Caravaggio paint it."

"Sadly, no. I was in France at the time, dealing with some rather tedious family drama. My brother Kol has always had a gift for creating complicated situations." He said it lightly, but something in his expression shifted. A brief shadow that was gone almost before she registered it.

Before she could probe further, the string quartet in the corner shifted from their background music to something more structured. A waltz, she realized. And several couples were moving toward the cleared space in the center of the gallery.

Klaus turned to her, and that dimpled smile was back.

"I believe you owe me a dance, love."

Y/N's stomach did an involuntary flip.

"I never actually agreed to that."

"No, but you didn't refuse either," he pointed out. "And I did specifically request you save me one. It would be terribly rude to renege now."

"I'm not a great dancer," she warned, even as he was already guiding her toward the dance floor with a hand at the small of her back.

"Then it's fortunate I am," Klaus replied. "A thousand years provides ample opportunity to master the waltz."

Before she could protest further, they were among the other couples. Klaus took her right hand in his left, his other hand settling at her waist with a confidence that suggested he'd done this about ten thousand times before.

"Just follow my lead," he murmured, and then they were moving.

Y/N had taken exactly one semester of ballroom dance in college to fulfill an elective requirement, and she'd been mediocre at best. But Klaus moved with such certainty, such natural grace, that she found herself following without thinking about it. He guided her through the turns with the slightest pressure of his hand, kept her in perfect time with the music, made her feel like she actually knew what she was doing.

"See?" he said softly. "You're doing wonderfully."

"You're doing all the work," she countered, but she was smiling.

"Leadership and partnership aren't mutually exclusive, love."

They swept past Dr. Roussel, who gave Y/N an approving nod. Past the couple who'd been interested in buying the portrait, Klaus's hand tightened fractionally at his waist when they passed them, she noticed. Past clusters of other guests who watched with polite interest.

"You're staring," Klaus observed, and Y/N realized she'd been looking at his face instead of watching where they were going.

"Sorry. I'm just trying to reconcile the vampire thing with the..." she gestured vaguely, "all of this."

"All of what?"

"The charm. The wit. The dancing." She paused. "You're not what I expected."

"And what did you expect? Coffins and capes? An aversion to garlic?"

She laughed despite herself.

"Maybe not that ridiculous, but...I don't know. Something darker, I guess. More dangerous."

Klaus's expression shifted, becoming more serious without losing its warmth.

"Oh, I am dangerous, Y/N. Make no mistake about that." His voice was quiet enough that only she could hear. "I've done things that would give you nightmares. Hurt people who threatened what was mine. I'm not a good man by any conventional measure."

Her breath caught, but he continued before she could respond.

"But I'm also capable of appreciating beauty. Of valuing intelligence and passion. Of enjoying a waltz with someone who sees a Caravaggio and understands the artist's intent rather than just the price tag." Those blue-green eyes held hers. "Vampires aren't simple creatures, love. We contain multitudes, just like everyone else. We just have considerably more time to accumulate them."

The music swelled toward its conclusion, and Klaus spun her one final time before bringing them to a graceful stop as the last notes faded.

Other couples were breaking apart, heading back to the champagne and conversations. But Klaus kept his hand at her waist a moment longer.

"Thank you for the dance," he said formally, but that dimple was showing again.

"You're welcome," Y/N heard herself say, slightly breathless and not entirely from the exertion of dancing.

This was bad. This was very, very bad. Because somewhere between the jokes about asymmetrical Roman ears and the surprising grace of the waltz, she'd started forgetting to be afraid.

And she suspected that was exactly what he'd intended.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

"Y/N, could you help Mrs. Chen with the insurance documentation for the Flemish landscape? She's interested in discussing a loan agreement."

Dr. Roussel's request came just as Klaus was beginning to tell her something about a particularly scandalous incident involving a Medici and a forged Botticelli. Y/N felt an absurd stab of disappointment.

"Of course," she said, professionally polite, before turning back to Klaus. "I'm sorry, I have to—"

"Go," he said easily, that damned dimple making another appearance. "Duty calls. I'll be here."

Except he wasn't.

By the time Y/N had finished explaining provenance documentation, authentication processes, and insurance requirements to Mrs. Chen, a conversation that took nearly forty-five minutes, the gallery had emptied considerably. The quartet had packed up their instruments. The catering staff was clearing away champagne flutes and half-eaten canapés. Most of the guests had filtered out into the warm New Orleans night.

She scanned the remaining clusters of people. A few board members talking near the entrance. Dr. Roussel saying goodbye to a donor by the coat check. Some stragglers examining the gift shop.

No tall figure with dirty blonde hair and a perfectly tailored suit.

He'd left.

Y/N told herself the sinking feeling in her chest was relief. This was better. Safer. She could go back to her normal life, her normal job, without thousand-year-old vampires asking her to dance and making her laugh with stories about petty Roman sculptors.

She should be grateful he'd lost interest and moved on.

So why did she feel so disappointed?

"Excuse me, sweetheart."

Y/N turned to find a man in his fifties swaying slightly on his feet, his bow tie askew and his breath reeking of the open bar that had closed an hour ago. She recognized him vaguely…one of the minor donors, maybe? Someone's plus-one?

"Can I help you?" she asked, stepping back slightly.

"You sure can," he said, his words slurring together. "You were talking about that painting. The one with the lady. Very passionate. Very...articulate." His eyes traveled down her dress in a way that made her skin crawl. "Always had a thing for smart girls."

"I'm glad you enjoyed the presentation," Y/N said firmly, "but I really need to finish closing up. If you have questions about any of the pieces, you can email the museum—"

"Don't be like that," he interrupted, moving closer. "Just wanted to ask a few questions. Private-like."

He reached for her arm and Y/N dodged, walking quickly toward the employee corridor. Maybe if she could get to the staff area, lose him in the administrative offices—

But he followed, his footsteps uneven but determined behind her.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

The employee section was dimly lit, most of the overhead lights turned off for the night. Y/N's heart was pounding as she fumbled for her ID badge to swipe into the restricted area.

His hand closed around her wrist before she could reach the card reader.

"Not very friendly, are you?" he said, breath hot against her ear as he crowded her against the wall. "After I donated all that money to this place—"

The hand vanished from her wrist so suddenly she stumbled.

There was a sickening crack—like green wood breaking—and the man screamed.

Klaus Mikaelson stood between her and the drunk patron, holding the man's hand at an angle that was absolutely wrong. Three of his fingers bent in directions fingers weren't meant to bend.

"I believe the lady asked you to leave," Klaus said, his voice perfectly calm, perfectly pleasant, and somehow more terrifying than if he'd been shouting. "Now, you're going to go find security, tell them you fell and injured yourself, and seek medical attention. And you will never—" his grip tightened and the man whimpered, "—come near her again. In fact, you'll find yourself seized by an inexplicable urge to leave New Orleans entirely. Perhaps try Baton Rouge. I hear it's lovely this time of year."

The man's eyes went glassy, unfocused.

"I'll…I'll go to Baton Rouge," he repeated dully.

"Excellent decision." Klaus released him and the man stumbled away, cradling his mangled hand, walking toward the main gallery without looking back.

Klaus turned to Y/N, and his expression shifted from cold fury to concern in an instant.

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"Klaus!" Y/N found her voice, though it came out higher than normal. "Why'd you break his fingers!?"

Klaus's jaw tightened.

"Believe me, love, I wanted to break much more than that."

"You can't just—" Y/N gestured helplessly at the corridor where the man had disappeared. "He was drunk and handsy, yes, but breaking bones? Compelling him to leave the city?"

"He put his hands on you," Klaus said, and there was something razor-sharp beneath the cultured accent now. "He cornered you in a darkened hallway when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him. Did you expect me to politely ask him to stop?"

"I expected you to not assault someone!"

"I showed remarkable restraint, actually." Klaus stepped closer, and Y/N realized his hands were trembling slightly and not with fear, but with barely suppressed rage. "Do you have any idea what I wanted to do when I saw him touch you? When I heard the fear in your heartbeat?"

Y/N swallowed hard.

"I thought you'd left."

"I was in the sculpture garden. Getting some air. Trying to give you space to work without hovering." His voice softened fractionally. "I heard you walking quickly. Heard him following. Heard—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching. "Three fingers is mercy, Y/N. Three fingers is me being civilized."

She should be horrified. Should be calling security, putting distance between herself and someone who'd just casually broken a man's hand like it was nothing.

Instead she heard herself ask:

"You were listening for me? The whole time?"

Klaus had the grace to look slightly abashed.

"Old habits. When I'm interested in someone's wellbeing, I tend to be...aware of them. Their location, their heart rate, any signs of distress." He paused. "It's protective, not predatory, if that's what you're worried about."

"That's exactly what I should be worried about," Y/N said weakly. "You just demonstrated that you can break someone without even trying."

"I can do considerably worse than break fingers," Klaus agreed. "But I won't. Not to you. Never to you."

The conviction in his voice was absolute.

Footsteps echoed from the main gallery. Security making their rounds, probably responding to the drunk patron's story about falling.

Klaus glanced toward the sound, then back at Y/N.

"I should go. Let you handle the aftermath without complicating things." He started to turn away, then hesitated. "For what it's worth, I'm not sorry. I'd do it again. Worse, probably, if anyone else tried to hurt you."

"That's not reassuring," Y/N managed.

"No," Klaus agreed. "But it's honest."

He was halfway down the corridor when Y/N called out:

"Klaus?"

He stopped, looking back over his shoulder.

"Thank you. For...you know. Being there."

That dimpled smile appeared again, softer this time.

"Always, love. Whether you see me or not."

And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the employee corridor like he'd never been there at all.

Y/N leaned against the wall, her heart still racing, trying to process what had just happened.

A vampire had broken a man's fingers for touching her. Had been listening for signs of her distress all evening. Had looked at her with those impossibly old eyes and promised he'd never hurt her.

And the truly terrifying part?

She believed him.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The walk back to her apartment should have been nerve-wracking. New Orleans at night wasn't exactly the safest place for a woman alone, even in the better neighborhoods. But Y/N found herself strangely calm as she navigated the familiar streets, her heels clicking against the pavement.

She didn't look over her shoulder once.

Somehow, she just knew nothing would touch her tonight. Whether it was Klaus still watching from whatever shadows he'd disappeared into, or simply the lingering effect of his presence, she felt...protected. Safe in a way that should probably worry her more than it did.

Her apartment was blessedly quiet when she let herself in. No roommate drama, no unexpected visitors. Just the familiar comfort of her own space. She kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief, leaving them by the door as she headed toward her bedroom.

The envelope on her bed stopped her in her tracks.

It was cream-colored, expensive paper. Her name written across the front in elegant script that looked like it belonged in a museum display case rather than on modern stationery.

Y/N picked it up with trembling fingers. There was no way it had been there when she'd left for the gala. Which meant someone had been in her apartment. Had walked through her home, into her bedroom, and left this for her to find.

She should call the police. Should be terrified.

Instead, she broke the wax seal, actual wax, pressed with what looked like an ornate 'M', and pulled out the contents.

The drawing slid out first, and Y/N's breath caught.

It was her. Rendered in charcoal or pencil, she couldn't quite tell which, but executed with such skill that it looked almost photographic. Her head was tilted back slightly, mouth open mid-laugh, one hand raised as if gesturing while explaining something. Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, alive in a way that made her chest tighten.

This was how he'd seen her tonight. Not just the physical features, but the emotion, the moment of genuine joy captured in graphite and paper.

The letter was folded beneath the drawing. Same expensive paper, same elegant handwriting.

My dearest little angel,

Forgive the intrusion into your home as I know it's rather forward, but I wanted to ensure this reached you directly rather than risk the uncertainties of the postal service.

I sketched this during Mrs. Chen's rather lengthy discussion about insurance policies. You were explaining something about Byzantine iconography to a couple near the Caravaggio, completely absorbed in the subject matter. I'm afraid I wasn't listening to Mrs. Chen at all which is a terrible breach of etiquette, but you were far more interesting.

I realize this evening may have ended on a somewhat dramatic note. I apologize if my response to that unfortunate situation alarmed you. I'm not always good at calibrating appropriate reactions, especially when someone I care about is threatened. The fingers will heal. His pride, perhaps less so.

I'm writing primarily to extend an invitation: Thanksgiving dinner at the Mikaelson compound, Thursday evening. My family makes rather a production of it. My brother Elijah insists on maintaining certain traditions despite our complicated relationship with gratitude and mortality. There will be entirely too much food, questionable wine choices (my brother Kol has terrible taste), and probably at least one argument about something that happened three centuries ago.

I realize meeting my family might seem daunting, given that we're all supernatural beings with varying degrees of homicidal tendencies and impulse control issues. But I find myself wanting you there. Wanting you to see this part of my life, strange as it may be. Wanting to continue our conversation about art and faith and the theological implications of pigment choices.

Also, my sister Rebekah has been insufferable about wanting to meet you ever since I mentioned that someone had called my British accent "sexy." No pressure, of course. If you'd prefer to maintain a professional distance—or any distance at all—after tonight's events, I'll respect that. Though I'll be disappointed. You're the first person in a very long time who's made me remember why I fell in love with art in the first place. Why I wanted to create things, preserve beautiful moments, capture fleeting expressions on paper before they disappeared forever.

Dinner is at seven. The address is below. Come hungry as Elijah takes his hosting duties very seriously and will be personally offended if you don't try at least three different dishes.

And if you decide not to come? I'll understand. But I'll miss you, little angel. More than I probably should after just one evening.

Yours (if you'll have me),

Klaus

P.S. - I'm having something delivered to the museum tomorrow. A small token of appreciation for your expertise tonight. Don't let Roussel claim it for the permanent collection—it's specifically for you.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Y/N read the letter three times, her heart doing complicated gymnastics in her chest.

He'd been in her apartment. Inher space, the intimate details of her life. Should be creepy. Was definitely creepy.

Except it wasn't. Not quite. Or maybe she was just too far gone to care anymore.

She looked at the drawing again. At the joy captured there, the passion for something she loved rendered in careful strokes. He'd drawn her the way she saw herself in her best moments—alive, engaged, fully present.

Thanksgiving with a family of vampires. Meeting Klaus's siblings. Sitting at a table with people who'd lived through actual history rather than just studying it.

It was insane.

It was dangerous.

It was exactly what she shouldn't do.

Y/N set the letter on her nightstand and pulled out her phone. She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then she opened her email and started typing.

"Dr. Roussel - I'll need Thursday evening off for Thanksgiving. Family commitment. Hope that's alright. - Y/N"

She hit send before she could reconsider.

Then she picked up the drawing again, studying the careful lines, the way he'd captured the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes.

"You're being an idiot," she told her reflection in the bedroom mirror.

The woman looking back from the reflection was vibrant and ready for the future, a striking resemblance to the subject of Klaus's sketch. She was excited and alive. Even if what came next was dinner with a family of immortal beings who could probably kill her without breaking a sweat.

The drawing went on her dresser, propped against the mirror where she'd see it every morning.

And Y/N fell asleep, dreaming of dimpled smiles and waltzes that never ended and a voice with a British accent calling her "little angel" while teaching her to see the world through eyes that had witnessed a thousand years of beauty and horror in equal measure.

Part 3

Taglist: @bourbon-girl14 @ariesandwolves @idontknowwhatimdoinginiife

Second, when she finally arrived at the address Klaus had provided, she stood outside for a full three minutes just staring at the building.

It wasn't a mansion. It was a compound. A massive structure that took up half the block, with wrought-iron gates, a courtyard visible through the entrance, and architecture that screamed "we've been here since before your great-great-grandparents were born." The kind of place that belonged in a historical preservation catalog, not as someone's actual home.

"You can still leave," she whispered to herself. "Just turn around. Text Klaus that you got food poisoning. He'd understand. Probably."

Except her feet were already carrying her toward the gate.

Third, the gate swung open before she even touched it, like the house itself was inviting her in. Or trapping her. Either option seemed equally possible.

The courtyard was beautiful in the fading evening light. There was a fountain in the center and ivy climbing the walls, the kind of Old World elegance that New Orleans did better than anywhere else. She could hear voices and laughter from inside, the warm glow of lights spilling through tall windows.

She was halfway to the front door when it opened.

A blonde, stunning woman wearing a cocktail dress appears at the door. She had the same timeless quality Klaus did, that sense of being both young and ancient at once.

"You must be Y/N!" the woman said brightly, her accent like Klaus's but with a slightly different cadence. "I'm Rebekah. Nik's been pacing for the last hour convinced you weren't coming. It's been hilarious."

"I—hi. Sorry I'm late, the driver got lost—"

"Oh, don't apologize. Come in, come in!" Rebekah ushered her inside before Y/N could finish the sentence. "Is that a tart? You didn't have to bring anything, but Elijah will be thrilled. He gets unbearably smug when guests bring contributions."

The interior was even more overwhelming than the exterior. High ceilings, original artwork on every wall, some of which Y/N recognized from her art history courses, antique furniture that looked both priceless and actually used. The kind of space that had been lived in for centuries and showed it in the best possible way.

"Rebekah, don't ambush her at the door," came a cultured voice from the next room. A man appeared, dark-haired, impeccably dressed in a full suit despite this being a family dinner. He had Klaus's bone structure but none of his casual menace. "I'm Elijah. Welcome to our home."

"Thank you for having me," Y/N managed, suddenly hyperaware that she was standing in a vampire's house holding a chocolate tart and wearing thigh-high boots to Thanksgiving dinner.

"Where's Nik?" Rebekah called over her shoulder.

"Upstairs changing his shirt for the third time," another male voice answered, and a younger-looking man appeared from what looked like a sitting room. He had the same sharp features as his siblings but with an impish quality the others lacked. "I'm Kol. You're the museum girl who told him his accent needed work. I like you already."

"I was drunk," Y/N said weakly. "I thought he was just some guy in a costume."

Kol's grin was absolutely wicked.

"Oh, this is going to be fun."

"Kol, behave," Elijah said mildly, taking the tart box from Y/N's hands. "Let me take this to the kitchen. Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Bourbon? Something stronger given that you're about to endure dinner with all of us?"

"Wine would be great," Y/N said, because she absolutely needed alcohol to get through this evening.

"Red or white?"

"Is it bad that I don’t have a preference?"

Elijah's lips twitched in what might have been amusement.

"I'll bring you both and you can decide as the evening progresses."

He disappeared toward what she assumed was the kitchen, leaving her alone with Rebekah and Kol, who were both looking at her with undisguised curiosity.

"So," Rebekah said, linking her arm through Y/N's like they were old friends. "Tell me everything. How did you two meet? Was it romantic? Did he do the brooding mysterious thing? He always does the brooding mysterious thing."

"He found me drunk on Halloween dressed as an angel and thought I was going to fall into traffic," Y/N said honestly, because what was the point of lying to vampires who could probably hear her heartbeat anyway.

Kol burst out laughing.

"Oh, that's perfect. That's absolutely perfect."

"He didn't mention that part," Rebekah said, delighted. "He just said he'd met someone interesting who appreciated art and wasn't afraid to argue with him about Byzantine iconography."

"I wasn't arguing, I was just—"

"She's here."

Klaus's voice came from the staircase, and Y/N turned to see him descending. He was wearing dark slacks and a henley in deep blue that matched his eyes, casual but still somehow elegant. His hair was slightly disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it.

He looked relieved. Genuinely, visibly relieved that she'd actually shown up.

"Hi," Y/N said, suddenly forgetting every word in the English language.

"Hi," Klaus echoed, and that dimpled smile appeared. "You came."

"You invited me."

"I did. I'm glad you're here." He crossed the room and to Y/N's complete surprise, kissed her cheek gently, his hand settling briefly on her lower back. "You look beautiful."

"I brought a tart," she blurted out, because apparently her brain had decided coherent conversation was optional now.

"She brought a tart!" Kol announced cheerfully. 

"Ignore Kol," Klaus said, shooting his brother a look. "He's been into the bourbon since noon."

"It's Thanksgiving," Kol protested. "It's traditional."

"It's four in the afternoon."

"Your point?"

Rebekah rolled her eyes.

"Come on, Y/N. Let's get you that wine before these two start bickering about something that happened in 1492."

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

Dinner was simultaneously exactly what Y/N had expected and nothing like she'd imagined.

The dining room was stunning. There was a long table that could easily seat twenty, set with china that looked older than the United States, and candles flickering in antique holders. The food was excessive in the best way: turkey, ham, three different potato dishes, vegetables she couldn't even name, homemade rolls that smelled like heaven.

Elijah hadn't been joking about taking his hosting duties seriously.

Y/N sat beside Klaus, hyperaware of his presence next to her. Too aware of the way his arm occasionally brushed hers when he reached for something and the warmth radiating from him despite vampires supposedly running cold. She'd half-expected them to be ice-cold to the touch, but he was just...warm. Normal. Human, except for the whole immortal thing.

The family dynamic was chaotic.

Rebekah and Kol bickered about something that had apparently happened in Paris in the 1920s. Elijah interjected with corrections about dates and details, which sparked an entirely new argument about who had the better memory. Klaus made dry commentary that had everyone either laughing or throwing dinner rolls at him.

It was loud. Messy. Strangely affectionate despite the constant verbal sparring.

It was also completely overwhelming.

Y/N found herself just...listening. Watching. Trying to process the fact that she was sitting at a table with people who casually referenced centuries like she referenced years. Who argued about historical events they'd actually lived through. Who passed dishes and poured wine and teased each other exactly like any normal family, except nothing about this was normal.

"—and I'm telling you, Elijah, you were absolutely smitten with that opera singer. Don't pretend otherwise."

"I was appreciative of her talent, Rebekah. There's a difference."

"You bought her flowers every night for three months!"

"Supporting the arts is hardly evidence of romantic attachment."

Klaus snorted into his wine glass.

"You proposed to her."

"I was being polite!"

The table erupted in laughter, and Y/N felt a smile tugging at her lips despite her nerves.

Then Kol turned his attention directly to her, his dark eyes bright with mischief.

"I thought you said she had a mouth on her, Nik. What happened? Did you compel her to behave at family dinner?"

The table went quiet.

Y/N felt Klaus tense beside her, his hand tightening slightly on his fork.

"Kol—" he started, voice carrying a warning edge.

"What? I'm just saying, you made her sound like she'd give as good as she got." Kol leaned forward, grinning. "But she's been quiet as a mouse all through dinner. I'm starting to think you exaggerated."

Y/N set down her wine glass carefully.

The thing was, Kol wasn't wrong. She had been quiet. Sitting here like some nervous teenager meeting her boyfriend's parents for the first time, letting them talk around her while she just observed.

And she was tired of being nervous.

"I've been quiet," she said evenly, meeting Kol's gaze, "because I was trying to figure out if it would be rude to ask how old everyone actually is, or if that's the vampire equivalent of asking a woman her weight."

Rebekah choked on her wine.

Kol's grin widened.

"Oh, I like her."

"Also," Y/N continued, warming to the topic now that she'd started, "I've been trying to work out the math on some of the stories you've been telling. Kol, you said you were in Paris in the 1920s, but earlier Rebekah mentioned you were daggered for most of the twentieth century. So either someone's timeline is off, or there's a story there you're all deliberately avoiding."

The silence that fell over the table this time was different. Surprised.

Klaus was staring at her with something that looked suspiciously like pride.

"The museum training," he murmured. "You catalogue details."

"I catalogue everything," Y/N confirmed. "It's literally my job. You think I wasn't taking notes during all those stories about historical events I've only read about in books?"

Elijah set down his wine glass, looking genuinely impressed.

"Kol was undaggered briefly in 1914," he said. "He made it to Paris before Niklaus caught up with him and put him back in the box."

"I was only in Paris for three days!" Kol protested.

"Three very memorable days, apparently," Rebekah said sweetly. "Since you're still talking about them a century later."

"So the daggering thing," Y/N said, because apparently she'd committed to this now. "That's real? You can actually just...put each other in magical time-out?"

"Only I," Klaus said dryly. "Though I haven't had to resort to it in some time."

"Define 'some time,'" Kol muttered.

"Three years is quite restrained for Nik, actually," Rebekah added.

Y/N looked at Klaus, eyebrows raised.

"You daggered your brother three years ago?"

"He tried to kill me," Klaus said, as if this explained everything.

"You killed me first!" Kol shot back. "In 1821!"

"You were conspiring with our father!"

"I was trying to survive!"

"Gentlemen," Elijah interrupted smoothly. "Perhaps we could table the death threats until after dessert? We have a guest."

Y/N took a long drink of her wine.

"This is the most dysfunctional family dinner I've ever been to," she said. "And my uncle once threw mashed potatoes at my aunt during an argument about politics."

"Did she throw them back?" Rebekah asked, genuinely curious.

"No, she just divorced him."

"Smart woman."

Klaus's hand found Y/N's under the table, his fingers lacing through hers. When she glanced at him, he was smiling that genuine, dimpled smile that made her heart do complicated things.

"There she is," he said softly, just for her. "My little angel with the sharp tongue."

"I was just nervous," Y/N admitted, equally quiet. "This is...a lot."

"I know. But you're doing brilliantly."

Kol cleared his throat loudly.

"Are we having a private moment? Should we leave?"

"Yes," Klaus said without looking away from Y/N.

"No," Elijah said firmly. "We're having Thanksgiving dinner like civilized people. Kol, pass the potatoes."

"Which ones? There are three kinds."

"All of them."

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

After dessert Klaus stood and offered her his hand.

"Come on," he said. "Let me show you the rest of the house before my siblings start telling embarrassing stories from the fourteenth century."

"Too late!" Kol called after them. "I've already got three queued up!"

"Ignore him," Rebekah advised, waving them off. "Go. Enjoy the tour. We'll be here drinking Elijah's expensive wine and arguing about the Renaissance."

Klaus led Y/N up the grand staircase, his hand warm and steady in hers. The second floor was just as impressive as the first. The hallways were lined with artwork and the rooms looked like they belonged in a museum rather than a home.

"This is Elijah's study," Klaus said, gesturing to a door. "Don't go in there unless you want a two-hour lecture on legal precedent. That's Rebekah's room that is also off-limits unless you enjoy being subjected to fashion critiques. Kol's room is down that hall, and I'd recommend avoiding it entirely."

"And yours?" Y/N asked.

Klaus's smile turned slightly mischievous.

"I'll show you. But first—" He opened a set of French doors at the end of the hallway. "The best view in the Quarter."

The balcony stretched the length of the building, wrought-iron railings overlooking the streets below. The French Quarter sprawled out before them in a tapestry of lights and shadows, gas lamps glowing on corners, music drifting up from distant bars, the cathedral spire visible in the distance. The air was cool but not cold, carrying the scent of jasmine and something distinctly New Orleans.

"Oh," Y/N breathed, moving to the railing. "This is beautiful. I mean, I knew the Quarter was gorgeous, but seeing it from up here..."

She turned to look at Klaus, expecting him to be taking in the view with her.

He was looking directly at her.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Beautiful."

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks, suddenly very aware of the intensity in his gaze. The way the moonlight caught in his blue-green eyes, the slight curve of his mouth.

"You're not even looking at the view," she said, aiming for teasing but landing somewhere closer to breathless.

"I'm looking at exactly what I want to see."

Her blush deepened.

"That's...that's a line. That's definitely a line."

"Doesn't make it less true." Klaus moved closer, not touching her but near enough that she could feel the warmth of him. "I'm interested in you, Y/N. Genuinely, completely fascinated by you. The way you look at art like you're seeing something no one else can. The way you argued with me about iconography despite thinking I was just some stranger at a gala. The way you agreed to have dinner with a family of Vampires."

"I was terrified," Y/N admitted.

"I know. But you came anyway. You brought a tart and wore those boots and sat through dinner with my insane family without running for the door." His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "Do you have any idea how extraordinary you are?"

"I'm really not," she whispered. "I'm just...me. Human. Mortal. Ordinary."

"There is nothing ordinary about you, love."

The endearment settled over her like a physical touch, warm and possessive and achingly gentle all at once.

"Klaus—"

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, leaning closer. 

Y/N's heart was hammering so hard she was certain he could hear it.

"What if I don't want you to stop?"

His smile was devastating.

"Then I won't."

The kiss started gentle His lips brushing hers with a softness that seemed at odds with everything she knew about him. Careful. Almost reverent. Like she was something precious that might break if he wasn't cautious.

But then Y/N's hands found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his henley, and something shifted.

Klaus's hand slid into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The gentleness gave way to hunger, not aggressive, but intense. Consuming. Like he'd been holding back and finally, finally had permission to let go.

Y/N made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"You taste like chocolate and wine," he murmured against her lips.

"You taste like bourbon and bad decisions," she managed, breathless.

His laugh was low and rich.

"The best kind of decisions, love."

He kissed her again, slower this time but no less thorough. His thumb traced patterns on her hip where her sweater had ridden up slightly, the touch sending sparks along her skin. She could feel the careful control in every movement. Could feel the way he held her like she was both fragile and essential, the way his lips moved against hers with practiced expertise but genuine feeling.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder than necessary, Klaus rested his forehead against hers.

"I've wanted to do that since Halloween," he admitted.

"You should have," Y/N said. "Would've saved me a lot of confused feelings."

"You were drunk and thought I was a costume. Hardly the time for declarations."

"Fair point." She paused, her fingers still tangled in his shirt. "Your family is watching us, aren't they?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Are they going to say something embarrassing when we go back downstairs?"

"Absolutely."

Y/N groaned.

"Great. Perfect. Love that for me."

Klaus kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips again. Quick and sweet.

"Welcome to the family, love."

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

Three weeks.

Three weeks of Klaus showing up at the museum during her lunch breaks with coffee and pastries from her favorite bakery. Three weeks of late-night conversations on her apartment balcony, where he'd tell her stories about Renaissance Florence and she'd counter with facts about museum conservation techniques. Three weeks of stolen kisses in darkened galleries after hours, of his hand finding hers under tables at restaurants, of waking up to find sketches slipped under her door with her face rendered in charcoal, her hands curled around a coffee cup, her profile as she studied a painting.

Three weeks of falling completely, irrevocably for a thousand-year-old vampire who looked at her like she was the most fascinating thing he'd encountered in a millennium.

It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was the best three weeks of her life.

Tonight, Y/N was at the compound. She'd started keeping a toothbrush in Klaus's bathroom, a change of clothes in his closet. Small invasions that he not only allowed but actively encouraged. He started moving his things to make room for hers, buying her favorite tea for the kitchen, and clearing space on his desk so she could work on museum catalogues while he painted.

She was curled up on the couch in his studio now, laptop balanced on her knees, trying to write condition reports for a new acquisition. The room smelled like oil paint and turpentine, classical music playing softly from speakers somewhere. Klaus stood at his easel across the room, lost in whatever he was creating, a streak of blue paint across his forearm.

Y/N had learned he painted when he was content. When his mind was quiet enough to let creativity flow instead of being consumed by paranoia and old wounds.

He'd been painting a lot lately.

"You're staring," Klaus said without turning around.

"I'm appreciating the view," Y/N countered. "There's a difference."

"Is there now?"

"Absolutely. Staring is creepy. Appreciating is romantic."

"And which am I doing when I watch you work?"

"Both, probably."

His laugh was warm and genuine.

"Fair assessment."

Y/N's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and frowned.

"My coworker wants to know if I can cover her shift tomorrow. Apparently she has a 'family emergency.'" She made air quotes with her fingers. "Which is code for 'I have a date and don't want to cancel.'"

"Will you do it?" Klaus asked, finally turning from his canvas.

"Probably. I'm a doormat like that." She typed out a response. "Besides, we're getting a new shipment of archival materials and someone needs to log them properly. Sarah would just shove everything in a box and call it a day."

"You take your work very seriously."

"Says the man who once spent six months perfecting a single brushstroke technique."

"That was different. I was avoiding my family."

"For six months?"

"They were being particularly insufferable that decade."

Y/N shook her head, smiling. The casual way he referenced time still threw her sometimes. Decades like months. Centuries like years.

Klaus set down his brush and crossed the room, settling onto the couch beside her. His hand found her ankle, thumb rubbing small circles over the bone.

"You're tense," he observed.

"Long day. The museum director wants to reorganize the entire European collection and I'm pretty sure it's going to be a disaster."

"Why?"

"Because he wants to arrange everything chronologically instead of by region, which sounds fine in theory but completely ignores cultural context and artistic movements." She gestured with her hands, warming to the topic. "You can't just put a Byzantine icon next to a Baroque altarpiece because they're both religious art from roughly the same century. The entire theological and aesthetic framework is different—"

Klaus was smiling at her.

"What?" Y/N asked.

"I love watching you talk about art. Your whole face lights up."

"I'm complaining about my boss."

"You're passionate about preservation and context. It's captivating." His hand slid higher, fingers tracing patterns on her calf. "Tell me more about why your director is wrong."

"Are you actually interested or are you just trying to get me worked up?"

"Can't it be both?"

She threw a pillow at him.

He caught it effortlessly, grinning.

"Come here," he said, tugging her closer until she was staddling his lap, laptop abandoned on the coffee table. “Keep talking,” he said, stoking the sides of her thighs.

She raises a brow, “you want me to talk about work while you attempt to seduce me?”

Klaus's hands settled firmly on her thighs, thumbs stroking lazy patterns through the fabric of her jeans. His eyes were dark with intent, that familiar mischief playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I want you to do whatever feels natural, love," he said, voice dropping to that low register that made her stomach flip. "If that happens to be explaining iconography while sitting in my lap, well. I'm certainly not going to complain."

Y/N braced her hands on his shoulders, trying to ignore the heat building low in her belly.

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm attentive. There's a difference." His fingers traced higher, skimming the curve of her hip. "You were saying something about theological frameworks?"

"I was—" She lost her train of thought as his lips found the pulse point beneath her jaw. "That's cheating."

"I'm simply multitasking." He kissed along her neck, unhurried and deliberate. "Please, continue. I'm fascinated by your thoughts on chronological versus regional curation."

"You're a terrible liar."

"On the contrary, I'm an excellent liar. I'm just choosing honesty at the moment." He pulled back to look at her, one hand coming up to cup her face. "I like listening to you talk. I like the way your mind works. I like that you care so deeply about things most people would find mundane."

"Museum cataloguing is not mundane," Y/N protested, but her voice came out softer than intended.

"See? Passionate. Captivating." His thumb brushed across her lower lip. "Though I'll admit my current interest is less academic and more..."

He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he kissed her slow and thorough, his hand sliding into her hair while the other remained firm on her hip. Y/N melted into it, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

When they broke apart, she was breathing harder.

"More what?" she managed.

Klaus's smile was devastating.

"More focused on the fact that you're in my lap, looking at me like that, and I've been wanting to get my hands on you all evening."

"You've had your hands on me for the past five minutes."

"Not nearly enough." His hands slid under the hem of her sweater, palms warm against her skin. "I could touch you for a thousand years and it wouldn't be enough."

"That's—" Y/N's breath hitched as his thumbs traced the underside of her ribs. "That's very romantic for someone who's clearly trying to get me naked."

"I contain multitudes, love."

She laughed, the sound turning into a soft gasp as he kissed down her throat again, teeth grazing lightly.

"Your family is downstairs," she reminded him.

"Soundproofing spells," Klaus murmured against her collarbone. "Elijah insisted after the incident in 1952."

"I don't want to know, do I?"

"Absolutely not."

She wanted to argue that the door was open but his hands were doing wonderful, distracting things as they mapped the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, and the soft skin just above her jeans. Every touch was deliberate, controlled, like he was memorizing her through his fingertips.

She let out a breathy moan, “Klaus” she says, moving her hip deliberately in his lap

That sound. Klaus’ grip on her hips tightened reflexively as she rolled against him, deliberate and devastating.

"Fuck," he breathed, head falling back against the couch. His fingers dug into her flesh, hard enough to leave marks. "You're going to be the death of me, love."

"Pretty sure you're already dead," Y/N managed, doing it again. Watching the way his jaw clenched, the muscle jumping beneath skin. The way his eyes went darker, pupils blown wide.

"Semantics." His hands slid to her ass, pulling her harder against him. She could feel him now. Hard and thick through the layers of denim between them. "Keep doing that and I won't be responsible for what happens next."

"Maybe I want you to be irresponsible."

His laugh was rough, almost pained.

"Careful what you wish for, my dear."

But Y/N was done being careful. Three weeks of stolen kisses and careful touches, of Klaus holding himself back like she might break. She was tired of gentle. She wanted to see what he looked like when that iron control finally snapped.

She kissed him hard, her tongue sliding against his, hips moving in a rhythm that had him groaning into her mouth. His hands were everywhere, sliding under her sweater to palm her breasts through her bra, thumbs circling her nipples until she was gasping. Then down again, fingers working at the button of her jeans.

"Tell me to stop," Klaus said against her lips, even as he was dragging the zipper down. "Tell me this is too fast and I'll—"

"Don't stop," Y/N interrupted. "Don't you dare stop."

"Thank fuck."

He lifted her easily, vampire strength making it effortless, and laid her back on the couch, following her down. His hand slipped inside her jeans, inside her underwear, and then—

"Christ, you're wet," he groaned, fingers sliding through slick heat. "All this from sitting in my lap?"

"All this from three weeks of you being a gentleman," Y/N shot back, hips arching into his touch. "I was starting to think you didn't want—oh god—"

He'd found her clit, circling it with exactly the right pressure. His other hand was still under her sweater, rolling her nipple between his fingers.

"Didn't want what?" Klaus asked, voice rough. "Didn't want to spread you open and taste every inch of you? Didn't want to fuck you until you're screaming my name? Because I can assure you, love, I've wanted all of that and considerably more."

"Then why haven't you?" She could barely get the words out, too focused on the movement of his fingers, the building heat low in her belly.

"Because you're human. Fragile. Because I was trying to be decent." He kissed her hard, teeth catching her lower lip. "But if you keep making those sounds, decency is going to become a distant memory."

"Good," Y/N breathed. "I don't want decent. I want you."

"Then you'll have me, love. All of me."

He withdrew his hand from her jeans, ignoring her sound of protest, and sat back on his heels. His eyes were locked on her as he brought his fingers to his mouth, tongue sliding over them deliberately.

"Delicious," he said, voice dark with promise. "But I think I need a proper taste."

His hands went to her jeans, dragging them down her legs along with her underwear in one smooth motion. Cool air hit her skin and then his hands were on her thighs, pushing them apart.

"Klaus, "

"Let me hear you, love," he said, settling between her legs. "Let me hear what I do to you."

Then his mouth was on her and Y/N stopped thinking entirely.

Y/N let out a loud groan, arching her back and tilting her head back. Her hands gripped the sofa cushions. 

Klaus's tongue dragged through her folds, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every second. He groaned against her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine, and the sound was pure satisfaction.

"Fuck, you taste incredible," he muttered, breath hot against her. "Better than I imagined."

Y/N's hips bucked involuntarily and his hands clamped down on her thighs, holding her open and still.

"Stay," he commanded, voice rough with authority. "Let me work."

Then his mouth was on her clit and she couldn't have moved if she wanted to. He sucked and licked with focused intensity, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and tight circles that had her gasping. Every nerve ending was on fire, pleasure building in waves that threatened to drown her.

"Klaus—oh god—"

"That's it, love. Say my name." He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them perfectly while his tongue continued its assault. "Let everyone in this house know who's making you feel this good."

She should have been embarrassed. Should have cared that his siblings were somewhere downstairs, probably hearing every sound. But all she could focus on was the stretch of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth, the coil of tension winding tighter and tighter in her core.

"You're close," Klaus observed, almost conversational despite the fact that his face was buried between her thighs. "I can feel you clenching around my fingers. So tight, love. Can't wait to feel you do that around my cock."

The filth coming from his mouth should not have been as devastating as it was.

"Please—" Y/N didn't even know what she was begging for anymore. More, harder, don't stop, everything.

"Please what?" He added a third finger, the stretch almost too much. "Use your words, my dear."

"Make me come," she gasped. "Please, Klaus, I need—"

He sucked hard on her clit at the same time he crooked his fingers against that perfect spot inside her, and Y/N shattered.

The orgasm hit her like a freight train. It had her back arching off the couch, thighs trembling, his name torn from her throat in a sound that was half-scream, half-sob. Klaus worked her through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, fingers still moving as she clenched and pulsed around them.

When she finally came down, boneless and gasping, he pressed soft kisses to her inner thigh. His chin was wet, eyes dark and satisfied as he looked up at her.

"Beautiful," he said simply. "Absolutely gorgeous when you come undone."

Y/N couldn't form words yet. Her brain was still offline, body still singing with aftershocks.

Klaus crawled back up her body, settling his weight carefully over her. She could feel him still hard and straining against his jeans and pressing against her hip.

"Your turn," she managed, reaching for his belt.

He caught her wrist gently.

"Not tonight, love."

"But you didn't—"

"Tonight was about you." He kissed her softly, and she could taste herself on his lips. "About making you feel good. We have all the time in the world for the rest."

"That's not fair," Y/N protested, even as exhaustion was starting to creep in.

"Life rarely is." His smile was wicked. "Besides, I rather enjoyed myself. Watching you fall apart on my tongue was more satisfying than you can possibly imagine."

Heat flooded her cheeks.

"You can't just say things like that."

"I can and I will." He helped her sit up, retrieving her jeans from where they'd ended up on the floor. "Now get dressed before Kol decides to investigate what all the noise was about."

"Oh god." Y/N buried her face in her hands. "Your family definitely heard that."

"Undoubtedly. Rebekah will have commentary. Elijah will pretend nothing happened. Kol will make inappropriate jokes for the next week."

"I can never look them in the eye again."

Klaus laughed, pulling her into his arms.

"Welcome to the family, my love."

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

Two months.

Two months of waking up next to her, of her laugh filling the compound, of sketching her face from memory because he couldn't go more than a few hours without seeing it rendered in charcoal. Two months of the best peace Klaus had known in a thousand years.

And now she was lying to him.

It started small.

A phone call she took in the other room. A text message she angled away from him. Hushed conversations with Rebekah that stopped the moment he walked in.

Klaus told himself it was nothing. Y/N was entitled to privacy. She had friends, coworkers, a life outside of him. Not everything needed to be shared.

But then he caught her whispering with Elijah in the library, both of them going silent when he appeared in the doorway. Saw her laptop screen go dark the second he approached. Found her leaving the compound at odd hours with vague excuses about errands and museum work.

The paranoia crept in like poison.

A thousand years of betrayal had taught him to recognize the signs. The secrecy. The lies. The way people he loved always, eventually, turned on him. His father. His mother. Countless others who'd sworn loyalty and then driven daggers into his back. 

He'd thought Y/N was different.

He'd let himself believe.

Fool.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

Three weeks of watching. Three weeks of cataloging every suspicious glance, every hidden conversation, every moment she pulled away from him. Klaus felt like he was going mad, torn between confronting her and dreading what he might discover.

It became an obsession. He started checking her phone when she was in the shower. Following her at a distance when she claimed to be running errands. Compelling information out of her coworkers at the museum.

Was she planning to leave? Had she realized what he truly was and decided she couldn't stomach it? Or worse…was someone else involved? Someone human, perhaps. Someone who could give her the normal life she deserved.

The thought made him want to destroy something.

He painted obsessively during those weeks. Dark, violent canvases full of chaos and rage. Y/N commented on them once, concern flickering across her face, and he'd brushed it off with a smile that felt like broken glass in his mouth.

"Just working through some things, love."

She'd accepted that. Kissed his cheek. Gone back to whatever secret she was keeping.

Klaus had nearly put his fist through the canvas after she left.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

The breaking point came on a Tuesday.

He'd been in his study, pretending to read while actually listening to Y/N's heartbeat two floors below. She was in the kitchen with Kol, their voices too low for even his hearing to catch clearly. But he heard his name. Once. Twice.

Then laughter.

Something inside him snapped.

He was downstairs in seconds, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a force that made the door frame crack. Kol and Y/N jumped apart, guilty, his mind screamed, look how guilty they look, and Klaus felt his face shift, veins crawling beneath his eyes.

"Out," he snarled at Kol.

His brother's expression flickered between amusement and genuine alarm.

"Nik, whatever you're thinking—"

"I said out."

Kol looked at Y/N, something unspoken passing between them, and Klaus saw red.

"Don't look at her. Don't even think about her. Get out of this room before I remove your head from your shoulders."

"Klaus—" Y/N started.

"And you." He turned on her, a thousand years of fear and betrayal boiling over. "You're going to tell me what's going on. Right now. No more lies, no more secrets, no more whispered conversations that stop the moment I enter a room."

Kol vanished. Smart, for once.

Y/N stood her ground, chin lifting in that stubborn way he usually found endearing. Right now it just made him angrier.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't." The word came out guttural, barely human. "Don't insult my intelligence. I've been watching you for weeks. The phone calls. The texts. The meetings with my siblings behind my back. What is it? What are you planning?"

"Klaus, you need to calm down—"

"Calm down?" He laughed, the sound bitter and broken. "You want me to calm down while you're conspiring with my family? While you're keeping secrets and lying to my face? Tell me, love—" he spat the endearment like a curse— "how long have you been planning this? How long have you been waiting to betray me?"

Y/N's face went pale.

"Betray you? Klaus, I would never—"

"Everyone betrays me eventually!" The words tore from his throat, raw and ragged. "My father. My mother. Everyone I've ever trusted, everyone I've ever loved—they all leave. They all turn on me. So tell me what you're planning so I can at least prepare for it this time."

Silence.

Y/N stared at him, something shifting in her expression. The defensiveness melted away, replaced by something that looked horribly like pity.

"Klaus," she said softly. "I'm planning your birthday party."

The words didn't compute.

"What?"

"Your birthday. I've been trying to figure out when it actually is because apparently no one in your family can agree on a date, and medieval record-keeping was terrible, and I wanted to do something special for you because you've never—" Her voice cracked. "You've never had anyone celebrate it properly. A thousand years and no one's ever thrown you a party."

Klaus felt the ground shift beneath his feet.

"You've been...planning a party."

"Yes." Y/N's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Rebekah's been helping with the guest list. Elijah found some old eviednce. Kol was supposed to distract you while I finished the decorations. We've been working on it for weeks."

The anger drained out of him so fast it left him dizzy.

"I thought..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"I know what you thought." Her voice was quiet. Hurt. "You thought I was plotting against you. That I was going to leave. That I was—what? Having an affair with Kol?"

The silence was damning.

"Oh my god." Y/N pressed her hand to her mouth. "You actually thought that. You actually believed I would—"

"Y/N—"

"No." She held up her hand, taking a step back. "I need a minute. I need—" A tear slipped down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily. "I have spent two months. Two months trying to show you that I'm not going anywhere. And the second things got a little secretive, for your benefit, you assumed the worst."

"I'm sorry." The words felt pathetically inadequate. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—my mind goes to dark places. I can't always control—"

"I know you can't." Her voice broke. "I know about Mikael and your mother and everything you've been through. I know trust doesn't come easily for you. But Klaus, I'm not them. I'm never going to be them."

He wanted to reach for her. Wanted to pull her into his arms and beg forgiveness until his throat went raw. But she was looking at him like he'd shattered something precious, and maybe he had.

"The party," he said quietly. "It's ruined now."

"Yeah." Y/N laughed, but there was no humor in it. "It really is."

"I'll make this right." Klaus took a step toward her, then stopped when she flinched. The small movement carved something out of his chest. "Please, love. Tell me how to fix this."

"I don't know if you can." She wiped her eyes again. "I don't know if there's a way to fix you looking at me like I was the enemy. Like I was capable of hurting you like that."

"You're not the enemy. You're the furthest thing from—"

"Then why did you treat me like one?"

Klaus had no answer. Or rather, he had too many. A thousand years of answers, none of them good enough.

"Because I'm broken," he said finally. "Because my father spent my entire human life telling me I was worthless, and then my mother tried to kill me, and everyone I've loved since then has eventually proven them right. Because some part of me is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to realize what I am and run."

Y/N was quiet for a long moment.

"I know what you are," she said softly. "And I'm still here."

"I know. I know you are. But the voice in my head—" He tapped his temple, grimacing. "It doesn't listen to logic. It only knows patterns. And the pattern has always been love, then loss, then betrayal."

"I'm not a pattern, Klaus. I'm a person."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so bloody sorry."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with hurt and history.

Finally, Y/N sighed.

"I'm going to go home tonight."

Klaus's heart stopped.

"Y/N—"

"I need space to think. I need to process this without you looking at me like I'm about to disappear." She grabbed her jacket from the back of a chair. "I'm not leaving you. I'm not breaking up with you. But I need tonight to be angry and hurt without having to manage your guilt about it."

It was reasonable. It was healthy. It was the most painful thing she could have said.

"Can I call you tomorrow?" he asked, hating how desperate he sounded.

"Yes." She paused at the doorway, looking back at him. "For the record, it was never about the party. It was about doing something nice for you."

Then she was gone, and Klaus was alone with the wreckage of his own making.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

He found the party supplies an hour later.

Hidden in one of the unused rooms were streamers and balloons and a banner that read "Happy Birthday Klaus" in Y/N's handwriting. There was a guest list on the table, names carefully organized. A menu she'd planned with his favorite foods. A stack of vintage art books she must have spent weeks tracking down.

Klaus sat in the middle of it all, surrounded by evidence of her love, and put his head in his hands.

A thousand years old, and he still didn't know how to accept that someone might simply want to make him happy.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

The compound felt like a mausoleum without her.

Klaus paced the halls for hours after Y/N left, wearing grooves into ancient floorboards that had survived centuries of Mikaelson drama. His siblings gave him a wide berth, even Kol, who usually couldn't resist poking at open wounds, stayed conspicuously absent.

Smart.

If anyone had spoken to him tonight, he might have ripped their throat out.

By midnight, the walls were closing in. Every room held traces of her: the throw blanket she'd left on the study couch, a hair tie on his nightstand, the faint lingering scent of her perfume in the bedroom. It was suffocating. Maddening.

She said she wasn't leaving.

But she left.

She said she needed space.

Space to realize she'd made a mistake. Space to understand that loving him was a fool's errand. Space to come to her senses and run.

Klaus grabbed a crystal decanter and hurled it against the wall. It shattered beautifully, bourbon running down the wallpaper like amber tears.

It wasn't enough.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

The French Quarter was alive at 2 AM. Tourists stumbling between bars, jazz spilling from open doorways, the eternal carnival atmosphere that made New Orleans such perfect hunting ground.

Klaus moved through the crowds like a shark through shallow water. His face was human, his smile charming, but something dark and hungry lurked behind his eyes.

He needed to hurt something.

Needed to feel powerful again, after spending the evening feeling so pathetically, devastatingly small.

The first victim was easy. A man in his thirties, clearly intoxicated, separated from his group of friends outside a Bourbon Street bar. Klaus approached with practiced ease as a friendly local offering directions and a steadying hand when the man stumbled.

"Rough night, mate?"

"Yeah, man. Can't find my hotel." The tourist laughed, oblivious to the danger standing inches away. "Everything looks the same down here."

"Let me help you."

Klaus guided him into an alley with gentle pressure on his elbow. The man went willingly, trusting, drunk enough that alarm bells weren't ringing.

So easy. So pathetically easy.

In the shadows between buildings, Klaus let his face shift. Felt the satisfying burn of his fangs descending, the rush of power that came with embracing what he truly was.

"What the—" The tourist's eyes went wide, fear cutting through his alcohol haze. "What the fuck is wrong with your face?"

"Nothing's wrong with it, mate." Klaus gripped the man's shoulders, pinning him against the brick wall. "This is simply what I am."

He could hear the rapid, terrified heartbeat that was pumping blood so fast it was practically begging to be spilled. Could smell the fear, sharp and intoxicating. Could feel the familiar hunger rising, demanding to be fed.

This was what he knew. What he was good at. A thousand years of violence had made him an artist of death, and tonight he needed to create.

Klaus tilted the man's head, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. His fangs grazed skin—

And Y/N's face appeared in his mind.

Not angry. Not afraid.

Disappointed.

He saw her as clearly as if she were standing in the alley with him. Those eyes that had looked at him with such hurt tonight, now filled with something worse. The quiet devastation of watching someone you love prove they're exactly the monster everyone warned you about.

"I know what you are," she'd said. "And I'm still here."

Still here.

Despite everything. Despite the violence and the paranoia and the thousand years of blood on his hands. She'd stayed. She'd planned a birthday party. She'd coordinated with his siblings for weeks, all to make him feel special.

And how had he repaid her?

By accusing her of betrayal. By looking at her like she was the enemy. By driving her away with the same toxic patterns that had destroyed every relationship he'd ever had.

Now here he was, about to add another body to the pile. Another innocent life snuffed out because Klaus Mikaelson couldn't handle his emotions like anything other than a rabid animal.

What would she think if she saw him like this?

What would she think if she knew that the moment she left, he'd reverted to violence like a dog returning to its vomit?

Klaus's grip on the tourist loosened.

"Please," the man whimpered. "Please don't kill me. I have a wife. Kids. Please—"

The words barely registered. Klaus was still seeing Y/N's face. Still hearing her voice.

"I'm not a pattern, Klaus. I'm a person."

She'd asked him to be better. Not with words, she was too smart for ultimatums, but with her presence. Her patience. Her stubborn insistence on seeing the man beneath the monster.

And he'd been trying. God help him, he'd been trying. Two months of restraint, of choosing her over his worst impulses, of proving that he could be something other than a cautionary tale.

Was he really going to throw that away because she needed one night alone?

Klaus released the man entirely, stepping back so quickly the tourist slumped against the wall.

"What—what are you doing?"

"Changing my mind." The words tasted foreign. Wrong. Klaus Mikaelson didn't show mercy. Klaus Mikaelson didn't spare victims once he'd chosen them.

But Klaus Mikaelson had never had someone like Y/N before.

He caught the man's gaze, letting compulsion flood his voice.

"You're going to forget this happened. You got lost, wandered into an alley, and fell asleep for a few minutes. When you wake up, you'll find your way back to your hotel. You'll call your wife and tell her you love her. And you'll never walk alone in the French Quarter again."

The tourist's eyes glazed over, the terror smoothing into blank compliance.

Klaus bit into his own wrist, pressing the wound to the man's mouth.

"Drink. It'll heal the bruises."

The tourist obeyed mechanically, and Klaus watched the finger-shaped marks on his shoulders fade. Evidence erased. Like it never happened.

When he was satisfied, Klaus stepped back and let the compulsion settle.

"Sleep."

The man slid down the wall, unconscious before he hit the ground.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

Klaus stood in the alley for a long time after.

His hands were shaking. Not from hunger, the bloodlust had faded the moment Y/N's face appeared in his mind, but from something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like shame.

A thousand years.

A thousand years of killing without conscience, of taking what he wanted because he could, of justifying every atrocity with the simple truth that he was stronger and therefore entitled.

And one woman, one stubborn, beautiful, impossibly kind woman, had made him stop.

Not through threats or manipulation or leverage. Just by existing. Just by looking at him like he was capable of being more than a monster.

Klaus pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over Y/N's contact.

She'd asked for space. She'd been clear about needing tonight to process.

But he needed her to know. Needed her to understand that even when she wasn't there, even when his worst instincts screamed for blood and violence, she was still saving him.

He typed out a message, then deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.

Finally, he settled on something simple:

I almost did something terrible tonight. But I thought of you, and I stopped. I don't know if that means anything. But I wanted you to know that even when you're not here, you make me want to be better. I'm sorry for today. I'm sorry for everything. Take all the time you need. I'll be here when you're ready.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Then he sat down on a crate in the alley, next to the unconscious tourist who had no idea how close he'd come to death, and waited for dawn.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚 

The reply came at 4:47 AM.

I'm still angry. But thank you for telling me. That matters.

Klaus read the message seventeen times.

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't an invitation to come over. But it was something.

It was her, still choosing to respond. Still choosing to engage. Still choosing him, even after everything.

He walked home as the sun rose over New Orleans, and for the first time in hours, the weight on his chest felt slightly less crushing.

Tomorrow, he would grovel properly. Would find some way to make up for the ruined party, for the accusations, for the centuries of damage that made him incapable of accepting love without waiting for the knife.

Tonight, he would hold onto those two sentences like a lifeline.

She was still angry.

But she was still there.

And for Klaus Mikaelson, that was more than he deserved.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the compound's courtyard as Klaus stood at the balcony, every sense attuned to the world beyond these walls. He hadn't slept, couldn't sleep, not with the weight of yesterday pressing down on him like a physical force. The text message exchange played on loop in his mind, those precious few words that meant she hadn't given up on him entirely.

I'm still angry. But thank you for telling me. That matters.

He'd read it so many times the screen had burned itself into his retinas.

Now he waited. Listened. 

The compound was quiet. 

Klaus's fingers drummed against the iron railing, restless energy with nowhere to go. He'd showered, changed, attempted to eat something that wasn't bourbon, all the motions of normalcy while his entire being remained focused on one thing.

Her.

And then—

There.

A heartbeat. Familiar as his own name, steady despite what he imagined must be considerable nervousness. The soft footfall of boots on cobblestone. The whisper of fabric, the faint trace of her perfume carried on the morning breeze.

Y/N.

Klaus moved before conscious thought could catch up, vampire speed carrying him from the balcony to the courtyard entrance in the space between one heartbeat and the next. He materialized directly in her path, close enough to touch, drinking in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst.

She flinched.

The reaction was small. Just a sharp intake of breath, eyes squeezing shut, and shoulders tensing, but Klaus caught every microsecond of it. Something in his chest twisted painfully.

She's afraid of you.

No. Not afraid. Startled. There's a difference.

Is there?

Y/N's eyes opened, and after a moment, a reluctant smile curved her lips. "Don't think I'll get used to that anytime soon."

"Apologies, love." His voice came out rougher than intended, scraped raw by a sleepless night and too many emotions he didn't know how to name. "I heard you coming and I...couldn't wait."

Pathetic. A thousand years old and you sound like a lovesick fool.

You are a lovesick fool.

She looked tired. Beautiful, always beautiful, but there were shadows under her eyes that spoke of restless sleep, and she held herself with a guardedness that hadn't been there before yesterday. Before he'd ruined everything.

"Can we talk?" Y/N asked. "Properly this time. Without accusations or..."

"Yes." Klaus stepped back, giving her space even though every instinct screamed to pull her close and never let go. "Please. I—yes."

Eloquent. Truly, Shakespeare would weep.

He led her to the courtyard's central fountain, where morning light danced on the water's surface. They sat on the stone edge, close but not touching, the distance between them feeling like miles.

"I got your text," Y/N said finally. "Last night."

Klaus nodded, not trusting his voice.

"What happened? What did you almost do?"

Ah.

He'd known she would ask. Had prepared himself for this moment during the long hours before dawn. But now, faced with those hazel eyes waiting for an answer, the words stuck in his throat.

"I went hunting," he admitted quietly. "After you left. I was...I couldn't stay here, surrounded by reminders of you, of what I'd done. So I went to the Quarter, and I found someone. A tourist. Drunk, alone, easy prey."

Y/N's expression didn't change, but he saw her hands tighten in her lap.

"I had him in an alley. Had my fangs at his throat. And then..." Klaus swallowed hard. "I saw your face. In my mind. The way you'd look at me if you knew. Not angry or afraid, just...disappointed. And I couldn't do it."

"So you stopped?"

"I stopped. Healed him, compelled him to forget, sent him on his way." Klaus laughed bitterly. "A thousand years of killing without conscience, and one thought of you made me release a victim mid-hunt. I don't know if that makes me better or simply proves how obsessed I've become."

"It makes you someone who's trying," Y/N said slowly. "Which is more than I expected, honestly."

"You expected me to slaughter half the Quarter?"

"I expected you to cope the way you always have. Violence, destruction, proving you're the biggest monster in the room." She met his eyes. "The fact that you didn't...that matters, Klaus. It matters a lot."

Hope. 

Dangerous, fragile hope.

"I need to say something," Y/N continued, her tone shifting to something firmer. "And I need you to actually listen, not just wait for your turn to talk."

"I'm listening."

"Yesterday, when you accused me of plotting with your siblings, of keeping secrets..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "You were right that I was hiding something. But you were wrong about everything else. And the way you handled it, following me, checking my phone, whatever other surveillance you've been doing–"

Klaus opened his mouth to protest, then closed it.

She knows.

"How did you—"

"I'm not an idiot, Klaus. I know when I'm being watched." Y/N sighed, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. "Look, I get it. You have a thousand years of baggage. Trust doesn't come easy for you. But relationships don't work without it."

"I do trust you," he said quietly. "More than most. It's just—"

"Hard," she finished for him. "I know. But you have to try. You have to talk to me when you're feeling insecure instead of going full paranoid vampire stalker. Because that's what yesterday was, Klaus. You felt threatened, so instead of asking me what was going on, you investigated me like I was an enemy."

The words landed like blows, each one perfectly aimed at the truth he'd been avoiding.

"You're right," Klaus admitted. "I should have asked. Should have trusted that if you were keeping something from me, there was a reason. Instead, I assumed the worst because..." He trailed off, the confession lodging in his throat.

"Because?"

"Because everyone leaves eventually." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Everyone betrays me in the end. My father, my mother, lovers, allies—a thousand years of proof that the moment I let someone close, they'll use it against me. And you..." He looked at her, letting her see the raw vulnerability he usually kept buried. "You terrify me, Y/N. Because I've never wanted anyone the way I want you. Never needed anyone like this. And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to realize what I am and run."

"I know what you are." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I've known since Halloween, when you showed me your true face. And I'm still here."

"For now."

"Yes, for now. That's how relationships work, Klaus. One day at a time. I can't promise you forever, no one can promise that. But I can promise that I'm not looking for an exit. I'm not gathering intelligence for your enemies. I'm just..." She laughed softly. "I'm just a woman who loves you, trying to plan a stupid birthday party because you deserve to feel celebrated for once in your very long life."

Klaus reached for her hand, hesitant, giving her every opportunity to pull away. When she didn't, when her fingers intertwined with his, something in his chest cracked open.

"I truly am sorry," he said. "For doubting you. For ruining your plans. For being so bloody difficult that planning a simple surprise required weeks of covert operations."

"You should be sorry." But she squeezed his hand, a peace offering. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to plan a surprise party for someone who can hear a pin drop from three rooms away? Who has supernatural senses and trust issues? I've been losing my mind trying to keep this secret."

Despite the sleepless night, the guilt, and the fear that he'd destroyed something precious, Klaus felt a smile tug at his lips.

"I imagine it's quite the challenge."

"It's impossible. You're impossible." But she was smiling too, reluctantly, and the sight of it made his dead heart stutter. "Next year, I'm just getting you a card."

"Next year," he repeated, the words warming something in his chest. The simple assumption that they would still be together. That this wasn't the end.

Next year.

She's already thinking about next year.

"Yes, next year. And the year after that. And probably the year after that, unless you pull this kind of stunt again." Y/N's expression softened. "I meant what I said, Klaus. I love you. All of you, even the difficult parts. Especially the difficult parts, sometimes. But you have to meet me halfway. No more surveillance. No more assuming the worst. When you feel insecure, you tell me. We talk about it like adults."

"And if I slip?" The question came out before he could stop it, vulnerability bleeding through. "If the paranoia wins and I—"

"I'm not saying it'll be easy.” She shifted closer on the fountain's edge, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “I'm not saying I won't get angry or frustrated or need space sometimes. But I'm not going anywhere, Klaus. Not unless you give me a really good reason to."

Klaus pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers. Her scent surrounded him and underneath it the intoxicating rhythm of her pulse. He could stay like this forever, suspended in this moment where she'd chosen him despite everything.

"I love you," he said softly. "More than I thought possible. More than is wise, probably. You've become the center of my entire existence, and that should terrify you."

"Maybe it does, a little." Her breath was warm against his lips. "But wisdom is overrated."

She kissed him. Gentle but firm. Klaus let himself sink into it, into her, letting the contact ground him in a way nothing else could.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N's eyes held a glint of determination.

"Now, since you've ruined the surprise, you can help me finish planning this damn party. And you have to act surprised when it happens, or I will never forgive you."

"I'm an excellent actor," Klaus promised, unable to keep the relief from his voice. "Centuries of practice deceiving enemies and allies alike."

"You'd better be. I've put too much work into this for you to ruin it twice." She stood, pulling him up with her. "Also, you owe me. Big time. I'm talking jewelry, Klaus. Expensive jewelry. Maybe a small island."

"I'll buy you a country if you'd like."

"Let's start with dinner and see where it goes." But she was laughing now, the last of the tension dissolving between them. "Come on. You can tell me what you actually want for your birthday, since the surprise is ruined anyway."

Klaus followed her into the compound, her hand still clasped in his. The weight on his chest had lifted, not entirely, perhaps never entirely, but enough that he could breathe again.

She stayed.

Despite everything, she stayed.

Don't ruin it this time.

Don't let your demons destroy the only light you've found in a thousand years of darkness.

"Klaus?" Y/N's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Yes, love?"

"That tourist last night. The one you let go." She paused at the doorway, looking back at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "I'm proud of you for that. I know it wasn't easy."

The words hit him harder than any blow. Proud. When was the last time anyone had been proud of him? When was the last time he'd done something worthy of pride?

"It wasn't," he admitted. "But I thought of you, and suddenly...the hunger didn't matter. Nothing mattered except not becoming the monster you'd be ashamed of."

"I could never be ashamed of you." She reached up, cupping his face in her hands. "Frustrated, yes. Angry, definitely. But never ashamed. You're trying, Klaus. That's all I can ask."

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm.

"I'll do better," he promised. "I'll try harder. Whatever it takes to deserve you."

"You already deserve me." She smiled, soft and real. "Now come on. We have a party to plan, and your siblings are probably eavesdropping from somewhere trying to figure out if they need to intervene."

As if on cue, Klaus heard the distinct sound of Kol's footsteps retreating hastily from somewhere above them.

"They definitely are," he confirmed. "Kol's not nearly as subtle as he thinks."

Y/N laughed, and the sound was better than any symphony, any masterpiece, any treasure he'd accumulated over his long existence.

This, he thought, following her into the warmth of the compound. This is worth a thousand years of suffering.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚

New Year’s Eve << Read this next :)

"Hi! Are you busy?" Y/N's voice came through the speaker, slightly uncertain. "I'm sorry to interrupt if you are."

"Don't be ridiculous." Klaus pressed his boot down harder on the second vampire's throat when the fool started to squirm. A pointed glare communicated his expectations clearly: make a sound and I'll make this last for days. "I could never be too busy for you, love. What do you need?"

"Okay, so, don't laugh at me—"

"I would never."

"—but I'm currently in your study, and I'm looking for paper. Like, nice paper. Do you have fancy writing supplies? Wax seals? That kind of thing?"

Klaus felt his lips curve into a genuine smile, even as he gave the heart in his hand a warning squeeze when its owner started to lose consciousness. The vampire's eyes flew open, wild with pain and terror.

Stay awake, Klaus mouthed. I'm not finished with you.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said into the phone, his tone light and warm. "There's a drawer in the desk, the one on the left side, second from the top. You'll find stationery, various inks, and several wax seals. The red wax is in the small box beside the inkwell."

"Oh my god, you actually have wax seals. Multiple wax seals." Y/N laughed, and the sound loosened something in his chest. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I've had centuries to accumulate correspondence supplies, love. One develops preferences." He adjusted his stance, grinding his heel slightly when the vampire beneath him tried to inch away. 

 There was a rustling sound, she must be opening the drawer. "Klaus, these are beautiful. Is this actual parchment?"

"Italian vellum, actually. Sixteenth century technique, modern production." The vampire in his grip was turning an alarming shade of purple. Klaus loosened his hold on the heart just enough to allow blood flow to resume. Couldn't have him dying before answering questions. "The cream-colored sheets are best for formal correspondence. Excellent absorption for fountain pen ink."

"You're such a nerd," Y/N said fondly. "A thousand-year-old nerd with fancy paper preferences."

"I prefer 'refined connoisseur of traditional arts.'"

"Nerd."

Klaus chuckled, low and genuine. The vampire beneath his boot made the mistake of interpreting his good mood as distraction and attempted to roll away. Klaus's heel came down on his chest instead, cracking at least two ribs with an audible snap.

He covered the phone's microphone with his thumb.

"Try that again," he said pleasantly, "and I'll remove your spine through your stomach."

The vampire went very, very still.

Klaus returned to the call seamlessly. "—and there should be a pen case in the back of the drawer. The blue one contains my better fountain pens. You're welcome to use whichever you'd like."

"You trust me with your fancy antique pens?"

"I trust you with considerably more than that, sweetheart." The warmth in his voice was entirely unfeigned. "Though I would recommend the Montblanc for everyday writing. The Waterman has a temperamental nib."

"Noted." Another pause, more rustling. "Okay, I found the wax seals. There are like... eight of them? Do you have a favorite?"

"The one with the M is the family crest. The wolf is mine personally." Klaus twisted his hand slightly, eliciting a fresh whimper from the suspended vampire. He shot the man an irritated look. "The plain circle is best for non-family correspondence. It’s elegant without being presumptuous."

"Plain circle it is." Y/N's voice had taken on that particular quality it got when she was concentrating on something. "How do I actually use the wax seal? I've never done this before."

"Light the candle beside the wax sticks, there should be matches in the top drawer. Hold the wax at an angle over the envelope flap, let it drip into a small pool. Wait three seconds for it to begin setting, then press the seal firmly and hold for a count of five. Lift straight up."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Practice makes perfect, love. Though I suspect you'll master it quickly." He paused, unable to resist. "If you'd like, I could give you a personal demonstration when I return home."

"That sounds suspiciously like an excuse to show off."

"I prefer to think of it as sharing my expertise with someone I adore." Klaus smiled, genuinely amused despite the gore currently coating his hand. "Besides, watching you learn new things is one of my favorite pastimes."

"Smooth." But he could hear the smile in her voice. "When will you be home?"

Klaus glanced at the two vampires, one still dangling from his grip, heart clutched firmly, the other pinned beneath his boot with terror etched across his features. This interrogation had been going on for nearly an hour before Y/N's call, and he'd extracted precious little useful information.

"I have a few matters to attend to," he said. "But I should be back within the hour. Perhaps two. I've missed you today."

"I saw you this morning."

"And yet, I still miss you." He could feel the vampire trembling beneath him. 

“I miss you too. I'll be in your study, probably making a mess of your expensive paper."

"Make whatever mess you'd like. It's yours to use." The sincerity in his voice surprised even him. "I'll see you soon, sweetheart."

"See you soon. Love you."

"And I love you."

The call ended.

Klaus tucked his phone back into his pocket with his clean hand, then turned his full attention to the vampire still suspended in his grip. The man had gone pale, his eyes darting between Klaus's face and the hand still wrapped around his heart.

"Now then," Klaus said, his voice losing all warmth, all softness, becoming something cold and ancient and utterly merciless. "Where were we?"

"Please—" the vampire gasped. "I'll tell you everything—"

"You'll tell me everything regardless." Klaus tilted his head, studying the man with detached curiosity. "The only question is how much of yourself you'd like to retain by the end of this conversation."

The vampire beneath his boot whimpered.

"Oh, don't worry." Klaus glanced down at him with a smile that held no humor whatsoever. "You'll get your turn."

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚  

Klaus slipped through the compound's side entrance, moving with the silent grace that came from centuries of practice. Blood still clung to his forearms beneath his jacket sleeves, and his shirt, well, the shirt was a lost cause. Some stains simply didn't come out, no matter how skilled the launderer.

He could hear Y/N in his study. The scratch of pen against paper, the soft muttering she did when concentrating, the occasional frustrated sigh. His lips curved despite himself.

Shower first. Then her.

He made it to his bedroom without incident, stripping off the ruined clothes and stepping under scalding water. The blood swirled down the drain, red fading to pink fading to clear, and Klaus scrubbed until his skin was raw and clean. He dressed quickly in fresh clothes: dark henley, black jeans, barefoot because he was home and she liked seeing him relaxed.

The study door was open when he reached it.

Klaus leaned against the frame, taking in the scene before him with a mixture of amusement and profound affection.

Y/N had, apparently, discovered his collection of quill pens.

Feathers were scattered across the desk, peacock, goose, swan, several exotic varieties he'd collected over the centuries. Ink stained her fingers in at least three different colors. Wax had dripped onto the desk surface in abstract patterns, some successful seals scattered among the failures. Paper, some crumpled, some pristine, some covered in her elegant handwriting, surrounded her like fallen leaves.

She was currently attempting to seal an envelope, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration, a smudge of blue ink on her cheek.

"I see you've been busy," Klaus said.

Y/N startled, nearly dropping the seal. "Oh! You're back." Her face lit up when she saw him, and that expression, the pure, uncomplicated joy at his presence, still caught him off guard every single time. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to appreciate your dedication to destroying my study."

"I'm not destroying it!" She gestured at the chaos around her. "I'm... creatively utilizing it."

Klaus pushed off the doorframe, crossing to the desk. He picked up a particularly dramatic wax failure, a blob that looked vaguely like a melted snowman, and raised an eyebrow.

"This is creative?"

"That was my third attempt. I got better." She held up a successfully sealed envelope as evidence. The wax was slightly off-center, but the impression was clean. "See?"

"Impressive improvement." He set down the wax blob and leaned against the desk beside her, close enough that his hip brushed her shoulder. "Though I notice you've discovered my feather collection."

"Klaus." Y/N looked up at him with wide eyes. "You have peacock quills. Actual peacock quills. I couldn't not use them."

"They're purely decorative. The barbs are too soft for proper writing."

"I figured that out." She held up a peacock feather with a rueful expression. The tip was bent and ink-stained. "After I tried to use it. Sorry."

Klaus took the damaged feather, examining it with mock solemnity. "A tragedy. However will I recover from this loss."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm never dramatic." He set the feather aside, then reached down to brush the ink smudge from her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was warm beneath his touch. "What are you writing, love? You've been at this for hours."

Y/N's expression softened. "It's a tradition I have. Every New Year's Eve, I write letters to the people who've been important to me that year. People who've had an impact on my life, who I'm grateful for." She gestured at the stack of sealed envelopes. "I like to give them out before midnight. Start the new year having expressed my appreciation."

Klaus studied the envelopes. He could see names written on several: Jasmine. Camille. Mara. Names he recognized from her stories about friends back home and here. There were others too, Dr. Morrison must be someone from the museum, and Mrs. Chen was likely her elderly neighbor who kept bringing her homemade dumplings.

"You write physical letters," he said. "To express gratitude. Every year."

"Every year since I was sixteen." Y/N smiled, a touch self-conscious. "I know it's old-fashioned. Everyone else just sends texts or posts something on social media. But there's something about a handwritten letter, you know? The effort of it. The permanence. It means more than a quick message that gets lost in someone's notifications."

"It's..." Klaus searched for the right word. The concept was foreign to him. Sitting down to deliberately catalog the people he was thankful for, to express that gratitude openly and vulnerably. He'd spent centuries burning bridges, not building them. Collecting enemies, not appreciating allies.

Silly, his mind supplied. Sentimental. Naive.

But looking at Y/N's face, at the earnest warmth in her eyes, he couldn't bring himself to say any of that.

"It's very you," he finished.

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"A compliment. Always a compliment when it comes to you." He picked up one of the unused quills. A proper goose feather, functional rather than decorative, and twirled it between his fingers. "How many more do you have to write?"

"Just two." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "And I need to deliver them before midnight, so I should probably focus."

"Then focus." Klaus settled into the chair beside her, pulling a blank sheet of paper toward himself. "I'll keep you company."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." The words came out more sincere than he'd intended. "Besides, someone needs to supervise your wax technique. That last seal was acceptable, but your angle was off."

Y/N laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly. "My angle was fine."

"It was adequate at best. Here." He reached for the wax and candle, demonstrating. "Hold it like this. The wax should drip in a controlled stream, not splatter."

For the next hour, Klaus found himself doing something he never would have predicted: helping Y/N write thank-you letters.

He corrected her wax technique, suggested better ink choices for different paper weights, and listened as she talked through what she wanted to say to each person. He learned about Jasmine, her best friend from childhood who'd supported her through her parents' divorce. About Camille, who'd helped her with her move to New Orleans and called every week without fail. About Dr. Morrison, her mentor at the museum who'd taken a chance on hiring someone so young.

Each letter was personal, specific, filled with details that showed how deeply Y/N paid attention to the people in her life.

She sees people, Klaus realized. Really sees them. And she makes sure they know it.

The thought made something ache in his chest.

"Done!" Y/N sealed the final envelope with a flourish, her technique had improved dramatically, and held it up triumphantly. "That's everyone."

Klaus glanced at the stack. Eight letters total. Eight people who would receive tangible proof of her appreciation, her gratitude, her love.

He hadn't expected to be among them. They'd only known each other since late October. Barley barely two months. Hardly enough time to warrant inclusion in a tradition she'd maintained for seven years.

"I should go deliver these." Y/N stood, gathering the envelopes carefully. "Some of them I can just leave at doors, but a few I want to hand-deliver. I should be back before midnight."

"Do you want company?"

"No, this is something I like doing alone." She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "But save me some champagne? I want to be here when the clock strikes twelve."

"I'll have a glass waiting."

She smiled, bright and beautiful, and swept out of the study with her stack of letters clutched to her chest.

Klaus listened to her footsteps fade, the front door open and close, the sound of her car starting in the driveway.

Then he looked at the desk.

The supplies were still scattered everywhere. Ink bottles open, wax sticks half-melted, feathers strewn about like the aftermath of a pillow fight. Y/N had made an impressive mess, but she'd also left everything out, accessible, as if expecting the creative chaos to continue.

Klaus picked up the goose quill he'd been twirling earlier.

Ridiculous, he thought. Sentimental nonsense.

He pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward himself.

What would I even say? Who would I even write to?

The blank page stared at him, accusatory in its emptiness.

Klaus dipped the quill in ink.

Dear Y/N, he wrote, then immediately crossed it out. Too formal. Too stiff.

He tried again on a fresh sheet.

My dearest love,

Better. But what came next?

Klaus stared at the words, at the curve of his own handwriting, at the way the ink gleamed wet against the cream-colored vellum.

A thousand years of existence, and he'd never written a letter like this. Never sat down to deliberately express gratitude, appreciation, love. He'd written threats, demands, manipulations. He'd composed poetry for women he'd wanted to seduce and manifestos for enemies he'd wanted to intimidate.

But this, honest, vulnerable, genuine, this was new.

My dearest love,

I am not a man accustomed to gratitude. I have spent centuries taking what I want, destroying what I cannot have, and burning bridges with everyone foolish enough to care for me. I have been called monster, abomination, devil. I have earned every epithet.

And yet.

You looked at me that first night and you saw something worth knowing. You invited me into your home, your life, your heart, despite every warning your instincts must have screamed.

You challenged me. Laughed at me. Refused to be intimidated by my reputation or my temper. You treated me like a man, not a monster, and in doing so, you made me want to be one.

I do not deserve you. I know this with the same certainty I know the sun will rise tomorrow. You are light and warmth and everything good, and I am a thousand years of darkness and blood and terrible choices.

But you chose me anyway.

For that, for you, I am grateful.

Not just grateful. Transformed. You have made me want to be better, to do better, to become someone worthy of the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching.

I love you. Those words feel inadequate, too small to contain the enormity of what you've given me. But they are true, perhaps the truest thing I've ever said.

Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for staying. Thank you for teaching me that perhaps, even after a millennium, change is still possible.

Yours, eternally and completely,

Klaus

He set down the quill, staring at the letter.

The words looked foreign on the page, vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be. If anyone else read this, they would have leverage over him. Ammunition. Proof that the great Klaus Mikaelson had weaknesses after all.

But this wasn't for anyone else.

This was for her.

Klaus reached for the red wax, lighting the candle with steady hands. He let the wax drip onto the envelope, perfect angle, controlled stream, just as he'd taught her, and pressed his personal seal into the cooling pool.

The wolf stared up at him from the crimson wax.

He set the letter aside, on top of her scattered supplies, where she would find it when she returned.

Then Klaus went to pour the champagne, to wait for midnight, to begin a new year with someone who made him believe that even monsters could learn to be grateful.

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚

Y/N burst through the compound doors with 10 minutes to spare, cheeks flushed from the cold December air, breathless and laughing.

"Made it!" she called out, kicking off her shoes in the foyer. "Don't start without me!"

Klaus appeared in the hallway, champagne flute in hand, an amused smile playing at his lips. "I wouldn't dream of it, love. Though you're cutting it rather close."

"Mrs. Chen wanted to talk. You know how she gets." Y/N was already moving toward the stairs, unbuttoning her coat as she went. "Give me five minutes to change. I refuse to ring in the new year in jeans that smell like her cat."

"Take your time. The clock will wait."

She disappeared up the staircase, and Klaus heard her footsteps padding toward his bedroom. Their bedroom, really, though neither of them had officially acknowledged the transition. Her things had simply migrated there over the past weeks, a hairbrush on his dresser, her favorite sweater draped over the armchair, a collection of hair ties that seemed to multiply on his nightstand.

Klaus returned to the sitting room, where he'd arranged champagne and glasses by the window overlooking the courtyard. The compound was quiet tonight. Elijah had taken Rebekah to some gala across town, and Kol was doing whatever Kol did on New Year's Eve, which Klaus preferred not to contemplate.

He reached into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the envelope.

The letter felt heavier than paper and wax should. It felt like exposure, like vulnerability, like handing someone a weapon and trusting them not to use it.

This is absurd, Klaus thought, pulling the envelope out and turning it over in his hands. I've faced down ancient vampires, werewolf packs, witch covens. I've survived a thousand years of betrayal and violence and war. Why does a piece of paper make my hands unsteady?

But he knew why.

Because this wasn't a battle he could win through strength or cunning. This was surrender, freely offered. This was showing Y/N the soft, wounded places he'd spent centuries armoring over, and hoping, trusting, that she wouldn't recoil from what she found there.

He tucked the letter back into his pocket as her footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Y/N appeared in the doorway wearing one of his shirts, a deep burgundy button-down that fell to mid-thigh on her, and soft sleep shorts beneath. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, slightly windswept from her delivery rounds, and her feet were bare against the hardwood floors.

She looked like home.

"Better?" she asked, crossing to join him by the window.

"Perfect." Klaus handed her a champagne flute, letting his fingers brush against hers in the exchange. "Did you deliver all your letters successfully?"

"Every single one." She took a sip, then made a small sound of appreciation. "Oh, this is good. This is really good champagne."

"1996 Dom Pérignon. I've been saving it for a special occasion."

"And New Year's Eve qualifies?"

Klaus looked at her, at the way the candlelight caught the gold in her hair, at the warmth in her eyes, at the easy comfort of her presence in his space.

"You qualify," he said simply.

Y/N's cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head with a smile that made his chest ache.

Two minutes to midnight.

Klaus could feel the letter in his pocket like a brand. His fingers itched to pull it out, to hand it over, to get this moment of terrifying vulnerability over with so he could stop feeling like his heart was trying to escape through his throat.

Since when do you get nervous? he demanded of himself. You're Klaus Mikaelson. You don't get nervous.

But apparently he did. Apparently one human woman with ink-stained fingers and a tradition of writing thank-you letters had found the one thing that could make a thousand-year-old hybrid feel like a nervous schoolboy.

He glanced at Y/N and noticed something curious.

She was fidgeting.

Her free hand kept moving to the pocket of her shorts, touching something there, then pulling away. She was biting her lower lip, a tell he'd learned meant she was anxious about something. Her eyes kept darting to him, then away, as if she was working up courage.

Interesting.

"Everything alright, love?" Klaus asked, keeping his voice casual.

"Fine! Great. Perfect." The words came out too quickly, too bright. "Just, you know. New Year's Eve. Big moment. Fresh starts and all that."

Klaus raised an eyebrow but didn't press. Whatever was making her nervous, she'd tell him when she was ready.

One minute to midnight.

"I should refill my glass," Klaus said, turning toward the champagne bottle on the side table. It was an excuse, his glass was still half full, but he needed a moment to steel himself. To make the decision.

Just give it to her. It's a letter. Words on paper. You've written thousands of letters in your existence.

But never one like this.

Never one that mattered.

He pulled the envelope from his pocket, grip tightening around it. The wax seal pressed into his palm, the wolf, his personal mark, stamped over words he'd never said to anyone.

Now or never.

Klaus turned, extending his hand with the letter held out before him—

And found Y/N doing exactly the same thing.

She stood there, arm outstretched, an envelope clutched in her fingers. Her expression was a mirror of what he imagined his own must look like: nervous, hopeful, terrified, determined.

The envelope in her hand bore his name in her elegant handwriting. A wax seal, slightly off-center, the plain circle he'd recommended for non-family correspondence, held it closed.

"I—" Y/N started.

"You—" Klaus said at the same moment.

They both stopped. Stared. Looked at the letters in each other's hands.

"You wrote me one," Klaus heard himself say, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. Rough. Uncertain. "I thought—you'd only known me for two months. I didn't think I would warrant inclusion in your tradition."

"Klaus." Y/N's voice was soft, incredulous. "You're one of the most important things that's happened to me this year. Maybe ever. Of course I wrote you one."

The clock began to chime midnight.

Klaus couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but stare at the envelope with his name on it, at this impossible woman who had looked at a monster and seen someone worth thanking.

She wrote me a letter.

She included me in her tradition.

She thinks I'm important.

The thoughts crashed over him like waves, each one more overwhelming than the last. A thousand years of being told he was worthless, unlovable, a curse upon his family, and here was Y/N, holding out a piece of paper that said otherwise.

"You wrote me one too," she said, eyes fixed on the envelope in his hand. "I didn't expect—I mean, you said the tradition was silly—"

"I never said that."

"You thought it. I could tell."

Klaus let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "I thought it was sentimental. Naive, perhaps. The kind of thing that wouldn't survive contact with the harsh realities of the world." He looked at her, letting her see the rawness in his expression. "I was wrong."

The clock finished its chiming. Midnight. A new year.

"Happy New Year, Klaus," Y/N whispered.

"Happy New Year, my love."

They exchanged letters slowly, almost ceremonially. Klaus's fingers trembled slightly as he took the envelope bearing his name, actually trembled, like he was some green fledgling vampire rather than an ancient Original.

The paper was warm from her pocket. The wax seal bore a slight fingerprint where she'd pressed too hard. His name was written in blue ink, with a small flourish on the K that he found inexplicably charming.

"Should we—" Y/N gestured vaguely. "Read them now? Or..."

"Now." The word came out hoarse. Klaus cleared his throat. "If you don't mind. I find I'm rather impatient to know what you've written."

Y/N smiled, that bright, beautiful smile that made him feel like the sun had risen just for him. "Together, then?"

Klaus nodded.

They settled onto the window seat, close enough that their shoulders touched. Outside, fireworks began to burst over the city, celebrating the turn of the year.

Klaus broke the seal on his letter with careful fingers, unfolding the paper within.

Y/N's handwriting filled the page, slightly uneven from the unfamiliar quill, ink-stained in places where she'd pressed too hard. It was imperfect and earnest and so utterly her that his throat tightened before he'd even read the first word.

He began to read.

And for the first time in a thousand years, Klaus Mikaelson felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

Dear Klaus,

I almost didn't write you a letter this year. Not because you don't deserve one, you absolutely do, but because I wasn't sure I could fit everything I wanted to say onto a single piece of paper. I've gone through three drafts already, and I'm still not sure I'm getting it right.

Two months ago, I met you on Halloween night. I was drunk and ridiculous, dressed as an angel, and you carried me home like I weighed nothing. I thought you were someone dressed up as Klaus Mikaelson. I told you your accent needed work.

I still can't believe that actually happened.

But here's the thing, even drunk, even thinking you were just some guy in a costume, I felt safe with you. You could have done anything. You could have taken advantage of my state, or stolen from my apartment, or a thousand other terrible things. Instead, you put me to bed, left water on my nightstand, and locked my door behind you when you left.

You showed me kindness when you had no reason to. When I was a stranger who couldn't even tell you my last name coherently.

Since then, you've shown me so much more.

You've shown me New Orleans through your eyes, a city that's both beautiful and brutal, full of history and magic and secrets. You've shared your art with me, and listened to me ramble about museum exhibits until I'm sure your ears were bleeding. You've made me laugh until my sides hurt, and held me when I cried about missing home.

You've protected me. Not because you think I'm weak or incapable, but because you care. Because you've lived long enough to know how dangerous the world can be, and you want to shield me from the worst of it.

You've been patient with me. I know I ask a million questions about vampires and magic and your family history. I know I sometimes say the wrong thing or push too hard. But you never make me feel stupid for not knowing. You just explain, with this fond exasperation that makes me want to kiss you.

(I usually do.)

You've let me see you. The real you. Not the monster everyone else sees, but the artist who loses track of time when he's painting. The brother who would burn the world for his siblings, even when they drive him crazy. The man who's been hurt so deeply that trust doesn't come easy, but who's trying anyway.

That last one means more to me than you might realize.

I know you think you're not a good man, Klaus. You've told me as much, usually when you're trying to push me away for my own good. But here's what I see:

I see someone who remembers how I take my coffee. Who leaves little sketches on my desk at work because he knows they make me smile. Who learned about art history periods he doesn't even like because I mentioned being interested in them. Who holds my hand during scary movies and pretends it's for my benefit when we both know he's the one who jumped at the last jump scare.

I see someone who's spent a thousand years surviving, and who's finally learning how to live.

You've changed my life, Klaus. You've made me braver, stronger, more willing to see the complexity in people instead of just the surface. You've challenged everything I thought I knew about good and evil, about monsters and men.

And you've loved me. Fiercely, completely, in a way that makes me feel like the most important person in the world.

So thank you. Thank you for carrying me home on Halloween. Thank you for every moment since. Thank you for being exactly who you are, in all your complicated, frustrating, beautiful glory.

I love you. I'm going to love you for as long as you'll let me.

Happy New Year, Klaus. Here's to all the letters I'll write you in all the years to come.

Yours always,

Y/N

P.S. - I'm keeping the peacock quill I ruined. It's going in my drawer of things that make me happy. Don't try to steal it back.

Klaus stared at the letter, reading it once, twice, a third time. His vision blurred slightly, and he blinked rapidly, unwilling to miss a single word.

He looked up to find Y/N watching him, her eyes soft and uncertain. She'd finished reading his letter too, and he could see the emotion in her face, surprise, tenderness, a hint of wonder.

"Y/N," he began, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Y/N, I—"

Words failed him. A thousand years of eloquence, of manipulation through language, of poetry and threats and everything in between, and now, when it mattered most, he couldn't find the right thing to say.

So instead, he reached for her.

He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones, and kissed her with everything he couldn't articulate. All the gratitude, the wonder, the disbelief that someone could see him so clearly and still choose to stay.

When they broke apart, Y/N was breathless, her eyes shining.

"I take it you liked the letter," she said, a small smile playing at her lips.

"It was..." Klaus shook his head, searching for the word. "Perfect. You are perfect."

"I'm really not."

"You are to me." He rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling in the small space between them. "Thank you. For the letter. For including me in your tradition. For seeing me."

"Thank you for writing one too." Y/N's fingers traced the line of his jaw, gentle and reverent. "I never expected that. It means more than you know."

"I meant every word."

"I know. That's why it means so much."

Outside, the fireworks continued, painting the night sky with bursts of color and light. Inside, in the quiet of the sitting room, Klaus held Y/N close and marveled at the strange, unexpected gift of being known, being seen, being chosen, not despite his darkness, but with full awareness of it.

"Happy New Year, my love," he murmured against her hair.

"Happy New Year, Klaus"

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚

Taglist: @bourbon-girl14 @ariesandwolves @idontknowwhatimdoinginiife @lolurk @glowingtree @saltyluminaryvoid @lovelysakuryay @naibcenary @danhowl @curiousshademinotaur @viannasthings @nisarelle @susannahmikaelson

Your reaction to Harvey’s command shouldn’t be so automatic. You should be scrambling away from Harvey, pulling your clothes on, swearing to your oldest and dearest friend that it’s not what he thinks, even though fuck, what the hell else could it possibly be? 

But whatever it is, it doesn’t stop as you plant your hands on Harvey’s counter and fuck yourself back on his cock. Harvey doesn’t let up, either—not as Mike continues to watch, gobsmacked; not as Harvey tightens his grasp on your hips and slows your movements. 

“Come closer, Mike.”

His order is issued as steadily as any that he gives at the office, and Mike seems to obey almost unthinkingly. You look him over as he grows closer: at the file that was clutched but is now slightly crumpled in his hands; at where his cock is hardening in his suit pants; at the way his eyes dart between your face, and your tits, and where Harvey is behind you. 

“Take your bag off,” Harvey adds, “And stand on the other side of the counter.” 

The file gets dropped a couple inches away from your face, the bag dropped next to the kitchen counter stool you’d been sitting in barely an hour ago. You’re determined to keep your eyes set on Mike’s chest, unable to bear the look on his face.

“What the hell is this,” Mike finally manages. And you’d think it would be something that he would've bothered to ask before he got deeper into the room, but you chalk it up to Harvey’s sheer magnetism—the pull that he’s had over Mike since they met, and, subsequently, on you. 

“You’ve got eyes, you tell me.” Harvey curls over you, his cheek pressed to yours, “Unless there’s something you’d like to say, hmm?” 

You swear the way he hums rattles through your jaw. Your fingers curl against the counter, unable to reach either edge for purchase. It’s almost too much—the press of your nipples against the cool marble counter, the push of his body, the way Mike is just standing there and watching—

“No?” Harvey goes on. “Don’t wanna tell your best friend that you’ve been coming over to fuck his boss for months now? Why don’t you tell him whose name you called out the other night?” 

You whimper, lowering your head and squeezing your eyes shut, but Harvey murmurs, “Oh no, no. None of that.” 

His hand slips around to curl around your chin, using his grip to force your head up. You blink up at Mike, face flooding with heat at the sight of his parted lips, his darkening eyes. 

“Sorry about this, Mike,” Harvey adds, “Sometimes I fuck her so stupid she forgets how to use her words.” 

“Jesus, Harvey,” Mike hisses, but he doesn’t take his focus off of you for a second. 

“Suits me fine,” Harvey adds, “It was nice to have it out in the open. Sick of the two of you playing eye tag. You told me she’s like a sister to you Mike, and no one should be looking at their sister like that.” 

“I don’t look at her like—I don’t, I—” His insistence seems to die in his throat as you blink up at him, your eyes filling with panicked tears. His expression softens, and he begins to reach out, but stills when he seems to think better of it. 

“Be honest, Mike,” Harvey’s thrusts slow again, “For both our sakes.” 

“P-please, Mikey?” You breathe. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows again. He plants his hands on the counter on either side of yours as he leans down, reaching your eye level. He searches your expression for a few long, harrowing moments before he murmurs, “Okay.”

“Hear that, baby?” 

“Only if you want it,” You ignore Harvey, “Need you to want it, too, Mikey.” 

Mike’s eyes sweep across your body again as he nods slowly, “I want it.” 

“Are you sure—?” You start, but Mike is knocking Harvey’s hand away from your chin and replacing it with his own, drawing you into a kiss. You strain closer to him, ignoring the harsh edge of the counter you’re pressed against. You open your mouth with a quiet moan as his tongue sweeps along the seam of your lips. 

Harvey’s hands smooth over your sides before he uses his grasp on you to tug you away from Mike. He’s pulling out before you can argue, slapping your hip and ordering, “Get on the counter.” 

You turn as he says, pushing yourself back with shaking arms. Mike is around the counter in a moment, stepping between your legs and taking your face into his hands for another kiss. You lean up into him, curling your arms around his middle and pressing your chest to his. You feel Harvey’s lips sweep along the side of your neck, trailing up to your ear. Mike’s hands drift down over your shoulders, sweeping across your collarbones before he slows. 

“Can I touch—Fuck,” He breathes when you take hold of one of his hands, drawing it to cover your breast and squeezing. 

“Mhm,” You hum as Mike ducks his head, nipping at your jaw before his kisses trail lower. You arch up into his touch, letting your head loll to the side to catch Harvey’s lips in a kiss. You feel him smile into it, one of his hands smoothing over and squeezing your thighs before slipping his fingers over your plump pussy. You whimper, grasping his wrist and tipping your hips up into his touch. You sigh softly as Mike draws one of your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it before giving it a slow, luxurious suck. Harvey lifts his hand, swiping your juices around your other nipple just before Mike turns his head, taking it into his mouth. 

Mike groans at the taste of you, nodding as Harvey asks, “She taste good?”

“So good,” Mike mumbles. 

“There’s more where that came from.” 

You watch, stunned, as Harvey rests his hand on Mike’s head, guiding him further down. Before you can tell Mike that he doesn’t have to, he’s pushing your thighs wide and diving between them. Your mouth falls open as you watch Mike lap across your pussy. He moans against you, swiping his tongue against your clit before sucking it between his lips. You jolt at the sudden pressure, your hand shooting up to grasp Harvey’s arm. He chuckles softly, turning his head to nuzzle against your head.

“Told you he would like it,” He murmurs, and you slide your eyes shut, fingertips grasping at the fabric of his shirt. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise that Mike figures out how to push your buttons so quickly. You’ve known one another for a long time—he’s attuned to your moods, your shifts. And considering how his mind works, it’s no wonder that he figures you out so quickly, takes in what makes your hips twitch, your hand grasp and tug his hair, to follow and linger when you use your hold on him to guide his head. 

You lap broadly across your palm, reaching down to take hold of Harvey’s length and pumping him. He hums softly, wrapping his arm around your middle and pressing up into your touch.

“How long have you been thinking about her like this, Mike?” Harvey asks, resting his head against yours as you both watch him. Mike leans away, blinking up at the two of you. You take in the sight of him—the flushed cheeks, the slickness coating his lips and cheeks. 

“A long time,” He admits in a rough voice, “Too long.” He leans back in without breaking eye contact, lapping the tip of his tongue over your clit. You blink hazily down at him, mesmerized by the pink flash of his tongue, the tingling sensations flooding your body as he swirls in steady, clockwise circles. 

“Mikey,” You breathe, “Fuck me?”

You smile, vindicated, as Mike groans, his tongue lapping more harshly against you before he breathes, “Yes, god, how are you real?” He surges up, mouth pressing harshly against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth. You whimper at the taste of yourself on his tongue, curling your hand around his tie and using it to tug him closer. You feel Harvey step away, but he’s back a moment later, pressing a condom into Mike’s hand. Mike pulls back, undoing his pants, and you watch him shove them down, revealing his hard cock. 

You look up at Harvey as he cups your cheek, giving you a quick kiss before he guides you back to lay across on the counter. You take him in hand before he can ask, drawing him closer and taking him into your mouth. Harvey groans, tapping his fingers over the head of his cock where it bulges in your cheek. 

You feel the splatter of warm spit against your pussy, chased by one more sucking kiss before Mike steadies a hand on your hip. 

“You ready?” He asks. You draw your mouth off of Harvey’s cock, looking up at Mike. 

“Yes. Yes, Mike, please,” You beg, tipping your hips down toward him. You watch him take himself in hand, swiping the head of his cock over your clit before finally pressing inside. Your mouth falls open at the stretch, and Harvey uses that opportunity to press between your lips. You let yourself sag back against the counter, giving into the push-pull of being between them, reveling in their grunts and moans, and their roaming hands. 

--  

“C’mon, you two.” 

It takes a moment for you to come to hear Harvey, your head swimming slightly. You glance down toward where Mike is leaning over you, his head resting between your breasts. The marble counter feels as heated as your naked body now, nothing like the chill that was there when you first leaned against it. It takes Mike a moment, too—and then he’s pushing himself up, taking dazed steps back as he removes the used condom. 

You feel Harvey’s hands smooth over your hips before he slips them beneath your back, gently peeling you up from the counter. He keeps steady hold on you, waiting for your sluggish head and body to catch up with one another. 

“You dizzy?” 

“Mm…Little bit.” 

“Lean against me, I’ve got you,” He urges, guiding you down off of the counter. You lean heavily against him, stomach swooping as your feet hit the floor. Your entire body feels like jello, and your head is still swimming, a little. 

Harvey leads the way back to his bedroom with Mike it tow, guiding you down toward the bed. 

“I’ll get you some gatorade,” He soothes, sweeping his head across your forehead, “And some water. You want something to eat?” 

“Mm…Nn-nn. Not right now,” You shake your head a little. 

“Alright. Mike?” 

“I’m okay.” 

Harvey shoots him a knowing, chastising look. “You’re getting gatorade, too. Gatorade, shower, and then we’ll figure out takeout.” 

You curl up onto your side, wiggling your fingers as you reach for Mike. He sits on the bed beside you, kicking his shoes off and removing his jacket before he lays down, drawing you into his arms. You curl up, hooking your leg over his as you press your face into his neck, drawing in a deep breath.

“Did you really call out my name when you were in bed with Harvey?” He asks. 

“Mhm.”

“Was he mad?” 

“Honestly? He was turned on.” 

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you catch it when his head falls back, the line of his throat bared, a stutter in his breath that betrays him. harvey specter doesn’t stutter. that’s when you let your palm slide up—over the curve of his chest, up the column of his neck, cradling his jaw until your fingers hover over his lips. and when you press two past them, testing, just to see how he’ll take it… he doesn’t flinch.

he looks at you. right at you. eyes dark, unbreaking, while his tongue curls slow around your fingers, tasting, pulling them deeper with a low, shameless moan that vibrates through his chest.

his lips are hot and soft around your fingers, the scrape of his teeth catching for just a second before his tongue smooths the sting away. he hums against them, deep in his chest, and it vibrates straight through your hand, down your spine. god, he’s obscene like this—harvey specter, closer to a legend than a man most days, reduced to sucking on your fingers while you move on top of him like he’s yours to ruin.

a groan slips out of him, muffled, wet around your knuckles. his eyes don’t leave yours, though—they’re heavy-lidded, glazed with lust, but still sharp, still so him. like he’s daring you to look away first.

you press a little deeper, your fingers curling against his tongue, and he moans again—longer this time, head falling back against the cushion. you can see his throat work as he swallows, the tendons standing out under flushed skin. it’s such a rare crack in the armor you can’t help but think, jesus, if the city could see him like this…

“yeah?” you whisper, voice shaky, testing him, your hips slowing just to savor the sight. “you like that, don’t you?”

he groans, a low sound that borders on a growl, his grip tightening on your ass. he sucks harder, obscene and deliberate, until spit slicks the corners of his mouth and you feel it dripping between your fingers.

he moans around your fingers, low and guttural, his tongue dragging lazy circles like he wants to savor every inch of you. the sound is so wrecked it vibrates straight through your chest, and it makes you clench down around him, makes you ride just a little slower, just to keep him there.

when you finally ease your fingers out, his mouth follows, lips parting, spit stringing in a glistening thread that breaks when you pull away. his chest is heaving, his jaw slack, and you don’t give him time to recover—you slide those wet fingers past your own lips, tasting him, tasting this. his eyes go dark, a raw, hungry flash that makes his grip on your hips bruise-deep.

you start to move faster then, rolling down harder, grinding in a way that drags a groan from him so sharp it borders on a plea. his head tips back against the couch, throat bared, adam’s apple bobbing with every ragged sound.

“god, harvey…” you murmur, breathless but giddy, watching him unravel beneath you. “you’re so fucking pretty like this.” you rock harder, just to hear the way it rips another groan out of him. “should take a picture of you—frame it above the bed so you never forget how good you look when i’m in charge.”

his only response is another broken moan, deep and helpless, and the way his hands claw at you like he’s holding on for dear life.

your pace quickens, hips snapping down harder, and he groans—loud, unrestrained, his fingers clawing into you like he can’t tell if he wants to slow you down or hold on tighter.

“fuck—” his voice is rough, cracking in the middle, “what has gotten into you?” he manages, a ragged laugh spilling out like he can’t believe he’s even asking the question. his head tips back against the couch, throat bared, but his eyes are still on you, dark and desperate.

you lean in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you ride him mercilessly. “what’s gotten into me?” you echo, breathless but taunting, “maybe it’s just… there’s something so fucking hot about having the harvey specter underneath me like this.” you grind down hard, making him choke on another groan. “big, powerful man… reduced to an absolute mess for his wife.”

your words drag a sound out of him that’s low, raw, but still distinctly him—controlled even as he unravels. his fingers tighten at your hips, guiding but not leading, like he can’t decide whether to fight the loss of power or surrender to it. his head tips back against the couch, jaw slack, but his eyes snap to yours, dark and intent.

“you realize,” he says, voice rough, breaking on the edges, “this… is ridiculously sexy.” he exhales sharply, chest rising against the half-open shirt. “having me under you like this—it shouldn’t get to me, but it does. more than i’d like to admit.”

you smile wickedly, leaning down just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth before pulling back. “oh, i think you like it more than you’ll ever admit. harvey specter, letting me ruin him… i should put this on my resume.”

that pulls a laugh out of him, shaky but genuine, his teeth flashing before his head falls back again. “you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” his tone is teasing, but there’s no hiding the groan that follows when you grind down harder. “god, you’re… dangerous when you figure out what works on me.”

your grin curves slow, sharp, and you lean down until your lips almost brush his. you whisper, rolling your hips deeper, dragging another groan from his throat, “i’m all about figuring you out, baby.”

his breath stutters, eyes half-lidded but locked on yours, and that’s when you see it—the warm glow from the penthouse windows catching on the ring wrapped around your finger, a glint of gold against flushed skin and his undone shirt. it’s subtle, but he notices it too, his gaze flicking there for the briefest second before snapping back to you, darker, hungrier, like the reminder only drives him further over the edge.

harvey specter—legend, closer to myth than man—laid bare beneath you, bound by your rhythm, your touch, your name on his lips, and the proof of your claim gleaming in the light between you.

-----

Louis is practically vibrating beside you, his stride quick and proud, like a man walking a prize-winning racehorse into the show ring. “Number one in her class,” he’s saying to no one in particular, though he’s loud enough for half the bullpen to hear. “Harvard. My Harvard. Full ride. Recruited by half the firms in the city, but she chose us. Chose me.”

You resist the urge to shrink under the weight of so many eyes. Associates glance up from their monitors, partners peer over the rims of their reading glasses, and you can feel the quiet ripple of appraisal following you through the room. You know what they’re thinking: fresh out of law school, bright-eyed, top of your class—how long until the grind of this place dulls the shine? You lift your chin and keep your pace steady. Let them watch.

Louis slows as you approach the corner office—the corner office—and your pulse ticks up. Through the glass, you see him: Harvey Specter. The Harvey Specter. Leaning back in his chair like the world spins because he lets it, a pen balanced between his fingers, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his mouth. The city skyline sprawls behind him, impossibly bright for this early in the morning.

Louis pushes the door open without knocking, voice pitched in that particular way that’s half-boast, half-plea for validation. “Harvey, meet my new associate. Number one at Harvard Law.”

Harvey’s gaze flicks from Louis to you, and it’s like being under a spotlight—sharp, assessing, the kind of look that takes in everything and gives nothing back. Up close, you catch the faint scent of his cologne: something warm and expensive, threaded with a hint of spice. It settles under your skin in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“You plan on keeping her in the bullpen?” Harvey asks, his tone lazy but edged with amusement. “Seems like a waste.”

Louis bristles. “She’s with me. And she’s going to be the best associate this firm has ever seen.”

Harvey’s smirk widens by a fraction, like he knows something neither of you do yet. His eyes stay on you as he says, “We’ll see about that.”

The words shouldn’t make your stomach flip. They do anyway.

The next several weeks blur into a series of long nights and longer days. You prove quickly that you aren’t just book-smart—you’re fast, adaptable, and unshakable under pressure. You file airtight motions with minutes to spare, dismantle opposing arguments in conference calls, and pull case law from thin air like you’ve been practicing for years. Whispers start to follow you down the hallway—not just about being Louis’ Harvard golden girl, but about the way you leave no loose ends. The way you can smile at someone while tearing their argument to shreds.

You drink your coffee black, keep your bullpen desk unnervingly tidy, and dress like every meeting could make or break your career. When someone tries to pass their grunt work onto you, you hand it back with corrections. Associates either want to be you or avoid you entirely. Partners are starting to remember your name.

One afternoon, the tap of Louis’ shoes announces him before he even rounds the corner to your desk. He’s clutching a thick file to his chest like it’s a newborn. “Clear your schedule,” he says, practically bouncing in place.

You slide your pen into your notepad and arch a brow. “That’s a big ask, considering I actually do work around here.”

“Cute,” he says flatly, though there’s the ghost of a smirk on his face. He sets the file down on your desk with a heavy thud. “I’m bringing you in on a case. High stakes. Big client. One wrong move and we’re toast.”

You flip open the file, scanning the first few pages, your brain already sifting through strategies. “And you’re trusting me with this because…?”

“Because,” Louis says, drawing out the word, “you’re the best associate this firm has seen in years. And because I want Harvey Specter to choke on the fact that my protégé just outshined him.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes. “So no pressure, then.”

Louis grins. “Exactly. Now, read up. We meet the client tomorrow morning.”

Two days later, Harvey’s on his way back from a meeting when he hears raised voices echoing down the hall. Not angry, exactly—sharp. Heated. Curious, he follows the sound until it leads him to one of the glass-walled conference rooms.

Inside, Louis sits stiffly at the table, arms crossed, eyes trained on you. You’re standing, posture straight, expression cool, facing down a red-faced client who’s clearly in the middle of a tirade. Harvey lingers in the doorway, unnoticed.

The client jabs a finger at you. “I don’t care what the law says—this deal is garbage, and I’m not signing it.”

You tilt your head, the faintest smile tugging at your mouth. “With respect, you hired us to get you the best possible outcome. This is it. The other side folds if you take this now, but if you walk out that door, you’ll spend the next six months bleeding money in litigation you won’t win.”

The client starts to interrupt, but you press on, voice razor-sharp. “You’re emotional. I get it. But emotions don’t win cases. Facts do. And the fact is, if you reject this offer, you lose. And when you lose, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

A long silence follows. Then, with a muttered curse, the client sits down and signs.

Harvey watches as you slide the paperwork across the table, your smile polite but victorious. Louis beams. Harvey, still in the doorway, can’t help the slow grin spreading across his face.

It’s late by the time the bullpen empties, the steady hum of the office replaced by the low whir of the air system. Your desk lamp casts a warm halo over the neat stacks of files, and you’re buried deep in a deposition transcript when a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Planning on sleeping here, Rookie?”

You look up, startled, to find Harvey leaning against the edge of your desk, hands in his pockets, smirk firmly in place. “Some of us don’t clock out at five,” you say, reaching for a highlighter.

“Some of us know when to call it a night.” He nods toward the file. “That the case from this morning?”

You nod. “I like to be thorough.”

“Thorough’s good,” he says, studying you in that sharp, unreadable way. “But you keep this up, and you’ll burn out before your first year’s up.”

You arch a brow. “Is this a lecture?”

“An invitation,” he corrects smoothly. “There’s a bar two blocks over. Come on.”

You hesitate, and his smile widens. “Mentorship, not a date. Unless you want it to be.”

Rolling your eyes, you close the file and stand. “One drink.”

“Then let’s go,” he says, pushing away from your desk, his smirk softening just enough to make you wonder what exactly you’ve agreed to.

The air outside is crisp, the city alive with the hum of traffic and the distant wail of sirens. Harvey walks beside you, his long stride unhurried, hands still in his pockets like the night belongs to him. The bar is low-lit and sleek, all dark wood and leather, the kind of place that feels private even when it’s busy.

You slide into a booth, and he orders without asking—scotch for him, gin and tonic for you. When the drinks arrive, he lifts his glass toward you. “To surviving Louis Litt.”

You smirk. “I think I’m doing more than surviving.”

“That’s what worries me,” he says, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You’re good—too good for your first few months here. Which means you’ve got a target on your back.”

You take a slow sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. God, he really is exactly as handsome as everyone says he is. The cut of his suit, the way his hair catches the light, the easy confidence in every movement—it’s almost distracting.

“So what, you’re here to protect me?”

He leans back, smiling like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “I’m here because I like to keep an eye on talent. And because you were impressive today.”

“Impressive enough to get a drink with Harvey Specter?”

“Let’s just say,” he drawls, “I don’t make a habit of taking rookies out for drinks. You’re an exception.”

The conversation drifts—cases, courtroom tactics, the unspoken rules of Pearson Hardman. Every so often, his gaze lingers a fraction too long, like he’s measuring you in ways that have nothing to do with work.

When the drinks are gone, he stands and shrugs into his coat, waiting for you to follow. Outside, the night air is cooler, the streets quieter. You walk together toward the firm, and there’s an ease between you now that wasn’t there a few hours ago.

At the front of the building, he pauses. “Get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow, you get to do it all over again.”

You smirk. “Was that encouragement?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes it feel like a promise.

You watch him walk away into the night, realizing you’re already looking forward to the next time you’re in his orbit.

The weeks that follow pull you into his world almost without you realizing it. A case you’re on overlaps with one of his, and suddenly you’re in his office more than your own desk—sprawled on the leather couch near the window, heels discarded on the floor, legal pads and files spread out beside you. Harvey’s jacket, vest, and tie are draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of low glasses of scotch from his office bar sit on the coffee table, the amber liquid catching the glow from the city lights beyond the glass.

He’s pacing, file in hand, rattling off points with that easy confidence. You volley back without missing a beat, chin propped in your hand, eyes following him. “That’s your strategy?” you tease. “Bold move, Specter. Risky. I give it a week before it blows up in your face.”

He smirks, setting the file down. “Funny, because I was thinking the same thing about your opening statement.”

“Mine is bulletproof.”

“Yours is overconfident.”

“Yours is lazy.”

“Yours is trying too hard.”

“Yours—”

“Careful,” he warns, but there’s amusement in his voice.

You grin. “—is exactly what I’d expect from a man whose solution to everything is intimidation and a tailored suit.”

He settles into the armchair across from you, one arm draped casually over the side. “And yet, somehow, that ‘man’ wins. Every. Single. Time.”

You tap your pen against the edge of your glass. “Maybe you just haven’t had me on the other side of the table yet.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

He studies you for a beat, the smirk fading into something sharper, more curious. The city light cuts across his face, and for just a moment, the banter gives way to silence thick enough to feel. “Careful what you wish for, Rookie,” he says at last, voice low. “You might just get it.”

You smile, leaning back into the couch. He takes a sip of scotch, eyes still on you. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he says, “Go home. Get some rest. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes but start gathering your files, slipping your heels back on. “Don’t miss me too much.”

He smirks. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You’re halfway out the door when you toss over your shoulder, “You’d be lost without me.”

“Debatable,” he calls after you, but there’s a warmth under the word that lingers after you’re gone.

When the door clicks shut, Harvey exhales, collapsing into his chair. He stares at the empty couch, then downs the rest of his scotch in one swallow. Leaning back, he scrubs a hand over his face, the word slipping out under his breath, low and rough: “Goddamnit.”

The weeks that follow aren’t explosive—they’re a slow, deliberate creep toward something neither of you says out loud. Harvey keeps the banter quick and the praise understated, but you notice the shift anyway. He starts asking for your input on cases you’re not staffed on. He waves you into his office after meetings that technically ended fifteen minutes ago, just to “pick your brain.” You’re not sure if it’s because you’re good at your job or because he likes watching you tear apart an argument, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left standing.

In return, you’ve gotten bolder. You let your heels slip off the moment you hit the couch in his office. You steal the pens from his desk when yours run out. You lean over his shoulder when he’s scrolling through a contract, close enough that you can smell his cologne under the faint warmth of scotch. And every time, he doesn’t move away.

Donna starts raising her eyebrows at how often she sees you in his glass-walled office. Louis makes a snide comment about “Harvey poaching talent” when he catches you two laughing over something that has nothing to do with law. You shrug it off—out loud, at least. Privately, you can feel the current under every exchange, the way his gaze lingers a beat too long, the way yours drops to his mouth when he smirks.

Nights are the most dangerous. When the bullpen is dark and the hum of the city filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you’re still in his office, your jacket draped over the back of a chair, files spread across the table between you. Sometimes you talk strategy. Sometimes the conversation veers into stories about Harvard, his early days at the firm, or your first big case win. The laughter comes easier then—so does the silence.

And when you finally stand to leave, there’s always that pause. His eyes on you as you collect your things. Yours on him as he leans back in his chair, watching.

Neither of you has crossed the line yet. But you’re both standing at the edge, looking down.

It happens on a Thursday. The case had been brutal, the kind that drags the whole week down with it, and Harvey suggests—too casually—to “get a drink before we both lose what’s left of our sanity.” You don’t even pretend to hesitate.

The bar is quieter this time, tucked away from the usual finance crowd. Dark wood, low lighting, jazz bleeding through the speakers. You take the booth across from him, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Half an hour and two rounds in, you’re both leaning in, elbows on the table, trading war stories about the worst clients you’ve ever had.

“You still think you’re the reason I win?” he asks, that smirk cutting through the dim light.

“Absolutely,” you say, swirling your glass. “Without me, you’d be—”

“Careful.” His voice dips, low enough to blur the line between warning and invitation.

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “—bored.”

It should end there. It doesn’t. His hand finds the table between you, fingers brushing yours in a way that can’t be written off as accidental. You don’t move. The noise of the bar fades to the sound of your own pulse.

For a second, you think he’s going to close the distance—his eyes drop, just barely, to your mouth.

And then he leans back, pulling his hand away like nothing happened. “Another round?”

The air between you is different now. Charged. Dangerous. And neither of you mentions it on the walk back to the firm.

The next day, you can’t focus. The numbers on the page blur, the clauses in the contract don’t stick, and your mind keeps replaying the brush of his fingers like it’s on loop. You’re halfway through the same paragraph for the third time when Louis’s hand is slamming down on the wall of your desk.

“My office. Now.”

You blink, realizing half the bullpen is already looking at you. “Uh—sure, Louis.”

Inside, he shuts the door with unnecessary force. “You’re off your game.”

“I’m fine,” you say, stacking your papers just to have something to do with your hands.

“No, you’re not. I’ve been watching you all morning. You’ve missed details you wouldn’t normally miss. And you know what missing details leads to? Mistakes. Which leads to the other side winning. And you know what that leads to?”

“An angry Louis?”

He stares at you like you’ve just confessed to a felony. “This isn’t a joke.”

You soften your tone, even if you can’t help the flicker of a smirk. “I said I’m fine. It won’t happen again.”

He huffs, still unconvinced, but lets you go. Back at your desk, you catch yourself glancing at Harvey’s office, glass walls gleaming under the morning sun. He’s inside, jacket off, leaning over a file—but you’d swear his eyes flick up to meet yours for a split second before he goes back to work.

It’s late when he finds you. The bullpen’s nearly empty—just the soft hum of the copier somewhere down the hall, the city glow bleeding in through the windows. You’re so deep in your file that you don’t notice him until the reflection of his suit fills your peripheral.

“You’ve been distracted,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like it’s meant only for you.

You look up, leaning back in your chair, trying to hide the fact that your pulse just spiked. “You been talking to Louis?”

“Don’t need to.” His eyes flick over your desk like he’s taking in the evidence. “I see it.”

You sit up straighter, defensive without meaning to be. “I’m still delivering results.”

“Not the point.” He studies you for a beat too long, the way he does in court when he’s already won but wants to watch the other side squirm. Then his mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “Come out with me tonight.”

You blink, caught off guard. “The usual bar?”

“Not tonight.” There’s a pause, calculated. “My place.”

For a second, you wonder if you misheard him. His place. The words land heavier than they should, dragging a hundred questions behind them. Is this still work? Is this mentorship? Is this something else entirely? You search his face for a tell, but he’s giving you nothing.

“That’s… different,” you say finally, trying to keep your tone light.

“You afraid I’m going to make you work through dinner?” His smirk is there, but it doesn’t hide the way his gaze lingers.

You take your time closing your file, sliding it into your bag. Your mind’s racing ahead, weighing all the things this could mean. “I’m afraid of what your definition of dinner is.”

His smirk deepens. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

You stand, slipping into your jacket, and even then there’s a moment—a beat—where neither of you moves. Then you step past him, the quiet sound of your heels on the tile filling the space between words.

The ride is short, quiet in a way that doesn’t feel uncomfortable but still sits heavy. You thank Ray when you step out, the city air colder here, cleaner somehow. Harvey leads the way without a word, unlocking the door to a high-rise apartment that looks exactly like you’d imagine it would—sleek lines, warm lighting, the kind of view that makes you pause on the threshold.

It smells faintly like leather and whatever cologne he wears, the one you’ve only ever caught in passing before. Here, it’s stronger. More personal.

He drops his keys in a dish near the door, loosens his tie, and gestures toward the living room. “Make yourself at home.”

You step in, eyes catching on the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling city lights across polished hardwood, the low hum of jazz floating from somewhere unseen. It’s not staged—no carefully curated backdrop like the conference rooms at work. It’s lived-in, but not messy. Comfortable, but still him.

You toe off your heels without thinking, padding further inside. “Nice place.”

He glances over his shoulder with the faintest hint of a smirk. “I’ve been told it’s not bad.”

There’s a moment where you just stand there, him watching you take it all in, the air between you thick with something that has nothing to do with work.

He heads to a bar cart tucked into the corner, pulling out two heavy crystal tumblers and a bottle of Macallan. “Scotch okay?”

You nod, dropping your bag onto the end of the couch. “You keep the good stuff here, huh?”

“I keep the good stuff everywhere.” The faint clink of ice follows his words. He hands you a glass, his fingers brushing yours—brief, but enough to send heat crawling up your spine.

You take a sip, the burn settling in your chest. “So, this is what you do when you’re not closing billion-dollar deals?”

“This is me taking a night off,” he says, settling onto the couch, tie discarded, top buttons undone. The relaxed version of Harvey is disarming, and you can’t decide if that’s better or worse for your nerves.

“Feels like I should be taking notes,” you say.

“Please. You’d have your own style. Different from mine, but just as lethal.” His gaze is steady, the kind that feels like it’s peeling you apart layer by layer.

“Lethal’s a big word,” you murmur.

“It’s the right one.” He takes a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. “You’ve got an instinct most people spend decades faking.”

It’s the kind of praise that should feel purely professional, but the way he says it—low, deliberate—makes your chest feel tight.

You set your glass down, leaning back into the couch, pretending to be more at ease than you are. “Careful, Harvey. Sounds like you’re complimenting me.”

His smirk is slow, almost dangerous. “Maybe I am.”

You swirl the amber in your glass, watching the way the light catches it. “You’re different out of the office.”

“How so?”

“Less… sharp edges. Still sharp, just—” You pause, eyes flicking over him. “—not in a way that’s designed to cut.”

One brow arches. “And here I thought you liked the sharp edges.”

“I do,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

The quiet that follows is heavier than before. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, the space between you suddenly feeling a lot smaller.

“You know,” he says, voice low enough that you feel it more than hear it, “most people in your position would be trying to impress me.”

“Maybe I already have.”

That earns you a smile—slower, warmer than the ones he flashes in court. “Maybe you have,” he repeats, like he’s turning the idea over in his mind.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, and that’s when you realize how close you’ve both leaned in. The air feels charged, like the city outside is holding its breath.

"This is a dumb idea," you almost immediately breathe out, your eyes dropping to his mouth all the same. You can feel his breath against your lips, just teetering on the edge of giving into weeks worth of tension.

"Really stupid," Harvey echoes. "But I want to. Do you want to?"

Your eyes lock with his. A single, slow nod. You really, really want to.

Your nod barely has time to settle between you before his mouth is on yours—slow, deliberate, like he’s tasting the answer. His lips are warm and soft, the faintest graze of stubble scratching your skin when he tilts his head. The scent of his cologne is stronger here, wrapping around you with the low hum of the city beyond the glass. His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, not pushing, just holding you there, making the kiss feel even more inevitable.

When he pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet. His eyes search yours, unreadable, the kind of silence that hums louder than words.

And then he’s kissing you again—harder this time, with a heat that steals the air from your lungs. The angle shifts, his hand sliding into your hair, his body leaning in like he’s finally stopped caring about lines. The taste of scotch and something entirely him blooms on your tongue. You feel the press of his chest through the crisp fabric of his shirt, the way his fingers flex against the back of your neck like he’s anchoring you to him.

The kiss deepens until you’re both moving without thought, mouths opening, finding a rhythm that’s all heat and want. His hand drags from your neck to your waist, pulling you closer until your knees bump his. You can feel the solid weight of him, the warmth radiating through his shirt, and it sends your mind racing ahead of your body.

Your fingers hover at the edge of his collar, unsure for a beat before you touch him—just grazing the smooth silk of his tie, then curling it loosely in your hand like you’re testing how far you can go. He doesn’t notice the pause; or if he does, he hides it well, leaning in to kiss you again, deeper.

The faint taste of scotch, the scrape of his stubble, the slow drag of his thumb along your hip—it’s all too much and not enough. You shift forward, knees brushing his thigh, and your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Mm,” he hums into your mouth, like he’s pleased with himself.

You try to kiss him back the way he’s kissing you—sure, practiced—but there’s a stutter in your movements, a slight awkwardness in where to put your hands. You end up smoothing them over his chest, feeling the firm planes beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, before hesitating again.

He doesn’t slow. One hand fists gently in the fabric at your lower back, the other sliding up your spine, fingertips pressing lightly through the layers of your blouse. Your jacket slips off your shoulders without you meaning it to, pooling on the couch beside you.

When his fingers brush the first button of your blouse, your stomach flips—not with fear, but with the dizzy awareness that you’ve never let anyone this close before. You’re not sure if you’re doing this right, but Harvey… Harvey kisses you like you are.

His fingers work at the buttons slowly, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him. One by one, they come undone, the fabric parting until it sits on your shoulders. The air hits your skin, cooler than his hands, and then he’s leaning back just enough to look at you.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, eyes sweeping over you in a way that makes your pulse hammer. “You’re beautiful.”

The words land heavier than you expect, heating your face instantly. You look away, not because you don’t want to hear it, but because you don’t know what to do with it.

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “You can tear opposing counsel to shreds without blinking, but tell you you’re beautiful and you go all quiet?”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s softer than usual, your fingers fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. “It’s… different.”

He tips his head, curiosity cutting through the heat in his gaze. “Different how?”

You hesitate, weighing whether to tell him. The moment stretches, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your side, and suddenly it feels worse to not say it.

“I’ve never…” You swallow, meeting his eyes for half a second before looking away again. “I’ve never done this before.”

For the first time tonight, he goes still. His thumb pauses against your side, and that sharp, assessing gaze fixes on you like you’ve just thrown him a curveball.

“You’re telling me…” his voice dips, incredulous but amused, “…no one’s ever closed this deal before?”

You groan quietly, covering your face with one hand. “God, don’t say it like that.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “What? I’m just clarifying the terms.” His hand finds your wrist, gently pulling it from your face so he can look at you. “You’ve never—”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. “Never. And I wasn’t exactly… planning for it to happen like this, but—” your eyes flick to his, steady now— “I want to.”

For a second, his smirk lingers, like he’s savoring the surprise. Then it eases into something slower, warmer. “You know, most people don’t drop that on me after I’ve got their shirt off.”

“Sorry to ruin your usual flow.”

“Ruin?” He leans back just enough to look you over, head tilted. “Rookie, you just made my night a hell of a lot more interesting.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in again, that smirk back in place, “but I’m also very, very good.”

His voice drops lower on the last word, and he shifts closer, one hand sliding to your shoulder to gently push your blouse the rest of the way open. The fabric parts easily under his fingers, cool air brushing your skin before the warmth of him replaces it.

He lowers himself, slow enough that you feel the anticipation crawl up your spine, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. The first kiss there is soft—barely more than a press of lips—but it sends a shiver through you all the same. He follows it with another, lower this time, the faint scrape of stubble dragging heat in its wake.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone before trailing back up, “what you’re in for.”

He brings his lips back up to yours after that, but this time, when he kisses you, there's so much more behind it. You can feel his earnestness, his promise in the way his lips move against yours, the softness of them mirroring the almost uncharacteristic gentleness with which he's treating you. He pulls back slowly, a hint of a smirk on his face as his hand wraps with yours, pulling you to your feet.

"What? You think I'd let you have your first time on a couch? Please. I'm Harvey Fucking Specter. Luxury, baby."

If it were any other moment, you would have rolled your eyes at him and thrown a smack at his arrogance, but in this moment, you were grateful. Despite the cockiness he was presenting, it was obvious it was all just because he was trying to make this the best experience possible for you. Luxury, indeed.

"Holy shit."

You have to take a moment to look around in awe once you get to his bedroom. It’s everything you imagined: floor-to-ceiling windows spilling the city in gold and silver, a bed big enough to swallow you whole, sheets so crisp you could swear they’ve never been slept in. He stops just inside the doorway, turning back to you, and for a second the usual cocky mask slips.

He watches you take it in—the skyline, the impossibly crisp sheets, the sheer Harvey-ness of it all—and for a moment there’s no smirk, no performance. Just his eyes on you, softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not hesitant, but deliberate, like he wants you to hear the weight of the choice.

You nod, throat suddenly dry. “I’m sure.”

That earns a grin, but it doesn’t carry the same courtroom bite. It’s warmer, more private. “Good,” he murmurs, stepping in to kiss you again. This one is slow, thorough, his hand cupping your jaw while the other tugs at the hem of your blouse. He peels it away inch by inch, lips never leaving yours until the fabric falls.

When you shiver, he pulls back just enough to smirk. “Relax, Rookie. You think I’d leave you feeling anything but perfect? Not a chance.”

The banter helps. It steadies your nerves, makes the way his hands trail over your skin feel less like exposure and more like discovery. By the time he’s stripped you down to nothing but your underwear, you’re flushed but no longer frozen.

He steps back, unbuttoning his shirt easily. The fabric falls off of him, cufflinks clinking softly against the nightstand, and then he’s just Harvey in all his sharp, lean confidence, bathed in city light.

Your breath catches. “Damn.”

He chuckles, low and smug. “Don’t worry, that’s a normal reaction.”

You swat at him weakly, but he catches your wrist, tugging you forward until you’re against his chest. His stubble grazes your temple when he murmurs, “Lie down.”

The sheets are cool under your back, his weight warm as he follows. He takes his time with you, kissing down your throat, hands mapping every inch, until your nerves fray into need. His fingers slip between your thighs, stroking over the thin cotton of your panties.

“Already wet,” he mutters, more to himself than you, but the smugness is there. His eyes flick up to yours. “You trust me?”

You nod.

“Then let me get you ready.”

The panties slide away, his mouth replacing his fingers, coaxing gasps from you until your hips lift helplessly into his hand. One finger, then two, sliding in slow, deliberate, curling just enough to have your nails digging into the sheets. He keeps his eyes on you, studying every twitch and breath.

"Like that?" He asks, fingers still gently working in and out of you as he pulls his mouth away, his lips glistening with the wetness of yours.

"Not bad, yeah," you pant out, poorly feigning nonchalance.

He grins widely. "Not bad, huh? We'll see."

His mouth returns to its place, his lips wrapping over your clit, sucking it gently. His chuckles vibrate against you when your hips arch into his face, your breathing growing hot with the sensations.

His fingers continue to scissor inside of you, stretching you open in preparation for him. With one final kiss to your clit, his lips make their way back up your body, slow and wet, until his face is hovering over yours.

"How do you feel?" He asks. "Feeling good? Think you're ready?"

"Think you're ready?" You counter, your smirk settling over the expression of pleasure he had plastered on your face.

A slow grin makes its way onto his lips. "Yeah. I'm ready."

“Good,” you say, and he kisses you like a seal on the decision—slow first, then deeper until your mouth is warm and slick with him. When he breaks away, he reaches to the nightstand without looking, rips foil with a clean flick. Watching him roll the condom on does something to your pulse—clinical and intimate at once, like the moment before a verdict.

“Legs,” he murmurs, tapping your knee. You open for him. He drags his palms up the backs of your thighs, thumbs pressing into muscle, easing you higher until your heels hook behind his waist. The city lays bands of white-gold across his shoulders; his skin is hot where it touches yours, the callouses on his hands providing a layer to his touch that makes this all that much more... enticing.

“Eyes on me,” he says, not a command so much as a place to put your focus. You give him your eyes.

The blunt heat of him nudges where his fingers were, a careful pressure that makes your breath climb your throat. He doesn’t push, yet. He just rests there, letting your body understand the weight and width of him. His hand slides up your side and settles just under your ribs, steadying your breath with his thumb.

“Breathe in,” he says softly. You do. “Now out.”

On the exhale he eases in a little. The stretch bites—new, bright—and you clutch at his shoulders. He stops immediately, thumb stroking your rib again, mouth close enough that his breath warms your cheek.

“Talk to me.”

“It… burns a little,” you admit, the truth small and honest.

“A bit of a stretch,” he murmurs. “It'll fade. We go at your pace.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another breath. Your grip eases. He sinks another inch, barely, reading your face with the same precision he uses on opposing counsel—every twitch a sentence. You let your knees fall wider over his hips; he groans, quiet and needy, like the sound was dragged out of him. It makes heat pool low in your belly in a way his fingers didn’t.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Keep—” You swallow. “Keep going.”

“You're doing great.” The praise lands low and heavy. He presses forward in small, patient glides, pausing each time your breath hitches until the hot edge blurs into a deep, aching fullness. When he’s all the way in, his forehead drops to yours, both of you breathing hard. You feel every line of him—thick, deep, seated—your body stretched around him and quickly adjusting.

“Jesus,” he says against your mouth, voice frayed. “You’re going to ruin me for everyone.”

You huff a shaky laugh. “You say that to all the rookies?”

He snorts, first. "You know that would be a massive conflict of interest and a terrible scandal," but then he smiles, real and warm. “But you also know there aren’t any others.”

He pulls out an inch and slides back, just testing the line. The first drag is strange—pressure and pull—and then his angle changes a hair and something sparks. Your mouth opens on an unplanned sound; his gaze flashes with satisfaction.

“There,” he says, like he’s marked the clause he needs. He does it again—same angle, same depth—until the strange becomes good and the good becomes heat winding tight in your spine. He keeps his hips slow, deliberate, letting you rise to meet him, letting you learn the map of him inside you. The slick sound where you’re joined is obscene in the quiet; his breath roughens and you feel it against your throat.

“Better?” he asks, and when you nod too fast he laughs softly, breathless. “Yeah. Better.”

Your hands, useless until now, find places to live—one at the back of his neck, fingers in his hair; the other sliding down to the flex of his back where muscle moves under skin with every stroke. You drag your nails lightly; the way he stutters tells you he felt it.

“Touch me,” he says, not needy, just guiding. “Anywhere you want.” It flips something in your chest—the generosity of it—and you let your palm map him: shoulder, bicep, the hard ladder of his ribs, the snap of his hip as he rolls deeper again.

The sting is gone. It’s just full and good. He knows the second that happens; his rhythm shifts, smooths, a little more weight behind each thrust. He braces your knee higher with his forearm and hits that same sweet place with merciless precision. Your head tips back; he kisses your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse kicks against his mouth.

“Look at me,” he reminds, and when your eyes find his, the cockiness is there, yes, but it’s softened by something like pride. “That’s it. Stay with me.”

You’re panting now, the edge building fast and unfamiliar. “Harvey—”

“I’ve got you.” He laces your fingers and pins them above your head, his other hand slotting under your lower back to pull you up onto him, to take him deeper. The friction at your clit is perfect now—each push drags just right. Your thighs tremble around his waist; you feel yourself start to go weightless.

“Close?” he asks, voice gone low and broken in the best way.

You nod, helpless. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Not stopping.” His mouth takes yours again, swallowing the sounds you make as he rides you right to the edge, steady.... steady... steady. “Come for me.”

It hits hot and bright, a coil snapping, pleasure running out to your fingertips. Your body clamps around him hard; he grunts, loses his smooth for a second, driving deep and holding there while you shatter under him. He doesn’t chase ahead of you; he stays, letting you feel every aftershock, kissing you through it like he’s keeping you anchored to the bed, to him, to the room with the city pouring light across the sheets.

When you finally breathe again, he moves—two more thrusts, rougher now, a quiet curse against your mouth—and then he goes, heat stuttering through him, his body tightening above you. He buries a groan in your throat like he doesn’t trust the walls not to listen.

Silence after—your breath and his; the low hum of jazz from the living room; the city’s distant siren song. He’s heavy on you in a way that feels protective more than crushing. He stays there, softening, then pulls out, slowly, carefully, as if your body is something expensive he’s responsible for. He slips away, disposes of the condom, returns with a warm, damp cloth. The heat of it is a luxury you didn’t realize you needed; he’s gentle, efficient, and annoyingly thorough, like he can’t turn off the part of his brain that insists on perfection.

“Feeling okay?” he asks quietly while he wipes you clean—checking in without making a production of it.

“Good,” you say, floating. “Really good.”

“Yeah,” he says, like he knew but wanted to hear it. He tosses the cloth, pulls the covers down with one arm and you with the other, settling you against his chest. His skin smells like soap and scotch and you, the rise and fall of his breathing already dragging you toward sleep.

You trace a slow line over his sternum, nail catching on a scatter of hair. “Luxury, huh?”

His mouth tips against your temple. “Told you I don’t half-ass.” A beat. “Also, for the record? You were impossible to concentrate around for weeks.”

You smile into his skin. “You? Distracted? I should put that on a plaque.”

He huffs a laugh, then goes quiet. His hand coasts up and down your spine in long, even passes, the kind of touch that settles rather than sparks. When you shift—some small after-echo of tenderness—he notices instantly.

“Sore?”

“Not entirely, just... different.” You’re honest now that the edge is gone.

He slides a hand to your thigh and starts a slow, grounding massage, easing the muscle where it trembles. “Tomorrow it’ll feel like a good workout,” he says, voice a lazy drag. “I’ll allow you to blame me in the office. Quietly.”

“Generous,” you murmur, sleep tugging. “Are you always like this?”

“Infuriatingly competent?” he offers.

“Careful,” you counter, softer.

He’s quiet for a long second, then: “With you? Yeah.”

You let that sit between you, warm as the sheets. The skyline throws a silver line across his jaw; his thumb finds the hollow beneath your ear and rests there like a promise.

“Stay,” he says, not quite a question.

You nod against his chest. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Good.” The word is satisfied and strangely gentle. He presses one more kiss into your hair. “Tell me you enjoyed it.”

“Was that not apparent?” You ask, already drifting.

"Of course it was," he replies. "But I want to hear you say it."

You pop an eye open, glancing up to him. "I'm not going to let you walk directly into a 'best closer in New York' joke, Harvey. You did adequate," you grin, closing your eyes and nuzzling back into his chest.

"Adequate?" he scoffs, though there's no malice in his tone. "I'm telling Louis to put you on scut work tomorrow."

"Mmm... you wouldn't. You wouldn't be able to make excuses to pull me into your office."

He sighs, playfully, fingers gently carding through your hair. "Accurate assessment, Counselor."

"Shut up."

There's a silence for a moment, supplemented only by your mingling breaths. Then, he speaks. “Donna’s going to read this all over me.”

You snort, too drowsy to open your eyes. “She’ll probably send flowers.”

-----

You didn't care how long you'd spent with the young Targaryen man; you were never less excited to see him. The fire that started at your stomach and reached for your cheeks blazed just as brightly each time for him. You hurried your pace, climbing the short stone stairs to the outlook you beloved stood at.

"Daemo-" Your exclamation was cut a bit short by the realization that this man... was most certainly not Daemon.

From up close you could see the differences, namely being the short brown hair. This man also had a loose feeling to his stance, leaned against the small statue of Caraxes that overlooked the ocean. He was looking at you then, eyes the same hazel green but a different shade - lighter. A kindness illuminating and curiosity illuminating them that Daemon would be adverse to.

You finally had the good sense to be concerned. Dropping the hem of your gown and taking a step away, your smile was sheepish as you curtsied. "Pardon the interruption, Ser. I merely mistook you for my husband."

"Your husband must be a handsome fellow!" Their voices even mirrored each other. "You can call me the doctor! Not a doctor, just the Doctor. Do you happen to know where we are?" The twin emphasized his question with a vague gesture at their surroundings, eyebrows pinching together. "This is a new one for me."

You cocked your head to the side, curious as to his strange way of speaking. How does one come to be somewhere without knowing where there is?

"You're at Dragonstone on the Black Water Bay. The castle is just up the hill." You pointed up and watched his eyebrows raise.

"The castle? I love a good castle. Who's is that? Can we go take a peek?"

Your laugh was light, deciding that even if he didn't match your husband, you just might like the stranger. "It's my husband, Daemon Targaryen's, ancestral home. Let's go take a look, I'm sure he would be riveted to meet you."

---

Daemon thoroughly enjoyed the routine he had found with his wife. No other woman had ever come close to rooting themselves this deeply into his life, and the white haired man didn't think he would ever meet another that could.

You understood his boundaries and his need for space. You were fiercely independent, which made Daemon all the more happy to try and outdo himself for you. Knowing you could care for yourself either way.

Now that Daemon was thinking about it, as he was patting his dragon goodbye, he was going to hunt you down this minute from your expected place on the beach below and have his way with you. Wherever you stood.

How good it felt to be king in his lands.

Just as he turned to start his mission, your laughter could be heard from the other side of the overlook. Smirking to himself, wondering about his impeccable timing, he changed direction toward the sound of your voice.

That's when he heard it. Another voice. A mans voice?

Daemon's playful smile quickly fell, something only to be described as a snarl taking its place. His pace quickened, turning the corner by the stables just in time to see you crest the hill with a vaguely familiar man.

He shook his head, making straight for you. Familiarity didn't fucking matter. These were his lands, his home and his wife. Who in the living fuck was mingling with his wife, all alone on the beach?

"Darling." Daemon's voice was loud and firm, the endearment sounding strange from him. "Are you alright?"

Your attention was on your husband instantly, smile radiating like the rising sun behind you. "Daemon! We were just coming to find you. This is the Doctor, he is.. visiting? I thought you would like to meet."

Daemon had come to stand right before you when his hand reached to grip your arm, pulling you firmly but gently to his side. "Visiting is it, Doctor?"

Eleven was as unbothered as they come typically, but he could not deny that the man standing across from him was his carbon copy. Sans the long, luscious white locks. Should Eleven grow his hair out? "Visiting it is, mate! Your lovely wife thought we might have a few things in common."

Daemon did not like the insinuation that they were similar, even if the appearance may be glaringly obvious. "Is your brother a king and your dragon as fierce as mine, then?"

Feeling his standoffish posture, your hand made light circles on his back while your gaze reprimanded him. "Daemon, he's just here to-"

"I'm sorry but did you say you have a dragon? That is probably the most badass thing I've ever heard, and I've been just about everywhere." Eleven was smiling like a kid in a candy store, gaze searching the sky above them like a dragon was going to swoop in at any minute. "How does one, uhm, see this dragon?"

Daemon's pride and ego battled each other for a split second before he bit out a reply. "I suppose we could go and see the dragon pits, so you know what the Targaryens are so feared for."

"Oh, wonderful! They're beautiful, Doctor, you'll love them." Grasping your husbands hand in your own, you began leading them across the clearing.

The day went similarly.

Eleven was so excited about the baby dragons that he thought he might have to come back in the dead of night to take one for himself, but quickly realized there had to be some karmic justice for stealing from yourself, right? Because Daemon Targaryen had to be some weird extension of him, they were basically copy-pasted.

Daemon did not like the Doctor one bit, almost specifically because of the smile on your face that he felt should be reserved for him. The stranger could sing praises about Dragonstone all he wanted but it wouldn't distract him from the fact that his wife seemed utterly smitten with the man.

You were having fun. The Doctor was a funny man, asking the strangest things. Like 'How do you spell Targaryen?' and 'How long have you been a monarchy?'

"What's a monarchy?" You didn't understand what was so hilarious about your husbands reply, but the Doctor was laughing like a giddy child.

It wasn't very often that you got visitors here, especially considering Daemon's nefarious past. It was a nice change, and so was the green encroaching upon your husbands face.

Every time the Doctor said something particularly funny and you couldn't help the full belly laugh you gave, Daemon's eyes narrowed a bit more. You'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy his jealousy. The tightness around his eyes as he assessed whether or not you were having just too much fun with the other man.

You made sure to assuage him with kisses throughout the day, small pecks here and there to show your loyalty. But you definitely didn't stop laughing.

By the end of your adventures, with the sun kissing the rolling hills of the island, the Doctor decided that he liked you very much. You reminded him of Amy, sure headed and sparky. You seemed like you had a good life here, full of dragons and fantasy. This was definitely one that Eleven was going to tell River about.

"Are you sure you have to leave?" Daemon stood a mere few feet away from their goodbye, refusing to budge another inch. "The castle has plenty of rooms that can be made-"

"My dragons eat strangers at nightfall."

"Daemon. He doesn't mean that, you'd be more than welcome." You rolled your eyes at his typical bravado, keeping your eyes on the ones that matched his.

"I unfortunately have other engagements that need my attention tonight, Y/N. But I had a lovely day. Thank you for showing me your home." Eleven's smile was warm, and genuine. He would miss this little corner of the multiverse, he was sure of it.

"Maybe you can come and visit again?" Daemon's scoff of disbelief was ignored by both.

"I will definitely pop by again. I need to see little fiery breath all grown up! I'd like to chat with your husband for a moment, before I leave."

With your eyebrow raised, assessing the two men, you gave a nod of dissent. "I'll meet you inside, my love." You gave Daemon a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth and smiled one last time at your visitor. "It was nice to meet you, Doctor, I hope to see you again soon."

Daemon was going over the pros and cons of gutting this fucker like a fish as soon as you were out of earshot.

Pros. He would definitely enjoy it.

Cons. You might end up crying. He hated that.

"You've got a lovely home and wife, my friend."

"Yes I do." Daemon had been confused by this Doctor's intentions all day, but right now the man opposite him only exuded a positive energy.

"You care for her a great deal, that much is obvious. Good. Never stop. Those kinds of women only come around once in a lifetime." Eleven gave him a conspiratorial clap on the shoulder as he walked around the man.

Daemon opened his mouth to bite back a retort but was quickly silenced by the appearance of a strange blue box mere feet from them. "What in the fuck is that?"

Eleven snorted and laughed, giving TARDIS a pat this time as he opened the door. "Oh, it's just my ride. Much bigger on the inside. Name your next dragon Doctor Jr, please."

And with that he was gone, Daemon's head spinning while the chiming of the TARDIS's leaving faded into the sunset.

"That was incredibly strange."

The Targaryen startled just a bit, turning to face you. "What happened to awaiting me inside, wife?"

Your smirk was playful while your hands wrapped around his waist, chin tilted up to gaze at him. "And leave you alone with some stranger? What if he had ran you through?"

Daemon growled low in his chest, the same possessive need filling him at your touch as it always did. "Do you not believe me to be the better swordsman?"

"You know I like to see you get dirty." Your voice was dangerously low, pulling at the strings you knew he had tightest at the moment.

"Seems like you wouldn't have minded seeing The Doctor get dirty as well." Daemon Targaryen was many things but bitter was certainly not one of them. Until right this moment.

"Daemon." Your lips met his once, quickly. "My husband." Your lips returned to his, lingering this time in the want you could feel radiating from him. "King of my heart. I will never want anyone but you."

He pulled your head to his then, mouth forcing yours open in a bruising, claiming kiss.

"Let's get inside. There was something I wanted to do earlier."

---------

I tried!! let me know how ya liked it

Daemon notices. Of course he does. He always notices.

He sits at the edge of the bed, his white-gold hair falling loose around his shoulders, dressed only in his black sleeping robes, open at the chest. The candlelight gilds the lean lines of his body, the scars along his arms, the sharpness of his jaw. His violet gaze falls to your breasts, darkening as he takes in the way they strain against the sheer linen. You feel a flush crawl across your cheeks, and it isn’t from embarrassment.

“Still so full,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. His hand brushes over your belly first, still soft from the birth, his touch warm and possessive. Then he slides it higher, over your ribs, until his palm cups the underside of one aching breast. “You should have woken me, sweetling.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “You’ve hardly slept.”

“I don’t care for sleep when my wife is in pain.”

He shifts closer, pulling the blankets away from your chest. His fingers work at the ties of your nightgown, careful and slow, as if unwrapping a sacred relic. When the fabric slips down your shoulders, your breasts spill free, round and swollen, veins delicate and blue beneath the pale skin. Your nipples are taut, darker than before the birth, glistening faintly with leaked milk. They throb with every breath you take.

Daemon’s breath catches. His thumb grazes over one, and you flinch, the sensation sharp.

“Hurts,” you admit.

“Let me help,” he whispers.

You nod. You trust him.

He leans forward, his hands large and sure as they cradle the weight of your breasts. He massages them with firm, practiced pressure, easing the hardness little by little. Warmth spreads through you, prickling and sharp at first, but then melting into something more bearable. Your eyes flutter closed, a sigh escaping your lips as you feel the tight ache begin to release.

And then his mouth is on you.

Not just to soothe, not just to relieve, but to worship.

He latches gently, tongue flicking and lips soft around your nipple, and you gasp aloud, your hand shooting to his silver hair, fingers curling in the strands. Milk flows into his mouth, and he groans, the sound guttural and satisfied. His eyes flutter closed as if tasting something divine. The sight of him suckling at you like a starved man is obscene, intimate, overwhelming.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs between pulls, lips slick with milk. “Even now. Especially now.”

He switches breasts, using one hand to knead the one he just fed from, still gently easing the soreness away. His tongue teases the other nipple, then draws it deep into his mouth. He is aroused. Desperately. And so are you.

Your thighs press together instinctively. His teeth graze the edge of your areola, and you jerk slightly, a whimper caught in your throat. The heat pools between your legs, and the dull ache of desire stirs awake inside you for the first time in weeks.

“Look at you,” he whispers when he pulls back, breath warm against your damp skin. “Feeding me like a dragon feeds her hatchlings. You were made for this. To bear my children. To be full for me.”

“Daemon…”

“I would give you another tonight,” he rasps, kissing your breastbone, your collar, your throat. “If your body could take it. I would fill you until you weep.”

You tremble under him. The weight of his body presses against yours, grounding you, making you feel small and precious and desired in a way no other man could ever make you feel. Your hands drift to his waist, gripping the fabric of his robe. You are still sore from birth, but the need to be close to him, to be his again in more than name, pulses like a second heartbeat.

“You gave me a daughter,” he says softly, as if speaking to a god. “A princess with silver hair. I should build you a throne for that alone. The cradle creaks faintly as your daughter shifts in her sleep, her tiny fists twitching beneath the silken blanket.

Daemon kneels between your parted thighs, the candlelight painting shadows across his cheeks and catching the hunger in his eyes. His lips are wet, parted slightly, breathing in your scent with a reverent slowness. He has always looked at you like this. Since the day he claimed you. Like a dragon before a feast.

He drags his palms up your legs, then over your hips, thumbs grazing the softness of your post-birth belly. You tense slightly, shy in your changed body, but he only hums with approval.

“So ripe,” he says under his breath, as if you are some sacred offering. “You’re still soft from me. Still full of me. Look at these breasts.”

He cups one with both hands, fingers warm and calloused. Your nipple is already hard, sensitive and sore, still aching despite his earlier help. Milk beads again at the tip. He watches it pool with fascination, then bends down to lick it away, the tip of his tongue soft and slow as it circles your nipple. You moan quietly, and he groans in return like it spurs him on.

“You taste sweeter than honey,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb across your nipple before flicking it. “I could live off you, I think.”

You open your mouth to speak, to ask him for more, but he’s already kissing down your belly. He pauses at the soft curve where your body is still healing, pressing his lips gently there, reverent and slow. He murmurs something in High Valyrian, words you recognize as devotion, blessing, claim. Then he sinks lower.

“Maesters said no fucking,” he mutters, breath hot over your cunt. “But they said nothing about my mouth.”

You barely have time to breathe before he dives in.

His tongue slides through your folds with a hot, wet drag, and your thighs twitch violently. The first stroke makes you yelp. The second has you clawing at the sheets. His mouth is relentless, licking you from base to clit in long, slurping strokes that sound obscene in the quiet room. His tongue is thick and eager, and gods, he knows your body. He knows exactly where to press, where to flatten the tip and where to curl it.

“Daemon,” you gasp, fisting the sheets. “Daemon, please.”

He hums against your clit and the vibration shoots up your spine. He pulls your thighs over his shoulders, buries his face deeper. His hands roam up your sides again, squeezing your breasts as he suckles your cunt, fingers catching the nipples and twisting lightly as he moans into you. Milk drips freely now, warmth sliding down your sides, but neither of you care.

He suckles at your clit like a man starved, alternating between hard flicks of his tongue and soft laps that make your toes curl. He fucks you with his mouth like he would with his cock, if he were allowed. Passionate. Focused. Claiming.

Your vision goes white for a moment when he flattens his tongue and grinds it hard against your clit. Your legs tremble. You cry out, your voice raw and high, and he doesn't stop. His grip tightens on your breasts, kneading them as your hips buck helplessly against his face.

And then you come.

It tears through you like lightning. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as your body arches. Your cunt clenches, gushing into his mouth, and Daemon drinks it down with greedy slurps, his face drenched, his tongue never stopping.

Only once your thighs have gone limp, once your breath is ragged and your body trembling with aftershocks, does he lift his head. His chin glistens. His lips are swollen. His eyes, those burning violet eyes, look drunk on you.

“I could do that again,” he says, voice gravelled and thick. “Over and over. Until dawn.”

You smile weakly, blinking away tears.

“I think I love you more after that.”

He chuckles, and it rumbles deep in his chest as he crawls up beside you, licking his lips one last time.

“No,” he whispers, kissing your milk-slick nipple. “You just remember who you belong to.”

Now, you were alone. Well, not entirely. You had company. His sonic.

You grinned like a fox as you turned the small device over in your hands, curling up in the pilot’s chair with your knees pulled up. The silver and green gadget felt heavier than you expected, cool against your fingertips, pulsing with faint energy like it had its own heartbeat.

You had found it on the edge of the console, left there like a tempting piece of contraband. He never left it unattended, not unless he was distracted. You’d tried asking him before about it. "How does it actually work?" you'd say while tracing your fingers along the handle as he locked the TARDIS into orbit. He’d mutter something quick and silly like “It just does,” or “Timey-wimey trickery,” before flashing that manic grin of his and whisking you off to face carnivorous books or planets that grew sentient strawberries.

You never got a real answer.

So now? You would investigate for yourself.

Holding the sonic between your thumb and forefinger, you tapped one of the small metal buttons near the emitter. A high-pitched whirr filled the air, and the green light blinked rapidly. The hum made your chest flutter. You didn’t know why, exactly, but there was something strangely… sensual about it. The vibration tickled down your wrist, almost suggestive. You giggled under your breath.

Then you pressed another button.

The TARDIS doors slammed shut.

Your eyes went wide.

"Oops?"

"Oops what?"

His voice came from behind you, low and amused. You turned your head sharply to find the Doctor leaning in the archway, arms folded, jacket thrown over one shoulder like a lazy professor caught watching a student cheat. His hair was still ruffled from earlier, and there was that look again. The one he wore when he was torn between scolding you and dragging you back to bed.

You held up the sonic like a child caught red-handed with sweets before dinner. “I was just… investigating.”

“Investigating?” He sauntered closer, boots echoing over the metal grates. “That’s my screwdriver, you know.”

“I borrowed it. You always keep it to yourself.” You wagged it teasingly before tapping the emitter again, watching the green beam light up. “It’s not fair. I’m your companion. I should get to know your… tools.”

He stopped in front of you, towering with that crooked, boyish smile and eyes glittering with a dangerous sort of mirth.

“My tools, is it?” he murmured, voice dropping half an octave.

“I mean,” you added, suddenly aware of just how warm it had gotten, “you use it for everything. Unlocking doors. Scanning stuff. Disarming bombs. Fixing my hair dryer when we were on the rainy moon.”

“You remember the rainy moon. I like that. You wore that red thing. It was very… stimulating.”

You flushed. “Doctor.”

He took the sonic from your hand slowly, fingers brushing yours. Then he clicked it off and held it up between you like a teacher ready to begin a lesson. “This button here,” he said, pointing, “does basic unlocking. This one’s for scanning frequencies. This little dial adjusts for atmospheric density. If you press them in a certain order, it plays Carmen if you’re very lucky and very bored. But this...” he tapped a hidden ridge on the side and then turned the emitter toward your bare thigh “... this detects heat. Biological warmth. Heartbeats.”

A low hum filled the air again, and you felt a faint buzz across your skin.

“Very useful,” he said softly, “when looking for someone I’ve… misplaced in the TARDIS.”

Your breath caught as he dragged the sonic slowly along your thigh. Not quite touching, just letting the proximity tease. He was watching you now, studying your every twitch, every shiver. His own breathing had gone shallow.

“And when I find her,” he continued, “curled up in my chair, wearing my shirt, playing with my very sensitive sonic… what do you think I should do with her?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. You didn’t know if he wanted an answer. You didn’t even know if you could give one.

“I should confiscate it,” he said. “But she looks like she wants another lesson.”

You nodded, lips parted.

With slow, deliberate movement, he took your hand and guided the sonic back to your fingers. He curled them around the handle and helped you hold it steady, showing you again which buttons to press. His other hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, skimming over your thigh. His palm was warm and slightly rough, always so precise in the way he touched you. He kissed your neck, just under your ear, where he knew your defenses dropped like a collapsing star.

You leaned into him, letting the hum of the sonic and the heat of his mouth send waves through your chest. He always smelled like ozone and tea leaves and something ancient you couldn’t name, something infinite and his.

“Curious little thing,” he whispered as he pushed the shirt higher up your legs, “always wanting to know how everything works.”

Your breath hitched as his lips brushed your jaw. He took the sonic from your hand and set it on the edge of the console again, this time within easy reach. Then his hands were on your waist, lifting you into his lap with ease, your legs falling to either side of his hips.

You kissed him first. Hard, hungry, already melting from how much you wanted him. His mouth opened against yours, tongue slow and deliberate, coaxing rather than taking. He was always so patient with you, even when he was desperate. And God, when he was desperate, he clung to you like you were oxygen. Like the space between galaxies wasn’t big enough without you in it.

He let you grind down onto his lap, fingers curling around your thighs as he pressed you closer. His breath hitched, low and broken. “Always asking questions,” he murmured between kisses, “always touching what she shouldn’t.”

“I can’t help it,” you gasped, nipping at his lower lip. “You make me curious.”

“Then let’s experiment,” he whispered as he laid you back onto the pilot chair, still warm from where you had curled up with his sonic earlier, you knew he wasn’t planning on dragging you all the way to the bedroom. The Doctor moved with purpose, deliberate and slow, like he was savoring every second. Like he was thinking through exactly how he was going to take you apart without moving more than ten steps from the console.

You were already soaked. Your thighs squeezed together for relief, hips subtly shifting as he pulled his shirt higher over your belly. It bunched beneath your breasts, leaving you half-naked for him in the control room of the most powerful ship in the universe. The metal beneath your back vibrated faintly from the core of the TARDIS. The golden light above gave your skin a soft, honeyed glow. He looked down at you like you were his religion.

He sucked in a slow breath, eyes roaming your body with open hunger.

“You know,” he murmured, stepping back just far enough to reach for the sonic where it rested, green light blinking softly, “I don’t usually allow people to touch this. Not just because it’s dangerous, or sentimental, or partially alive. But because it’s calibrated to me. My frequency. My rhythm.”

You swallowed hard, your nipples stiffened under the thin cotton of his shirt, your thighs twitching slightly in anticipation. You knew that look. He was enjoying the sound of his own voice, yes, but more than that, he was preparing you. Letting the tension build between every word.

“But maybe,” he continued, flipping the sonic open and adjusting a dial on the side you hadn’t even noticed before, “just maybe, it’s time we recalibrated it. For you.”

He kneeled in front of the chair, pushing your thighs apart with a command that needed no words. You opened for him instinctively. He tugged your panties aside, dragging the thin cotton down your legs and off with a practiced flick, leaving you bare and slick and needy beneath him.

The first time the sonic touched your clit, you gasped.

It was sharper than a vibrator, not harsh or painful, just focused. It was as if the hum of it was tuned to something deep inside you. A frequency you didn’t know your body could respond to. Your hips jerked, your back arched. The green light flickered between your legs, painting the inside of your thighs in a ghostly glow.

The Doctor watched you with fascination, mouth slightly open, one brow arched as he adjusted the settings. “There,” he said softly, almost reverently, as if he’d just cracked some impossible code. “Oh, my girl. That’s a beautiful reaction.”

You whimpered. “D-Doctor, please.”

He chuckled darkly and pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “You don’t even know what you’re begging for yet.”

He circled the emitter around your clit, slow and devastating, the vibrations pulsing with such precision you thought you might cry. Your hands flew to your breasts, kneading through the thin fabric, needing something to anchor yourself. The Doctor grinned up at you, one hand steady on your thigh, the other guiding his sonic in gentle, merciless loops.

“You wanted to know what all the buttons did,” he said, voice thick with arousal. “You wanted to investigate. This one...” he tapped something and the pitch changed, higher now, almost teasing, “ this one makes you twitch like that. Good to know. Let’s try another.”

You were writhing now, head thrown back against the chair, moaning openly. Your slick coated your inner thighs, your clit swollen and throbbing from the expert manipulation. He was relentless, switching between patterns, rhythms, and pulsing bursts that made your whole body jolt like lightning was threaded through your veins.

He pressed a hand flat to your belly to keep you from squirming away. You were shaking.

And still he didn’t stop.

“You’re close,” he said, almost clinically. “Look at that. My clever little human. So sensitive. So responsive. So mine.”

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave.

The moment he flicked the sonic to one last setting, something low and deep that seemed to vibrate through your bones, your body seized. Your mouth fell open in a soundless cry as your thighs clamped around his hand. The sonic pulsed once more, and you came apart, sobbing his name as the climax tore through you, long and blinding, stretching on forever.

By the time he pulled the sonic away and clicked it shut, your body was limp, quivering, wet and trembling from overstimulation. He kissed your inner thigh again, lovingly this time, tender, almost reverent.

Then he stood, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt with urgency.

“Your turn,” you rasped, barely able to sit up but determined to return the favor. “Let me.”

He paused, breath catching, his cock already straining against his trousers.

You slipped off the chair and onto your knees before him. The floor was cold against your skin, but you didn’t care. He watched you with blown pupils as you unbuckled his belt, tugged open the button and zipper, and slid his pants and briefs down just enough to free him.

You always adored the contrast of him. Tall, manic, often so scattered. But when you got him like this... breathless, flushed, thick and hard in your mouth... he became silent. Worshipful. Reverent.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, tongue swirling as you took him deeper, slow and deliberate, moaning softly as you tasted the salt of his precum. He groaned above you, one hand gripping the console edge, the other tangling in your hair. You sucked him in deeper, letting him slide over your tongue as your fingers stroked what you couldn’t take. You loved making him fall apart.

He rocked his hips forward slowly, trying to be gentle, but the moment you gagged slightly, tears pricking your eyes from the fullness, he lost it.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You’re...God, you’re perfect.”

You hollowed your cheeks, moaning again, the sound sending a ripple through his cock. His grip tightened in your hair as his hips began to move, slow thrusts, just enough to chase the edge. You bobbed your head in time, feeling him throb against your tongue, each twitch more desperate than the last.

You looked up at him, mouth full of him, tears glistening on your cheeks, and he shattered.

He came with a groan so low and deep it vibrated in your chest. Hot spurts flooded your throat, and you swallowed instinctively, never breaking eye contact. His face was slack with pleasure, mouth parted, eyes soft and wild and full of you.

You stayed there for a moment, licking him clean, before sitting back on your heels.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, cupping your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip where his taste lingered.

“My brilliant, filthy girl,” he whispered. “You make me forget how old I really am.”

You laughed weakly, breath still ragged. “I want more lessons.”

Jax was good at a lot of things. Riding a motorcycle, shooting a gun, fighting with both his bare hands and while using a knife, and he was a pretty decent VP to the club. 

He’s calm when he needs to be, aggressive when it counts to be, and overall a good guy to have around when shit goes sideways. He’s smart, and can get himself out of even the stickiest fucking situations with ease. Well, for the most part.

With that being said, sometimes he did have slip ups. Like a few weeks ago when he became too stuck in his own head to focus on the road, something that happened quite often unfortunately, and his eyes had been blinded by the approaching headlights for him to make a smart move about it. So instead of colliding with the car, he ended up sprawled out in the ditch, a mere ten feet away from his bike, and his body had definitely seen better days. 

When he came to, he saw that the car hadn’t even bothered to stop and see if he was okay, figures, so he propped himself upright against the side of the ditch and called Ope, thankful his phone still worked. He then lit a cigarette while he waited, because of course this would happen to him of all people. He’d only been riding for most of his entire life, why wouldn’t he get into a wreck?

Ope didn’t ask any questions when he picked him up, Piney in tow to collect what was left of his Harley, which was quite a lot to be fair, but it would be in the shop for weeks, which fucking sucked. 

On the drive over to St. Thomas, Jax had asked Opie to not tell you what happened, at least not yet, and when his best friend didn’t answer him, he should’ve realized that was because Opie had already told you, and you were already on your way to meet them there. But in all honesty, Jax was in a lot of fucking pain, he wasn’t thinking much about the silence that filled the truck at his request since the adrenaline spike from before was wearing off.

You’d gotten to the hospital just as Jax was taken into the ER, bitching to the doctors about carefully removing his kutte, and Opie had to endure your countless questions and lectures about none of them being invincible and how dangerous it is to ride motorcycles and all that fun stuff no one wanted to hear. But of course, Opie being Opie, sucked it up and took it since it was your way of coping with nearly losing your husband, and he knew Jax would be the one on the other end of your lectures soon enough. 

Over half his body was bruised, and he’d been given a fuckton of pain meds since he couldn’t even walk for the first few days. He spent a good portion of the week stuck in that hospital bed where he couldn’t smoke without setting off the fire alarm, but luckily for him, you were sweet enough to turn it off and crank the window open every time he reached for the pack on the table. 

And, of course, you didn’t leave his side. Even when the club came to visit him and update him on everything he’d been missing out on, you weren’t far. Although Jax wasn’t fussy about you hearing all the shit SAMCRO gets into, he also knew your nerves had been shot since his accident, and he didn’t want to kick you out when it was so obvious that you needed to be close to him right now. 

When you took him home from the hospital, you immediately told him to get in bed and rest, and you’d been taking care of him every day since then. Jax wasn’t one to sit around and do nothing all day long, but that’s exactly all he could do since he’d gotten pretty banged up. He’d lost a lot of blood and would have more scars on his body than he did before, and even though things could’ve ended a lot worse, he was still very injured.

The weeks went on, and Jax had been home for just under a month now, and he was still quite sore and achy, but at least now he was up and moving more than before. He still hadn’t been back on a bike since the crash, though apparently his precious Harley was coming back to life beautifully since Ope had been giving him updates, which was just all the more motivation for him to get better. 

Every move he made, his body protested, which was quite annoying since he couldn’t hold you in bed like he normally does. He can’t touch you like he normally does, and he certainly can’t fuck you like he normally does every night and most mornings. He’d become spoiled by you, he was used to fucking you hard and deep because he was fucking addicted to you, but he hadn’t had sex with you in weeks.

Of course, you didn’t leave him high and dry. You’d given him a blowjob almost every day since he’s been home, and Jax fucking loves your blowjobs. You give the best fucking head he’s ever had. 

But now he felt like a useless husband, because while he got to cum down your throat or on your face almost daily, you hadn’t been given an orgasm from him in weeks because he was too hurt to fuck you like you deserved. All he wanted to do while being stuck at home was take care of you like you always take care of him. It was in his vows - his promise to always take care of you through thick and thin, but he hadn’t been keeping up with that promise. 

So when you joined him on the couch one night, wearing only a pair of panties and one of his shirts, Jax pulled you against his side and guided your lips to his. His were bruised and the bottom one was still split, but that was a kind of pain he could easily take since he liked making out with you way too much to focus on anything else. 

The kiss escalated quickly, and Jax knew you were getting turned on, but instead of letting you disappear into the bedroom to take care of yourself like you’d been forced to do since his accident, he tried to guide you onto his thigh. If he couldn’t fuck you, no matter how much he desperately wanted to, then he wanted to watch you get yourself off on top of him. 

“C’mere, baby,” he muttered against your lips, trying to pull you on top of him. His chest was bare, the only thing on his body being his boxers, so his thigh was completely yours for the taking. “Ride my thigh.”

You whimpered against his mouth, your hands coming up to gently rest on his shoulders. You applied barely any pressure at all, even though he’d been craving your touch over the last few weeks. “Jax,” you whispered, pulling away and shaking your head when he tried to guide you to straddle him. One of your hands moved to his face, and you softly stroked his lip with your thumb. “I can’t. I don’t want to hurt you. You’re still healing.”

Jax groaned, his hands coming up to grab onto your hips. He shifted, a jolt of pain shooting up his side, but the ache of needing you overpowered it. He wanted you, he needed to make you feel good after all you’d done for him, and he needed to take care of you like you took care of him. 

“Baby,” he mumbled, leaning in and pressing soft kisses along your cheek and chin. “You won’t hurt me. I ain’t made of glass, sweet girl. You’re not gonna break me.”

But you looked so hesitant, so scared to even be touching him like this, and he hated it. He hated feeling so weak, hated that he couldn’t take care of his wife properly. He was supposed to be the one taking care of you, not the other way around. You’re his old lady, his fucking wife. 

“Jax,” you tried again, your brows drawn together and creating a worry crease on your forehead. “I don’t..”

But he just shook his head, his lips pressing against yours in a much deeper kiss than before. “Let me make you feel good. Let me watch you get off,” he murmured against your lips, then guided you onto his thigh so you were straddling it. “Grind that sweet little pussy on me, baby. Use me to get what you need. Wanna watch you.”

He flexed his thigh under you, the muscles moving deliciously against your core, and you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders again. “Jax,” you mumbled, “It’s too soon, baby. I don’t want to set you back or hurt you even more.”

His hands gripped your waist firmly, not letting you move away as he dropped his head to your shoulder. Jax kissed along your neck, his beard scratching at your soft skin. He tried to guide you into a more comfortable position on his thigh, and the movement made him grunt, a pain shooting through his side. 

But he pushed through it, because he was done watching you get all worked up, only for him to not be able to give you what you need. “Please, let me do this for you. I feel so fuckin’ useless layin’ here while you take care of me. Least let me watch you get yourself off,” he rasped, pulling your body forward by your hips. “I ain’t gonna break from this, baby. And I sure as hell ain’t gonna let you go another night without gettin’ what you need.”

And he knew you needed this, he could feel how wet you were through the thin fabric of your panties. You needed him, and he wasn’t one to disappoint his wife. Well, at least not sexually. 

He knew what he could take and what he couldn’t, and even if he couldn’t handle a little rubbing from you, there was no way he was stopping now. 

One of his hands slid up your body, palming your breast through the fabric of his shirt. “Gonna take real good care of you, same way you’ve been takin’ care of me,” he promised, giving you a gentle squeeze before his hands slid under the shirt and grabbed your hips. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect, baby. My perfect girl.” 

You bit down on your lip as you finally gave in just a little, your body rolling against his. You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as you did it again. “Fuck,” you whispered, your breathing becoming a little heavier. “Am I… am I hurting you?”

Jax groaned, shaking his head instantly. “Nah, baby, I fuckin’ needed this. Now be a good girl and ride my thigh ‘til you cum all over it,”

His words went right through you, like he knew they would. You were a sucker for dirty talk, and luckily for you, Jax had probably the dirtiest mouth around. 

“Okay,” you caved, slowly rubbing yourself along his thigh, the friction making a shaky gasp leave your lips. Your hands held onto his shoulders a little tighter, though still relatively gentle as you were still mindful of the bruises covering his skin. “Tell me if I hurt you, okay? Tell me if it hurts or if I’m too heavy or-”

He cut you off by leaning in and kissing you deeply, his tongue sliding past your lips to brush against your own. Too heavy? What the hell was that nonsense? Who did you think he was? Someone who couldn’t handle his own wife? “Don’t you dare stop, darlin’,” he muttered against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grab your ass and pull you harder along this thigh. “You’re not too fuckin’ heavy for me, baby, and you ain’t hurtin’ me. Love havin’ your sweet body on me.”

His cock was starting to throb in his boxers, just the feeling of your clothed pussy rubbing against him enough to have him hard as a rock. But this wasn’t about him right now. Sure, you’d probably get on your knees again for him after this, but right now, this was all about you. 

“You’re so goddamn sexy,” he muttered, leaning in to kiss and suck along your neck, feeling your pulse hammering against his lips. “Want you to cum so hard on me. Wanna hear those pretty little noises you make for me.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as you moved a little faster, rubbing the soaked material of your panties all along the length of his thigh. “Fuck. Jax. Fuck,”

“There you go, baby. That’s it. That’s my girl,” he praised, fingers digging into the soft skin of your ass as he guided your movements. He sucked along your neck, his teeth scraping gently against your skin.  “You’re so wet, sweet girl. So desperate for it, huh?”

Your movements stuttered at his words, and your hands slid up into his hair as you nodded slowly. “Fuck… yes,” you answered, and the sound of you sliding along his skin was filling the room the longer this went on. It was wet, slick, desperate, and everything you’d both been needing for weeks. 

Jax grunted under his breath when your hand slid past his neck, an involuntary wince crossing his features since he’d gotten whiplash in the accident, but it wasn’t a severe case of it, so the pain faded almost as soon as it formed. “So fuckin’ sexy, ridin’ my thigh like you need it,” he groaned, flexing his leg under you again and giving you a more firm surface to grind against. “Missed this so fuckin’ much. Missed makin’ you fall apart like this.”

You whimpered then kissed him back when he connected your mouths in a filthy kiss. “Fuck, it feels so good, baby,” you whined, tangling your fingers in his hair. Your knees were digging into the couch, your thighs trying to close around his, but all they could do was squeeze him tightly. “Am I… is this okay? Are you okay? God, Jax, you feel so good.”

Jax grunted in between kisses, his hands going back to your hips as he pulled away and watched you. It was such a familiar sight, having you writhe on his lap like this, and you were riding his thigh like how you’d ride his cock. Fuck, he couldn’t wait until he could actually have sex with you again. This whole fucking month had been pure torture, in more ways than one. 

“Fuck yeah, it’s more than okay. Love feelin’ you drip all over me. You’re gonna make such a fuckin’ mess,” he praised, holding you steady on his thigh as he slowly lifted his leg and propped it up on the coffee table behind you, his knee bent. It gave you a more sturdy surface, and the way you gasped at the new angle had him smirking. 

His hand disappeared inside your panties, his fingers seeking out your folds as he watched you with hooded eyes. You were absolutely drenched, your arousal coating his fingers instantly, and when he pulled his hand back out, he brought his soaked digits up to his mouth and cleaned them of you. 

“God, you’re so sweet,” he muttered, savoring the taste of you while you worked yourself into a quivering mess on his thigh, his skin painted in a sheer layer of your slick. 

Your moans grew louder, your eyes nearly rolled all the way back inside your head. “Fuck, Jax,” you breathed, guiding his hand back inside your panties as you rubbed yourself harder on his thigh, your other hand gripping the back of his neck tighter than it had in weeks. “I’m gonna cum, baby.” 

Jax’s fingers found your clit, and he circled the sensitive bud with a devastating pressure that had you wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah you are, darlin’. Cum for me, baby. Make a mess all over me,” he demanded, then slid his other hand up to cradle the back of your head, and he pulled you in for a searing kiss. 

You were helpless on top of him, your hips rolling uncontrollably, and your body had a mind of its own. “Fuck… fuck, oh God,” you moaned, pressing your chest right up against his, and his grunt of pain was muffled against your lips as you came, practically gushing all over his thigh and ruining your panties. 

“That’s it, baby. Fuck yes, cum all over me,” he breathed, breaking the kiss as he buried his face against your neck, his cock achingly hard in his boxers - something he was sure you could feel pressing against your own thigh. 

Once your body stopped jerking on top of him, Jax pulled his hand away, his fingers covered in your arousal. He sucked them clean with a shameless moan, his eyes raking up and down your heaving body. “Holy shit,” you huffed, dropping your forehead to his as you leaned in and pressed a softer kiss to his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips. But then you pulled back, and the worry from earlier was back on your face. “I kinda lost control there for a sec. Did I hurt you? Are you okay? Was that too much?”

You rapidly fired questions at him, but your panties were sticking to his thigh, and his mouth tasted like you, and you wanted to know if you hurt him? 

Jax laughed as he wrapped his arms around your body, his lips pressing a series of kisses along your jaw. “I’m fine, baby. More than fine, actually,” he assured you, “I needed that so bad. Needed to see you cum like that, darlin’.” 

His fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt that had stayed on your body throughout that whole ordeal, and his lips curved upwards in a smirk when he pulled away to look at you. You smiled back, not realizing what that smirk meant as you reached down and ran your fingers along the bulge in his boxers. “You want me to take care of you now?”

He shook his head slowly, his hand giving your ass a firm pat as he gestured for you to get up. Once you were standing in front of him, he reached out and pulled his shirt over your head as best as he could, and when it fell to the floor, he reached for the waistline of your panties. 

“Nah, not right now, sweet girl. I want that bare pussy on me instead,” he said, pulling your ruined panties down your legs. Then he sat back on the couch again, patting his other thigh with his hand and watching as your eyes widened just a bit, your teeth biting down on your puffy lower lip. “Then you can take care of me.”

-

Jax can’t sleep. Again.

Not with the thought of you running wild and filthy in his head. He imagines you alone in your room, you and the dark and that restless throbbing between your thighs.

He pictures you stretched out across your sheets, one hand cupping your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until it’s tight and aching, exactly the way he’d do it if he could.

“Slide your hand lower. Slow, baby. Make yourself wait. I want you so fucking desperate before you even touch your pussy.”

You obey, your hand slow and teasing, your breath catching as you pinch and tug, hips shifting restlessly. Maybe you bite your lip, trying to muffle the sound, your fingers slipping lower, parting yourself as you arch into your own touch, chasing that sweet, torturous relief.

All Jax wants is to watch you. He wants to see you fall apart, wants to know he’s the reason your cunt is dripping, the reason your thighs tremble and your breath turns ragged. He’d tell you not to stop, not until you’re unraveling, not until you’re begging for his cock.

He sees your legs spreading wider, your hips rolling up into your own hand as you give him a show. The sight of it in his mind makes him harder, matching every needy whimper he imagines spilling from your lips.

Jax’s breath comes faster as he strokes himself, rough in the quiet of his bedroom, matching his pace to what’s playing out in his head. He pictures your eyes slipping shut, a shiver running through you as you circle your clit, needy and slick, every stroke for him. He wonders if you say his name, if you whisper it into the darkness, needing him there, needing him inside you.

He can’t help it; his hips lift off the bed, chasing more friction, the slide of his palm growing rougher as he sinks deeper into the fantasy. He’d be watching you, voice gravelly, the words tumbling out between heavy breaths.

“You look so fucking pretty like that. Rub your clit faster, baby. Let me see how needy you get for me.”

He’d want you to look at him, eyes locked on his, mouth parted, moaning for him, only him.

His fist pumps faster, matching every imagined movement, breath breaking in short, desperate groans as he watches you fall apart, trembling and soaked, crying out his name; your eyes never leaving his.

Jax swears he can hear you gasping, body convulsing as you cum with a cry of his name — the sound so fucking sweet it almost undoes him right there. He grits his teeth, working himself harder, eyes squeezed shut as he imagines the flush on your skin and the mess you make.

The thought that you’d want him so much, you’d cum just for him, under his gaze, knowing he’s the reason you’re a wreck, sends him spiraling.

Jax’s release hits hard, a rough shout tears from his chest, cum spilling hot over his fist. He strokes himself through every last pulse, eyes squeezed shut, your name broken on his tongue.

And after, as he lies in the dark, all he can think is how badly he wants to see you fall apart for him for real.

He wants to know, without a doubt, that when you touch yourself, it’s always him you’re thinking of.

———

woooo!!! weeeee!!! 😮‍💨 got a little hot in here 🥵

You weren’t the kind of woman who needed someone hovering over you— hell, that was one of the reasons he’d fallen for you. You had this fire, this way of holding your own no matter the crowd. Still, Jax found himself glancing toward the food stand every minute or two, scanning for that familiar head of hair, that soft laugh he could always pick out of a crowd.

“Y’know,” Tig said, elbowing him lightly, “you let her outta your sight too long and some guy’s gonna realize she’s way outta your league.”

Jax shot him a flat look. “Appreciate the confidence boost, brother.”

Chibs chuckled, low and rough, his accent thick. “Aye, Tig’s no’ wrong though. Lass looks like a bloody dream in that sundress. Can’t fault a man for starin’.”

Juice, who was leaning against the fence beside them, grinned around a toothpick. “Nah, man. Not just starin’. Look.” He nodded subtly toward the food line. “She’s got company.”

Jax followed their gaze. There you were— standing at the funnel cake stand, the late afternoon sun catching in your hair. And beside you, some guy. Button-up shirt, clean shave, easy smile. He was leaning a little too close, saying something that made you laugh.

Jax’s jaw tightened.

“Looks like he’s got jokes,” Bobby muttered, biting into his corn dog. “And you’re losin’ ground, Teller.”

Jax forced a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “You girls done?”

But none of them stopped watching.

Tig let out a low whistle. “Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that. You can practically see him rehearsing his pickup line in his head.”

“Or maybe,” Chibs said with a faint grin, “he’s already tried one, an’ she laughed just to be polite. She’s a kind soul, that one.”

“Kind,” Tig echoed. “Too kind sometimes.”

Jax could feel the shift in his chest —that familiar burn that started low and crept up like wildfire. He wasn’t the jealous type. Protective? Definitely. Controlling? Not really. He trusted you. Always had. But that didn’t mean he trusted every idiot who saw your smile and mistook it for an invitation.

He took another step closer to the fence, watching as the guy handed you a plate of funnel cake —your funnel cake— and said something that made you tilt your head, half amused, half polite. You didn’t look uncomfortable, but you weren’t exactly brushing him off, either. You were too damn nice for that.

“You’re gonna let that slide, huh?” Tig asked, grinning. “Couldn’t be me.”

“Yeah, well,” Jax said, voice even but sharp, “good thing it ain’t you.”

He tried to turn away, tried to tell himself it was fine. That you’d smile, thank the guy, and walk right back over. But then the man leaned in again —closer this time —and said something that made you laugh louder.

And that did it.

“Ah, there it is,” Chibs said, smirking around his cigarette. “That look. Jackie’s gonna blow.”

Jax didn’t even answer. He just handed his ice cream cone to Bobby, jaw clenched, and started walking.

“Five bucks says he breaks the guy’s nose before she even knows what’s happenin’,” Tig muttered.

“Ten says he keeps it verbal,” Chibs replied with a knowing grin. “He’s tryin’ to behave these days. Pussy whipped tha’ one.”

Jax heard none of it. All he could hear was that low pulse in his ears, the rush of blood, the echo of your laughter that wasn’t meant for anyone else.

He weaved through the crowd, white shoes heavy on the packed dirt, eyes locked on you like a heat-seeking missile. The guy still hadn’t noticed him coming— too busy leaning in, talking, trying his luck.

Jax’s hands flexed at his sides.

He wasn’t gonna make a scene. Not here. Not with you looking that happy, that radiant, belly tight with laughter and powdered sugar on your fingers.

But he also wasn’t about to stand by and watch someone else think they had a shot with what was his.

The shift in energy was instant.

He sidled up beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest like you belonged there—which you did. You blinked up at him, half startled, half smiling, as Jax caught the tail end of the guy's question.

“—and that’s why I was wondering if I could get your number?”

Jax reached for the piece of funnel cake between your fingers and popped it into his mouth. Sweet. Sticky. He licked a trace of powdered sugar from his thumb and finally turned his gaze on the guy.

“So,” he drawled, slow and smooth, “you were sayin’ somethin’ about a number?”

The man blinked, eyes darting between the two of you. “I, uh—”

Jax smiled—lazy, syrup-thick, and mean. “Which one, though? Her number, or the one you’re gonna need to call for dental work if you don’t walk away right now?”

You groaned under your breath, rolling your eyes. “Jax…”

He ignored you, because he could feel it—the tension rolling off the guy, the way he shifted his weight, trying to figure out if Jax was serious.

He was.

“Hey, man,” the guy said, hands up in surrender, “I didn’t mean anything. We were just talking.”

“Talkin’.” Jax’s voice dipped low. “Yeah. Heard that one before.” He leaned forward slightly, a smirk cutting across his face. “Thing is, brother, she’s already got someone who talks to her. Someone who listens. Makes sure she’s taken care of.”

His hand squeezed your shoulder gently, almost possessive. “And it sure as hell ain’t you.”

The guy flushed red, muttered something that sounded like an apology, and turned on his heel.

Jax didn’t move until he disappeared into the crowd. Only then did he glance at you. You were glaring at him, powdered sugar still on your fingertips.

“Really?” you said. “You had to threaten to knock his teeth out? He wasn’t doing anything.”

“He was thinkin’ about it.”

“That’s not illegal.”

“Maybe it should be.”

You huffed a small laugh despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Yeah, but you love me that way.”

“Hmm. Love’s a strong word.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, that teasing glint in his voice. “Yeah, but it fits.”

You rolled your eyes but let him take your hand anyway. His fingers laced with yours as he tugged you toward the other end of the fair. Tossing the now empty funnel cake plate in the trash.

“Oi, Jackie boy!” Chibs’s voice bellowed through the crowd. “Where the hell you off to now?”

Juice yelled next, “Yo, we wanted funnel cake!”

Jax lifted his free hand, middle finger up, grin cutting sharp and wicked across his mouth as he walked faster, tugging you with him.

You stumbled once on the uneven dirt. “Jax—where are you taking me?”

He didn’t answer. Just threw a look over his shoulder, that boyish, smug smirk playing at his mouth.

“Jax!” you pressed again, half laughing, half suspicious.

He only chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, like he was daring you to keep asking.

And when he finally spotted the photobooth up ahead, he slowed, a grin spreading wider across his face.

Oh yeah. This was gonna be fun.

He rushed to place a dollar in the slot as he practically shoved you through the curtain, the moment it was shut, he spun you around, chest pressing against yours, and kissed you with that slow, deliberate intensity that made your knees go weak.

He could feel the warmth of your body, soft and light in his arms, and he didn’t pull back. Not yet. His hands found your waist, sliding up just enough to hold you against him, thumb brushing along the small of your back.

You staggered slightly, and without thinking, he guided you onto his lap, one arm circling your shoulders to keep you steady. Your sundress rode easily under his grip, light and fluttering, and he used it to anchor you closer, letting his knee bump yours just enough to make you catch your breath.

“You’re killin’ me,” he murmured against your lips, teasing, his tone half frustration, half awe. “Been waitin' all damn day to get you alone like this,” he growled softly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest.

His fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady on his lap as he shifted beneath you, the rigid line of his cock pressing insistently against your soaked panties. “And seein' that douchebag flirtin' with you? Fuck, it sent me into a spiral. Had to drag you here before I lost it.”

You shivered at his words, the possessiveness in his tone igniting a fresh wave of heat between your legs. “Don’t tell me you were jealous, Teller.”

The photobooth felt even smaller now, the red curtain the only barrier between the two of you and the distant laughter and chatter of fairgoers milling about outside. He captured your mouth again, but this time the kiss was faster, more desperate, his tongue stroking yours with deliberate pressure while his hand slipped between your thighs.

His fingers pushed your panties aside, two digits sliding along your slick folds before plunging inside your pussy, curling to hit that spot that made your breath hitch. You bit down on your lip to stifle a whimper, your walls clenching around him as he pumped slowly, stretching you with each thrust. “I wouldn’t call it jealousy—Just felt the need to make sure he knew exactly who you belong to.”

You felt breathless. All the air in the tiny booth was practically nonexistent. You let out a small whine, his fingers hitting the perfect spot. The sound was music to his ears, but the last thing Jax needed was someone to catch the two of you.

“Gotta be quiet, darlin',” he whispered against your ear, his free hand clamping over your mouth gently but firmly. “Don't want some rando pullin' back this curtain and catchin' me finger-fuckin' you.”

The risk only heightened everything—the way his thumb circled your clit in firm circles, the scrape of his calluses against your inner walls, the bulge of his cock twitching against your ass as you rocked into his hand. You nodded against his palm, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure built fast, your body tensing. He added a third finger, stretching you wider, his pace quickening just enough to push you toward the edge without making the booth shake too much.

Outside, footsteps shuffled past, a voice calling out for someone nearby, and Jax froze for a split second, his fingers buried deep inside you, holding still until the sounds faded. Then he resumed, harder now, his mouth latching onto your neck to suck a mark just below your jawline. “Come for me,” he urged quietly, his voice strained with his own need. “Quiet, though—squeeze my fingers and let go.”

You couldn't hold back, your orgasm crashed over you in silent waves, pussy pulsing around his invading fingers as you muffled your cries into his hand. He worked you through it, drawing out every tremor until you slumped against him, panting softly. But he wasn't done—his hand left your mouth to unzip his jeans, freeing his thick cock, the head already leaking pre-cum as he lined it up with your entrance.

“You're gonna ride me now,” he instructed, guiding your hips down so you sank onto him inch by inch, your wetness easing the way. He filled you completely, stretching your pussy around his length, and you had to clench your teeth to stay silent as he bottomed out. He resisted letting out a groan in pleasure himself. The booth creaked faintly under your combined weight, but he held you still, letting you adjust before his hands gripped your ass, lifting you slightly and pulling you back down in a controlled rhythm.

You moved together like that—slow at first, your hips rolling in languid circles to feel every inch of him drag against your sensitive walls. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and unyielding, as you lifted up and sank back down, savoring the way he stretched you open with each descent. The air in the booth grew thicker, heavy with the scent of your arousal and the faint metallic tang of his rings catching the dim light. Jax's eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with lust, as he watched your breasts bounce gently beneath the thin fabric of your sundress.

“That's it, baby,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. “Ride me slow... make it last.” You obeyed, grinding down harder on the next drop, your clit rubbing against his pubic bone in a way that sent sparks up your spine. The fair's sounds filtered in—children's laughter, the sizzle of food trucks, footsteps crunching on gravel—but they felt miles away, drowned out by the wet slide of his cock in your pussy and your shared, ragged breaths.

His free hand moved to your neck, fingers wrapping around it with just enough pressure to make your pulse race under his palm. He squeezed lightly at first, testing, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat as you rose and fell on him. The choke was firm but controlled, restricting your air just enough to make your head swim, heightening every sensation. Your pussy clenched tighter around his length in response, drawing a low hiss from his lips. “Fuck, yeah... feel that? You're squeezin' me so good,” he murmured, his grip tightening incrementally with each of your downward thrusts, making your movements deliberate, unhurried.

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders for leverage, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as you picked up a subtle rhythm—up slow, down even slower, twisting your hips to take him deeper. The pressure on your neck made stars burst behind your eyelids, your body arching into the sensation, chasing the edge of breathlessness that amplified the fullness of him inside you. Jax's other hand roamed to your breast, pushing the sundress strap down to expose one nipple, his mouth descending to latch on and suck hard, teeth grazing the peak while his fingers kept their hold on your throat.

Time stretched in the confined space, each roll of your hips drawing out the pleasure, building it layer by layer. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his chest heaving as he fought to keep quiet, but a soft groan escaped when you clenched deliberately around him. Outside, a group of people walked by, their voices carrying snippets of conversation, and Jax's hand on your neck paused the squeeze, holding you still impaled on his cock until they passed. The anticipation made you throb around him, your juices dripping down to coat his balls.

When the coast cleared, he released your throat just enough for you to gasp in air, then tightened again, guiding your pace with subtle bucks of his hips. “Suck on these,” he commanded softly, lifting his other hand from your breast to press two fingers—adorned with those silver rings, chilled from the evening air—against your parted lips. You opened for him without hesitation, tongue swirling around the digits, tasting the salt of his skin mixed with the faint residue of your own slick from earlier. The metal bands were icy against your warm tongue, a stark contrast that made you shiver, sucking harder as you bobbed your head in time with your riding.

He pushed them deeper, fucking your mouth shallowly while his cock filled your pussy, the dual invasion making you moan around his fingers. The cold rings clinked softly against your teeth, sending chills down your spine that pooled as heat in your core. You hollowed your cheeks, licking and sucking with fervor, the metallic tang blending with his flavor as drool escaped the corner of your mouth. Jax's eyes darkened further, his hand on your neck resuming its choke, syncing the pressure with the thrusts you set—slow, deep, relentless.

Your thighs burned from the effort, but you didn't stop, drawing it out as he wanted, feeling him swell thicker inside you with every grind. His fingers in your mouth muffled any sounds, the cold metal warming now from your heat, sliding over your tongue as you nursed on them like a promise of more. The booth's mirror reflected fragments of you both—your flushed face, his strained expression, the way your ass flexed with each lift and drop. Pleasure coiled tighter in your belly, not rushing but simmering, fed by the risk, the restraint, the intimacy of it all.

Jax's hips jerked up once, involuntarily, burying himself to the hilt, and you felt him pulse, close but holding back. He pulled his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, trailing saliva down your chin before returning to your breast, but his other hand choked firmer now to urge you on. “Keep goin'... don't stop till I say,” he rasped, his voice edged with desperation. You rode him through the building tension, your pussy fluttering around his cock, the choke making every breath a victory, every slide a torment of bliss.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of drawn-out ecstasy, Jax could feel his control fray. His hand slipped from your throat to grip your hip, helping you slam down one last time as he thrust up, spilling hot cum deep inside you in thick ropes. The sensation tipped you over, your own release milking him dry, walls spasming as you bit your lip bloody to stay silent. He held you there, choking lightly through the aftershocks, drunk on lust and the way you looked taking his load.

Only when the waves subsided did he ease his hold, pulling you down against his chest, both of you slick with sweat and spent. The fair's noises returned gradually, a reminder of the world outside, but for now, you lingered, his cock softening inside you, his arms wrapped possessively around your waist.

“Mine.”

The word slipped from Jax’s lips before he could stop it, low and rough against your forehead. He pressed a kiss there, lingering a beat longer than he should’ve, breathing you in —sugar, sweat, and summer heat. The tiny booth still felt electric, the air charged from what had just happened, his pulse still pounding hard beneath your palms.

He drew back with a lazy grin, brushing a thumb along your cheekbone as he checked the curtain to make sure no one had seen a damn thing. His voice was light when he finally spoke, though his eyes were anything but.

“Gotta make sure the whole fair didn’t get a show.”

You huffed, still breathless, trying to fix your hair and dignity at the same time. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He did anyway —that slow, unhurried once-over that always made you roll your eyes. Jax’s grin deepened, boyish and cocky. “Can’t help it, darlin’,” he murmured. “You look like sin and summer mixed together.”

You muttered something under your breath as you straightened your sundress, trying to ignore him. Jax adjusted his jeans, redoing his belt buckle, still watching you from the corner of his eye —not with lust anymore, but with that quiet, protective affection.

When you were both put back together enough to face daylight, Jax pushed open the curtain and stepped out first, one hand reaching back to guide you out. The warm air hit instantly, thick and sweet with the smell of popcorn and dust. He kept his palm at the small of your back as if it belonged there —maybe because it did.

The photo booth whirred, spitting out a glossy strip of pictures that fluttered into the slot. You were faster, snatching it before he could grab it.

“Uh-uh,” you warned, holding it out of reach as your cheeks went pink.

Jax tilted his head, amused, trying to peek around your hand. “What? Let me see, babe.”

“Not a chance,” you said, clutching it closer. He could see the hint of a smile threatening your lips. “You don’t deserve it.”

He laughed —a real one this time, easy and warm, the sound cutting through the noise of the fair. “Don’t deserve it, huh?” he echoed, slipping an arm around your waist again. “That’s funny. Pretty sure I just earned somethin’ in there.”

You gave him a mock glare, swatting his chest and he only grinned wider, pulling you closer as you both wove through the crowd, his hand resting possessively on your hip, when you gave a little hum -smug, satisfied. He glanced down at you, brow raised.

“What?” he asked, suspicion laced through that low drawl.

You tilted your head, looking way too pleased with yourself. “Nothing,” you said, that teasing lilt in your voice giving you away instantly.

Jax narrowed his eyes. “That tone,” he said. “What’d you do?”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile, but you couldn’t hold it in. “I knew this was gonna happen.”

He stopped walking. Just—stopped. Shoes scuffing against the packed dirt, the noise of the fair fading behind you. “You what?”

You turned to face him fully now, grinning like you’d just confessed to a crime you were proud of. “I knew you’d get all jealous and broody,” you said simply, shrugging one shoulder. “Kinda counted on it, actually.”

Jax blinked at you, mouth parting slightly. “You’re tellin’ me—”

You kept going, relentless. “I may’ve… asked that guy to play along a little.”

His jaw dropped. “You what?”

You laughed, stepping closer, completely unapologetic. “Oh, relax. I just told him to say hi, maybe flirt a little. Nothing serious.”

Jax stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “You set that up?”

“Mhmm.” You smirked, hands slipping into your dress pockets, rocking on your heels. “And I laughed extra loud so you’d hear. Wore your favorite sundress too—figured that’d really sell it.”

For a second, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there, running a hand through his hair, half disbelieving, half impressed, all the while fighting the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You baited me,” he said finally, voice low, rough with a mix of exasperation and awe.

“Worked, didn’t it?” you said, raising a brow.

That made him laugh —sharp and disbelieving—before he reached out, grabbing you by the waist, pulling you flush against him. “You’re outta your damn mind,” he muttered, shaking his head but smiling anyway.

“Yeah,” you said, eyes glinting up at him. “But you love that about me.”

Jax’s grin turned slow and dangerous. “Maybe I do,” he said, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear. “But next time you wanna get my attention, darlin’…”

He leaned in close, his breath brushing your ear.

“...you don’t gotta bring in a decoy.”