Just Another Vampire Diaries/Originals Blog

Klaus hadn’t ever been an overly affectionate person, so he didn’t mind that Y/N wasn’t either. But there were times when her hands would reach for him before pulling back away, or her body would start to curl close to him before stiffening and straightening back out.

He could tell there was something wrong. That she was conflicted about something. He just hoped it wasn’t about him.

From the way she acted, he didn’t think she would miss him all that much when he had to go for a week.

But when he returned home, she was in his bed, wearing one of his Henley’s, snuggled to a pillow that was also wrapped in one of his shirts. Her face pressed to it, her body moving slowly with each breath.

Klaus sat down on the edge of the bed, his hand coming to rest against her side through the covers. He leant down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, his lips upturning when she smiled subconsciously at the touch.

He nuzzled her face teasingly, growing slightly amused when she rolled over to move towards him in her sleep.

Klaus laid down, kissing her lips softly and stroking his hand up her back.

“Klaus…” she mumbled, snuggling to him in a way she never had before. He closed his eyes, holding her close and resting beside her.

When Y/N woke, she was quickly sat up.

“You’re back!” She smiled, hugging him tight before letting go and hesitating. “Sorry I borrowed your shirt.” Her cheeks were pink and she started to move her arms out of the sleeves but Klaus shook his head, holding her wrists so she could t wriggle out.

“It looks good on you.” He smiled, moving to cup her face. “Did you miss me?”

Y/N’s expressions became conflicted. Klaus knew the answer, of course she missed him. Why else would she be in his clothes, breathing his scent? Which was why Klaus was so confused by her reluctance to admit her feelings.

“A bit.” She nodded and pulled away.

Klaus frowned and took her hand in his, stroking her skin with his thumb. “Well I missed you a whole lot.” He told her as he leant down to kiss her. She reciprocated without thinking, pressing closer. Klaus pulled her onto his lap, caressing her face as he parted her lips to explore.

Y/N stayed against him for a little while, just quiet and still as if it would be ruined if she made a sound or moved.

“What’s wrong, love?” He asked softly, his arms tightening round her for a second in a squeeze.

“Nothing.” She whispered, her lips tugging down into a frown. “Why would something be wrong?”

“You feel tense; scared.” He leaned back, his hand cupping her face.

Y/N just stared back at him, unsure of what to say. If she relaxed, she knew that she wouldn’t want to let go and then he’d leave her too.

Klaus was confused and concerned. He could see some sort of battle happening in her eyes as he held her face in his hands, shifting her in his lap so she was closer.

“I’m not tense, or scared.” Her head shook and she hesitantly hugged him again, her hands going under his. But Klaus could still feel the uncertainty in her actions.

Klaus was worried that maybe this was something to do with him. That perhaps she didn’t actually miss him, maybe she wanted to break up but was too scared to say it. Scared of him.

“You don’t have to hug me, not if you don’t want to.” He whispered, pulling back and looking at her face to gauge her expression. “I won’t hurt you.” Klaus told her, his hand holding hers. “Even if you don’t want to be with me.”

Y/N’s eyes widened and she practically threw herself at him. Letting her body wrap around him like she really wanted to.

“Of course I want to be with you!” She whimpered, holding him tight. “I’m sorry.”

Klaus held her back, a relieved smile on his face as he kissed her cheek.

“Just tell me what’s wrong, love.”

So she did. Y/N spilled her heart out, telling him about her last two relationships and how both of them ended because she was too clingy. That she missed him so much that it hurt. That she slept in his clothes every night for the last week, looked at his paintings and stayed in his bed for most of the time. She’d been holding herself back for months, craving deeper affection but being too scared to ask for it.

Klaus was a touch hurt that she’d not told him, that she didn’t think more of him, but it was clear that it wasn’t about him at all.

“I love you, Y/N.” He told her, holding her close and encasing her in his scent and his warmth. “I want you to cling to me. I want you to show me how much you need me, how much you love me.” He whispered, pressing his face into her neck.

“I love you.” She whimpered, snuggling to him properly for the first time, her arms and legs around him and refusing to let go as he laid with her.

Klaus was glad he’d had to go out of town for that week, as a result, he knew that he would never leave her again.

From then on, Y/N wasn’t so shy about wanting to be with him, holding his hand or being in his lap. Klaus learned to be just as clingy as she was, nuzzling her for most of the day and all of the night.

The murderous hybrid was reduced to a giant teddy bear when it came to her. While some expected him to be embarrassed of that, Klaus remained proud that his girl was finally comfortable enough to trust that he would never leave her over something so simple as her needing his affection and reassurance.

The first thing Klaus notices is that you’re shivering. Not because you’re cold there’s a roaring bonfire in front of everyone, sparks dancing into the star-filled sky but because you’d stubbornly insisted on giving your jacket to Hope earlier in the evening.

“You humans,” Klaus mutters as he shrugs off his own coat.

You look over with an amused smile. “Excuse me?”

“You sacrifice your comfort for everyone else.”

Before you can protest, he’s draping the expensive coat over your shoulders, his hands lingering just long enough to warm your arms through the fabric.

“I’m fine.”

“So you’ve said,” Klaus replies, settling beside you on the fallen log. “Yet you’re trembling.”

“I’m not—”

A gust of cool autumn wind interrupts you, proving him right as you instinctively tuck yourself closer to him.

The smug grin on his face is immediate. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say a word, love.”

“You didn’t have to, you got that look on your face.”

A comfortable silence settles between you as everyone else laughs somewhere behind you. Someone starts another round of ghost stories while marshmallows roast over the fire, filling the air with the scent of toasted sugar and smoke.

You stare into the flames, absentmindedly trying to toast a marshmallow without burning it.

It catches fire almost instantly.

“Oh, come on!”

Klaus chuckles a genuine laugh, warm and unguarded, so rare that it makes your heart skip.

“You’ve lived through vampires, witches, werewolves, and yet marshmallows remain your greatest adversary.”

“They’re harder than they look.”

“They’re marshmallows.”

“They’re flammable marshmallows."

His eyebrows lift. “Flammable?”

“This one literally caught fire.”

He plucks the stick from your hand with effortless grace.

“Allow me.”

You watch him rotate it with impossible patience, golden-brown instead of black, until it’s perfectly toasted.

“There.”

He offers it back.

You lean forward to take it but pause, noticing the tiny smudge of ash on his cheek.

“You’ve got…”

“What?”

“A little…” You gesture vaguely toward your own face.

Klaus frowns. Without thinking, you reach up and brush it away with your thumb. The movement is so gentle that he goes completely still. For a moment, the bonfire, the laughter, the music in the distance it all fades away. His blue eyes soften as they meet yours.

“You know,” he says quietly, “centuries of existence… countless battles… and somehow this…”

He turns his head just enough to press a kiss into the palm of your hand before you can pull it away.

“…this is what leaves me speechless.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks.

“You? Speechless?”

“A rare occurrence.”

You smile, trying and failing to hide it.

“I’ll have to treasure the moment.”

“I’d advise against becoming accustomed to it.”

“Oh?”

“The next time you attempt to roast a marshmallow, I fully intend to tease you mercilessly.”

You laugh, the sound blending with the crackling fire.

“Deal.”

Klaus slips an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side beneath the warmth of his coat. The stars stretch endlessly overhead, the fire crackles softly, and for once, the infamous Original Hybrid isn’t thinking about enemies, power, or the weight of a thousand years.

The front door slammed behind you hard enough to rattle the windows. You barely made it three steps into the compound before the adrenaline wore off.

A sharp hiss escaped your lips as you pressed a trembling hand against the cut running along your side, crimson already soaking through your shirt.

“You are bleeding on my floor.”

Klaus’s voice was calm.

You looked up with a weak smile. “Hi to you too.”

His blue eyes landed on the blood staining your fingers, and every trace of amusement disappeared.

“Who did this?”

“I’m okay.”

“You are answering the wrong question, love.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the room tilted slightly. Klaus was beside you before you could blink, one arm wrapping around your waist with surprising gentleness as he guided you to sit on the kitchen counter.

“You always did have dreadful timing,” he muttered, already disappearing to grab the first aid kit.

“It’s just a scratch.”

He shot you a look.

“It is six inches long.”

“…A long scratch then.”

A reluctant huff escaped him, though it carried no real humor. He peeled your blood-soaked shirt away with careful fingers, his touch featherlight despite the tension rolling off him in waves.

“You know,” you winced as antiseptic touched the wound, “I was actually going to ask you to patch me up.”

“I gathered as much.”

“It sounded more romantic in my head.”

“It would have been, had you not arrived looking as though you’d wrestled a pack of werewolves.”

You laughed, immediately regretting it.

“Ouch.”

“Stop moving.”

“Yes, sir.”

His hands paused for the briefest second before continuing to clean the wound.

“You mock me now,” he murmured, “but had that blade been an inch deeper…”

His voice trailed off.

That frightened you more than the injury.

You reached for his wrist.

“Klaus.”

He didn’t look at you.

“I was terrified.”

Those three words were barely louder than a whisper. Finally, he met your eyes. For someone feared by kingdoms, his expression was heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“I have lived a thousand years,” he said quietly, securing the bandage around your waist. “Do you know what that teaches a man?”

You shook your head. “That everyone leaves eventually.” His thumb brushed gently over the fresh bandage.

“I find I rather dislike the thought of you joining that list.”

Your chest tightened. “You’d miss having someone to boss around.”

“I would.” A beat passed.

“And I would miss you for countless other reasons.”

You smiled softly, lifting your hand to cup his cheek.

“Thanks for patching me up.”

Klaus leaned into your touch just enough for you to notice.

“Always.”

Then, as though realizing he’d become far too sentimental, he pressed a kiss to your forehead and smirked.

“Now,” he said, “tell me the name of the fool responsible.”

You blinked.

“Why?”

"Stop what, love?"

He rests his arms on the table and leans toward you. He smiles, revealing his charming dimples.

You exhale a tense, slightly irritated breath and turn your eyes toward him. You feel your face burning as you furrow your brows slightly.

"You know very well what is that."

You can't keep your eyes on him for long. You lean back as you take a sip of your drink.

"If you don't like the restaurant, we can go somewhere else. You just have to say so, love."

He says this with a serious facial expression, but in a mocking, low-pitched tone.

"Klaus."

He laughs, unable to help himself.

"What?! What did I do now?"

"Stop looking at me like that!"

"Wow! So, am I forbidden from looking at my woman now?"

His eyes widen as if he has suffered a great betrayal.

He leans back and starts looking at the glass in his hand. Although he tries not to show it, his lip purses slightly.

You raise your eyebrows slightly, trying not to let his sweetness get to you.

He’s always pulling these cheap tricks.

And you always fall for them.

This time, you rest your arms on the table and lean toward him.

"Love.."

You draw out the word as you look into his sulky eyes.

Who could have imagined that he was a hybrid who had lived for a thousand years and turned everyone's life into a living hell?

As soon as he hears your soft voice, one of his eyes twitches and his chest heaves with a deep breath.

You don't need to force him to give up.

You reach out and touch the hand he is using to hold the glass.

The moment he feels your hand, his eyes widen, and he instantly drops the glass and grasps your hand.

As he holds your small hand in his palm and strokes it, he clears his throat and turns his head to the side.

"You broke my heart.. Forgiving won't be easy. Y'know that, don't you?"

You smile at the moody tone of his voice.

You looked how gently he strokes the back of your hand, cradled within his large palm.

The contradiction between his words and actions makes you laugh.

It warms your heart to see the most powerful creature in the world, acting like a kid in front of you.

There was nothing to forgive.

You knew your man would never stop adoring you.

But hearing about a nightmare in the safety of a candlelit bedroom is entirely different from watching it wake up right in front of you.

The ruined warehouse on the outskirts of New Orleans was dead silent, save for the ragged, hyperventilating sound of your own breathing. Just moments ago, the air had been thick with Lucien’s mocking laughter. He had you pinned against a rusted concrete pillar, his fingers digging deep, ugly bruises into the sensitive skin of your throat. He had used you as the ultimate leverage, taunting Klaus, basking in the sheer thrill of holding the Great Evil’s Achilles' heel in his grasp. You had been paralyzed with a primal, suffocating terror, utterly certain that your life was about to end in a spray of dust and bone.

Then, Klaus had broken through the heavy iron doors.

What followed wasn’t a neat, cinematic, heroic rescue. It was an execution. It was a visceral, chaotic display of apex predation that blurred the lines between speed and sound. You hadn't even been able to track the movements—only the horrific, wet sounds of tearing flesh, the splintering of wood as bodies crashed through walls, and the terrifying, demonic roar that ripped from Klaus’ throat. It wasn't a fight. It was a butcher dissecting his prey with meticulous, agonizing wrath.

Now, Klaus stood a few feet away from you, his back turned.

The posture that was usually so elegant, so effortlessly regal and poised, was rigid and trembling with residual adrenaline. His chest heaved, his shoulders rising and falling in heavy, ragged cycles. At his feet lay what was left of Lucien—a broken, mangled mass of clothes and shattered bone that barely looked human anymore. The floor was slick with a dark, widening pool of crimson.

You couldn't tear your eyes away from Klaus’ hands. They were stained completely red, all the way up to his wrists. Thick, slow droplets of blood fell from his fingertips, striking the concrete floor with a rhythmic, sickening tap... tap... tap.

"Y/N," he said softly.

The monstrous, vibrating rumble that had shaken the very foundations of the room a second ago was entirely gone. It was replaced by a tone so devastatingly gentle, so laced with panicked reverence, that it felt completely out of place in the carnage.

He slowly turned around to face you. Instinct took over before your mind could stop it. You flinched, your heels scraping against the floor as you tried to press yourself even deeper into the solid concrete pillar behind you. Your chest heaved, a tiny, involuntary whimper escaping your lips.

The movement was slight, but to a hybrid with supernatural senses, it was a gunshot.

Klaus froze instantly. The dark, web-like veins pulsing beneath his eyes—the physical manifestation of his vampire hunger and unbridled wrath—slowly began to recede. His irises shifted from a terrifying, predatory gold back to his piercing, vulnerable blue. He looked down at you, and for a fraction of a second, a flash of absolute, agonizing heartbreak crossed his features. The monster vanished, leaving behind a man who looked utterly naked in his shame.

"Love," he whispered, taking a tentative, excruciatingly slow step forward. He raised his bloody hands slightly, a instinctive gesture to comfort you that he aborted halfway through, realizing what he looked like. "You're safe. He can't touch you again. I promise you, he will never touch you again."

"I... I know," you choked out. You wanted to sound brave. You wanted to be the fierce, unwavering partner he needed, but your voice betrayed you, trembling violently. Your eyes darted uncontrollably from the blood dripping from his knuckles back up to his face.

Klaus noticed your gaze. He looked down at his own hands, a bitter, self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips before it quickly withered into a look of profound defeat. He didn't try to wipe the blood on his trousers. He didn't try to hide what he had done. He simply stood there, letting you see him in the raw, horrific truth of his existence.

"This is what I am," he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly confession that vibrated with a thousand years of isolation. "You told me you weren't afraid of my past, Y/N. But this is my present. This is the ugliness required to keep the world from tearing us apart. When someone threatens what is mine, I do not negotiate. I do not show mercy. I destroy."

He took another step, stopping just on the perimeter of your personal space. He didn't reach out to grab you, nor did he use his supernatural speed to close the gap. He stood perfectly still, giving you the power, giving you the choice to push him away or run from him. The terrifying predator was completely gone, replaced entirely by the man who loved you, desperately waiting for your judgment, terrified that he had just broken the one good thing in his life.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked. The vulnerability in his voice was almost jarring compared to the violence he had just unleashed. His blue eyes searched yours, pleading, bracing himself for the rejection he believed he rightfully deserved.

You looked past his shoulder at the carnage across the room. Your heart was still hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, and the primal, human part of your brain was screaming at you to run out of the warehouse and never look back.

But then you looked back at Klaus. You looked at the slight tremor in his jaw, the profound sadness in his eyes, and the way he seemed to shrink beneath your gaze. You didn't see a monster enjoying a slaughter. You saw a man who had gone to the darkest, most horrific depths of his soul purely to pull you back into the light.

Your hands were shaking as you finally stepped away from the pillar, closing the final few inches of distance between you. You didn't touch his hands—not because you were disgusted, but because you wanted him to know you were looking at him, not the blood.

Slowly, carefully, you reached up and rested your palms against his unblemished, stubbled jawline.

"I'm shocked," you whispered honestly, your voice steadying as the warmth of his skin grounded you. "And I am terrified of what just happened. But Nik... I am not afraid of you."

A long, shuddering breath escaped Klaus' lungs, a sound that bordered on a sob. He closed his eyes, leaning heavily, desperately into the touch of your hands, as if your acceptance was the only anchor keeping him from drifting entirely into the dark.

-end

✦──────────────────────✦

You linger before the gilt-framed mirror longer than your reflection deserves. The harsh ceiling fan light slices through the room, revealing every thread of lint on your black, satin slip dress and every frizz in your carefully curled hair. Your fingers ghost over the smooth fabric at your hips, hesitating as if you could press the anxiety from your bones and into the cloth itself. You pinch a single curl, twisting it around your finger until it gleams under the lamp, then let it drop, only to fold it back into place seconds later. 

Your kitten-heels rest against the ottoman. You raise one trembling foot, hover it over the backless shoe, and then recoil as though the heel might bite. The plan, your friends, the people you love, hovers in your mind. Shaking, you force a deep breath, slip your foot into the shoe, then the other. Each click against the hardwood sounds impossibly loud. No time for doubts.

Tonight, you will kill Klaus Mikaelson.

Through the tall windows you glimpse the party. Colorful lights bounce off the walls, guests drift around the bougainvillea-draped patio. From inside, a techno beat rattles the walls; laughter ricochets off marble pillars. Drinks slide from hand to hand. It almost feels normal, until you remember why you’re here. 

You slip through the double doors. The strobe light catches Caroline Forbes first. She’s by the bar with Tyler, shoulders squared and tense. Bonnie Bennett stands nearby, eyes steady, mouth set. And Katherine Pierce, masquerading tonight as Elena Gilbert, leans against a column, solo cup in hand. 

Carloine meets your eyes and gives you a pity smile. You look away, biting back the bitterness. Your gaze drifts to the opposite side of the room. And there he stands by the grand piano. He sees you and his lips quirk in a faint, knowing smile. Your chest tightens. 

“You came.” His voice is cool as he meets you. He tilts his head, amused. 

“I guess you were right.” 

A slow, confidential arch of his brow. “You’ll soon find out, love, that I’m always right.” His eyes travel deliberately over your shoulders, linger on the curve of your waist, as if you were a masterpiece. A dry stone rolls through your throat. 

You fold your arms, feigning indifference. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” he asks, stepping forward until his breath carries a hint of mint.

His presence presses in on you. You’re forced to tilt your chin upward. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” He reaches out, brushing a stray curl from your cheek. The motion is tender. Your pulse flutters. You reflexively draw back. “Like I chose to be here for you.” 

He huffs a laugh. “I know you didn’t.” 

His voice carries no smugness, just fact. You toss your hair. “Then stop acting like you’re happy to see me.” 

He smiles, a fraction softer. “I’m not acting, sweetheart.” 

You lean forward. “What is this? You invite me here to torture me? Use me as leverage?” 

Klaus’s eyes darken as he steps even closer, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his chest. He lowers his mouth to your ear. “I don’t know what this is yet.” His warm breath brushes your skin. “But I do know you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” Your breath hitches. You snort. “Dance with me,” he adds, extending a hand. 

You shake your head, but your fingers twitch. “No.” 

“It wasn’t a request.” 

You cross your arms. “It’s still a no.” 

He lets out an amused exhale. “You’re meant to be distracting me, aren’t you?” 

Your chest drops. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m not stupid. You hate me.” He nods to his hand. “Dance with me.” 

Swallowing past the nervous flutter in your stomach, you slip your palm into his. 

He leads you through another set of doors the backyard. The bass thuds in your ribs, a jagged backdrop to the rustle of trees. He spins you once; you catch a gasp in your throat before he deftly draws you back against his chest. His fingers settle on your waist like a promise. 

“I don’t think you can slow dance to this,” you mutter as the track shifts to a pulsing beat. 

“I don’t particularly like this music, nor its dancing,” he replies, dipping you so your laughter bubbles up, despite yourself. “So we’ll be slow dancing.” You sway awkwardly, your feet out of sync with the beat while his arm around your waist remains steady. “You’re tense,” he murmurs. 

“I’m dancing with someone I’m supposed to hate.” 

“Supposed to,” he repeats softly, his breath brushing your temple. 

Your lips curve into an ironic smile. “Don’t start.” 

He tightens his grip just enough for you to feel the strength beneath your dress. “Trust me, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.” He spins you again, pulling in close. His lips find your ear. “Black doesn’t suit you.” 

You arch a brow, stepping back. “Did you invite me here to criticize my wardrobe?” 

He chuckles. “Not a criticism.” 

“It sounds a lot like one.” 

He watches you, the chatter of guests fading as his attention narrows to just you. After a moment, he says quietly, “Black is for mourning, for grief, for things already lost. It swallows the light.” 

Heat coils in your chest. You force a scoff. “Alright, Hemingway. What’s your point?” 

His gaze drifts over the silky folds of your dress, then returns. “You shouldn’t wear something that swallows all your light.” 

Your breath catches. “What?” 

“You spend enough of your time carrying darkness for other people,” he whispers. “Their burdens. Their fear. Their survival.” 

Your pulse triples. No one says things like that. No one notices. But you do it every day. You absorb their problems so they don’t break. Bonnie, Caroline, Elena… They lean on you, trust you to keep them safe. 

Your throat clenches. You look away. “You don’t know me.” 

“No,” he concedes, “not entirely. But this I know. You’re bright. You carry your light even after loss and grief.” 

Your chest burns. “So what?” you murmur. “What should I wear, then?” 

His answer is immediate. “Light blue,” he says. Your brows jump. He’s half-smiling. “Or yellow,” he adds, his eyes flicking to your interlaced fingers before coming back to your face. “Something soft, or warm.” 

A twist of irritation spins through your heart. “Because?” 

“Because there are very few people in this world who remain kind after everything it takes from them. You strike me as one of them.” 

Silence stretches. You hate that it stings. You clamp your jaw shut and wall up behind anger. “You’ve known me for five minutes,” you snap. “Stop acting like you’ve solved some puzzle.” 

For the first time, you see something in his eyes pull back, quirk of a wounded expression. He masks it with a faint smile. “As you wish, love.” He steps back, but lets his palm linger on your waist as the next track begins. “But when you tire of pretending,” he whispers, guiding you into another hesitant turn, “I suspect I’ll be proven right.” 

You glare. “I’m not pretending.” 

He tilts his head, studying you, then releases your waist. “I don’t think you’ve been allowed to stop pretending in a very long time.” 

Behind him, Katherine and Bonnie slip back toward the house. They pass through the threshold. It’s happening. Your jaw clenches. You lean in close again, your palm pressing flat against his chest, forcing him to stay. 

You force a wan smile and drop your gaze. “You’re right. I am pretending.” You lift your lashes, offering him the faintest quiver of vulnerability. “I admire you in that way.” 

Klaus stills. His lips part. “In what way, love?” 

You place a hand on his cheeks. Your voice is a hushed confession. “You don’t pretend. You are who you are, fully. You embrace it. You own it, and you don’t apologize. I wish I could be like that. Free.” 

He draws you impossibly closer; your noses nearly touch. His voice drops to a growl. “I could give you freedom. I could give you everything you want, take you around the world. You could be whoever you want to be.” Your ribcage threatens to crack. And you don’t pull away, because this is the plan. Distract him. You steal one glance toward the house. You feel the shift in his eyes, the awareness. He stills, voice low in your ear. “You’re trying very hard to keep my attention.” 

Your belly tightens. “I thought that’s what you wanted.” 

“It is,” he says. “But not like this.” 

“What does that mean?” 

He hovers his lips at your earlobe. “What you confessed is true; you just don’t realize it yet. I admire you too, love. Your loyalty. Which is why I know your friends are planning on killing me.” He pulls back, tracing a thumb across your cheek. “I won’t hurt you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt them.” 

His words land like stones. You inhale sharply. “Klaus-” But he’s already turning away. The warmth of his hand vanishes. Suddenly, the night air grows suffocating. You lunge, catching his wrist. “Please.” He pivots, expression unreadable, guarded, older than both of you. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” you gasp. “If you do anything to my friends, you will be hurting me.” 

His jaw snaps tight. “Your friends,” he repeats softly. “The very people who wish to see me dead.” 

“Yeah, well, can you really blame them?” you challenge, spreading your arms in helpless frustration. “Look what you’ve done to them. Tyler, Elena, Stefan. You’ve destroyed the family they built.” 

He flares with sudden pain. “And what of the family I’m trying to build?” he retorts. Silence presses between you. Then he murmurs, “You danced with me. You looked me in the eye and lied. Used me.” 

“Don’t act surprise!” You shake your head. “You said it yourself, I’m here to distract you.” 

He laughs, dry and humorless, just as a tall hybrid slips through the crowd and leans in to whisper in Klaus’s ear. Your every sense sharpens. You catch each syllable. “There’s a man here to see you. Says his name is Mikael.” 

Klaus’s entire body seizes. His eyes flick to yours with sudden terror. “No,” he breathes. “No.” His calm fractures, replaced by fury. He yanks you toward him so hard your breath comes in a cry. “How?!” he roars. Your arm jerks in his iron grip. “How is he here?!” 

“Klaus, I-” 

“HOW?!” he bellows. Guests drop away, the music recedes. Klaus stares into your eyes as if hoping you’ll lie. “You knew,” he hisses. “You knew he was alive.” 

Your pulse races painfully. “Klaus, listen to me-”

“You brought him here.” The betrayal in his voice nearly destroys you.

“We thought-”

“We?” Klaus laughs once. “We.” His eyes search your face desperately now. Like he’s hoping you’ll deny it. Like some part of him still wants you to be innocent. “I assume Rebekah told you of our history?” You can’t form words, and that no answer is one. “You knew,” he repeats quietly. "You knew he'd be here tonight to kill me. You brought him here after what he’s done to me." His jaw clenches. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs bitterly. The nickname sounds ruined now. “You really did betray me.”

Your chest aches unexpectedly. “Klaus, we were trying to stop you-”

“By bringing him?” The sheer horror in Klaus’s voice stuns you. “He’s hunted me for a thousand years,” Klaus snaps. “Do you have any idea what kind of monster creates fear that lasts a millennium?” His eyes glisten with unshed tears. “He burned villages to find me,” Klaus says quietly now, eyes unfocused slightly, like he’s somewhere else entirely. “Killed anyone who sheltered me. Anyone who cared for me.” You’ve never heard Klaus talk like this before. “He is not your weapon,” Klaus says sharply, eyes locking back onto yours. “He is death. He is a vampire who hunts vampires. Not only did you solidify my death, but the deaths of everyone you love." 

His gaze falls on you one last time, hollow with pain. Then steel slides over his features. He shoves you away and storms toward the house. 

You call after him, but he’s gone into the throng of guests, arms swinging, coil unspooling. People scatter as he charges through the grand rooms. The roar of music feels grotesquely celebratory against the terror knotting your gut. 

You follow just behind, breath coming quick. At the front doors he skids to a halt, and there stands Mikael, silhouetted in moonlight, one hand clamped around Katherine’s throat. Everyone inside thinks she’s Elena. Including Klaus, whose face goes rigid with dread. 

“Let her go,” he snarls. 

Mikael’s voice is brittle. “Or what, boy?” 

Katherine’s eyes brim with tears; she claws at the hybrid’s wrist, silent pleas flickering in her gaze. 

“Don’t do this,” Klaus says, foot shuffling forward. 

Mikael laughs. “Still caring for a doppelgänger?” 

Klaus’s jaw snaps shut. “You know nothing of what I care for.” Mikael presses the silver dagger further against Katherine’s spine. She chokes a sob. “You won’t kill her,” Klaus states, certainty steel-hard in his voice. “She’s your leverage.” 

Mikael’s smile sharpens. “Come outside,” he calls. “ And I won’t kill the one thing you need to create your family of abominations.” 

Klaus’s head tilts. “Do you think I’m that stupid?” 

“I think you’re desperate,” Mikael replies, “because your own family never wanted you.” He drives the dagger through Katherine’s back. She gasps, her body going limp in Mikael’s grip. 

Klaus screams. It’s a raw, ragged sound that shatters the night. He lunges forward, but Damon Salvatore appears at his back, pinning Klaus’s shoulders. A white oak stake flashes in Damon’s hand, plunging into Klaus’s spine. Memory-searing pain ripples across Klaus’s face as he collapses to his knees. 

“Klaus!” you cry out, sprinting forward. 

His head whips toward you. His eyes are wild, slick with agony. Damon yanks the stake free, lifting it for the final blow. 

And then Stefan Salvatore strikes. He tackles Damon, wrenching the stake upward and hurling it with impossibly swift precision into Mikael’s chest. 

Silence falls. Mikael’s eyes widen. He stares down at the oak stake as fire blossoms across his chest. His body convulses, then drops in a burst of flame that lights the doorway. 

The entire house holds its breath. Stefan turns, panting, to kneel beside Klaus. The Original lies on the foyer’s marble floor, chest heaving, face ashen. His eyes find Stefan’s. Confusion, relief, and pain collide there. Then his gaze flicks past Stefan, landing on you. 

Time stills in his eyes. You can almost feel the weight of his belief, the devastation that you, someone he thought he glimpsed, betrayed him. You can’t breathe. Despite everything, a shard of hope was there be there. And now it’s broken.

✦──────────────────────✦

You don’t sleep. The digital clock on your nightstand glares 3:14 AM in unforgiving red. No matter how hard you blink or how many breaths you count, sleep slips away. So you pace the length of the living room. Your bare feet whisper over cold hardwood. You pause at the kitchen counter, pour another glug of bourbon, and tip the amber liquid back until the burn dulls your edges. All the while, you replay that night on a loop. The way his eyes bored into yours, the crackle of betrayal in his voice, the hollow ache behind your ribs every time you remember how much it hurt. Your chest tightens until it feels as though steel bands have been drawn across your heart.

A sudden knock shatters the silence. Wood rattles against its frame. Your pulse hammers in your ears. One. Two. Then a third that is a final warning.

You squeeze your glass, every instinct screaming to stay hidden, but your feet carry you forward anyway. You grip the doorknob until your knuckles go white, twist it, and the door creaks open.

Moonlight slices through the doorway and there he stands. Klaus Mikaelson, taller than memory, hair tousled. His gaze, dark and furious, pins you in place. A frigid wind carries the faint scent of his cologne. His voice slices the air. “Where are they?”  Your heart twists. “What?” you manage, lips dry.  “My family’s coffins,” he snaps, each word a whip crack. “Where are they?”  Your stomach drops. You taste bile on your tongue. Stefan has them. Stefan, whose humanity is off, who’s vanished down vengeance’s dark path. You swallow, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know.” 

A hollow laugh rumbles from Klaus’s chest. “Don’t lie to me again.” He steps inside without waiting, the door slamming behind him so hard the walls tremble. You stagger back, instinctively raising your hands. He watches your retreat, eyes narrowing. “You’re afraid of me now,” he asks, voice low. You can’t answer, but no. Or maybe you are? “Good,” he breathes out. 

“Klaus,” you whisper, but he cuts you off. His jaw tightens, muscles knotted beneath pale skin. 

“You knew Stefan would take them.”  Your voice catches. “No. I swear I didn’t-”  “Stop lying to me!” 

Something snaps inside you. “You made him a ripper!” you shout. “You took away everything he was and then demanded loyalty? What did you expect?”  He stares as if you’ve spat on him, fury flaming in his eyes. He claws at his hair, pacing in a tight circle. “I SAVED HIM!” His roar shudders through the floorboards. You reel back, chest pounding. He stops, chest heaving, eyes wild. “I know what you all say about me. Monster. Paranoid. Cruel,” he spits, as though repeating gossip you never meant him to hear. “You have no idea what it’s like to be hunted by your own father for a thousand years, betrayed by your own blood.” He stalks toward you, each step measured fury. The moonlight catches the sharp planes of his face. He leans close, voice dropping to a rasp. “And yet I trusted Stefan with his freedom. Against every instinct.” His nostrils flare. You see guilt there, buried beneath rage. 

“You trust the wrong people,” you say quietly, chest tightening. 

He laughs, short and bitter. “Yes.” His single word lands like a knife between your ribs. 

“Klaus, I-” Your throat goes dry again. 

He closes the distance until the edge of your hip presses against the corner of a wooden table. He places his hands on either side of you. Silence stretches until you can hear your own heartbeat thudding in your chest. Finally he whispers, “Do you know what it felt like, dancing with you? Hearing you say you admired me?” A flicker of vulnerability crosses his eyes. “I believed you.” 

Your throat burns. “I know.” 

“No,” he snaps, voice cold. “You don’t.” He slams his hand against the wall inches from your ear. You jerk away, startled. He sucks in a breath and, before he can stop himself, confesses in a low, raw voice. “I would have given you anything.” The words hang between you. His own eyes widen as though he’s just broken a taboo. Your chest caves. You open your mouth, but he steps back, ice forming in his gaze once more. “Where are the coffins?” 

You force the same answer. “I don’t know.” 

He studies you for a long moment, the air thick with tension. Then, without another word, he turns and walks toward the door. His coat swirls around him, the floorboards creak beneath his boots. At the threshold, he pauses and speaks over his shoulder. “You should pray you’re telling the truth.” His voice is quiet, but you feel its weight like a threat. You brace yourself for him to slam the door, but instead he hesitates, silent for a heartbeat, then murmurs, “The truly pathetic part?” You can barely make out the words. “I still can’t decide,” he draws in a slow breath, “whether I want to kill you…” A pause that feels like an eternity, and then, softer still, “…or kiss you.” 

And just like that, he’s gone. The house falls into stillness, the moonlight colder than ever, and you’re left trembling in the echo of everything he said.

✦──────────────────────✦

Damon slips down the narrow hallway and pauses before the heavy wood coffin. He jerks open the lid, and in that instant, the room beyond the hallway stills. With a quick twist, he frees the danger.

With a sharp gasp, Elijah Mikaelson’s form jerks upright. His tailored suit crinkles as he throws an arm over the coffin’s rim. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicker, wild and unmoored, then centuries of restraint snap into place. His breathing is ragged, nostrils flaring, until, perfectly composed, he lowers his chin and surveys the gathered onlookers.

The dagger clatters to the floor. Damon leans casually against the coffin’s edge, smirk curling at one corner of his mouth. “There he is,” he announces, voice low and amused.

Elijah’s gaze sweeps across Stefan, then Elena, then lands on Damon. His voice is calm. “You removed the dagger.”

“Yep,” Damon says, brushing dust from his leather jacket. “Figured you’d want a shot at your brother for leaving you boxed up like a Christmas present.”

Elijah slides his legs over the coffin edge and stands, smoothing the lapels of his jacket as if he’d just stepped off a stage. “You assumed,” he says, “that I would betray Niklaus.”

Damon’s grin falters. He straightens, brow lifting. “Well… yeah.”

Elijah’s pale cheek flushes almost imperceptibly, as though faintly insulted. “He is my brother.” His words hang in the still air, accusing. 

Damon whistles softly. “He daggered you.”

“And?” Elijah’s voice is quiet, unyielding.

Damon’s head cants, as if he’s witnessing a miracle or a very bad hallucination. “You can’t seriously still be loyal to him.”

Elijah’s posture stiffens, eyes narrowing. “You assume my family thinks like you do.”

Milked silence. Damon’s jaw tightens. “He betrayed you.”

“No,” Elijah corrects. “He feared betrayal.”

The knowledge settles like a weight in Damon’s chest. The Mikaelson bond is older than blood, entwined in loyalty that human logic can’t fathom. And in that moment, Damon realizes the gamble has already slipped beyond his control.

It takes only moments for Klaus to learn the truth. Within hours, he storms through the front door of your house so forcefully the frame groans and photographs tumble, glass splintering across the hardwood floor. You’re perched on a high-backed chair, amber bourbon swirling in your glass. You lift an eyebrow, barely startled.

“You knew they released Elijah,” Klaus growls, shoulders coiled.

You take a slow sip, the burn of alcohol sliding down your throat. “What are you talking about?”

He laughs once, a harsh, hollow sound. “Must we continue this tiresome charade of pretending you had no part in every attempt on my life?”

Anger blooms hot in your chest. You set the glass on the side table, the impact rattling the coasters. “I didn’t know about Elijah.”

Klaus takes a step forward and the temperature in the room seems to drop with him. “ENOUGH.” His roar rattles your eardrums. You flinch and then rise, stomping until you close the distance between you.

“I’m sick of you barging in here and screaming at me like a child!” You thrust your hands into the air, frustration crackling in your veins.

He tilts his head, gaze narrowing. “You expect me to believe Damon Salvatore wakes my daggered brother without your knowledge?”

You snort. “I’m not involved in every stupid plan they have!”

“Really?” Klaus’s tone sharpens. “Because every time I look around, there’s another betrayal waiting.”

“You think I lie because you expect betrayal.” You cross your arms, chest rising and falling with each breath.

Klaus’s expression hardens further, pain flickering behind his anger. “And I wonder why.” You study him, the way his knuckles whiten around his fists, cheeks flushed, jaw clenched. For a moment, you see the bruised vulnerability beneath the fury. 

“You can’t hold that against me forever.”

He takes another step, so close you can feel the crackle of tension between you. “Forever?” he murmurs. “It’s been less than a month since you delivered my father to my doorstep.”

Your throat constricts. You stare at the silver flecks in his eyes. “I said I was sorry.”

He swallows hard, the anger in his voice trembles. “And yet he still tried to drive a white oak stake through my heart. I trusted you.”

You exhale slowly. “I don’t know why. I make it fairly clear I hate you.” You shrug, bitterness tippling your voice. “And not everything is about you.”

He leans in, the faintest flicker of hope in his eyes. “Elijah informed me Damon freed him expecting revenge.”

You bite your lip before words slip out. “Elijah would never turn on you.”

His brow lifts as if surprised. “You understand more than you let on.”

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Maybe I just understand family.”

Something shifts in his expression. “You truly didn’t know.”

“Shockingly,” you mutter, “the world doesn’t revolve around your paranoia.” A corner of his mouth twitches. “And you know, you don’t get to play victim after all you’ve done.”

He closes the distance, breath warm against your cheek. “And yet I am.”

“Why do you even care whether I betrayed you?” you challenge, chin jutting. “You barely know me.”

He stops, gaze locked on yours. The room is so still you can hear your own heartbeat. Finally, he exhales. “Because,” he says softly, “I wanted you to be different.”

Your chest tightens, breath catching in your throat. You stare at him. Klaus’s voice dips even lower, words spilling like confession. “A thousand years of being feared. Betrayed. Hunted. My father despised me. My siblings plotted against me. Friends bartered me to save themselves. And then… there was you.” He watches your face change. Surprise, confusion, something tender unfurling. “You hated me,” he breathes. “Openly, honestly. You never pretended otherwise. And I trusted that more than the hollow loyalties I’ve known.”

Your heart lurches. Your cheeks burn. He steps closer, until your foreheads nearly touch. His fingers ghost across your jaw, and you close your eyes against the surge that threatens to topple you. It’s longing, fear, exhilaration. “Despite every sensible instinct telling me not to…” His eyes flick to your lips. “…I cared what you thought of me.”

Silence stretching between your bodies, your souls. The world outside could explode and neither of you would blink. You whisper, almost to yourself, “That’s insane.”

He smiles, sad. “It is.”

Your heartbeat thunders so loudly you’re sure he can feel it against his palm. You open your eyes. “You shouldn’t care about me.”

He tilts your chin, voice gentle. “And yet I do.”

You look away first, chasing calm into your bones. “You barely know me.”

He reaches out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “I know you shield others, even when they don’t deserve it. I know you carry pain that isn’t yours. I know you’re loyal… to the end.” He leans in so slowly your breath hitches. His thumb grazes your bottom lip. “And I know,” he whispers, “you looked frightened when you thought I might die.”

Your breath flutters between you. Desire, terror, hope, guilt. It’s all warring beneath your skin. The ache in your chest pulses sharper than ever. You should step back. Remind him of every ruinous thing he’s done. But you don’t move.

“Klaus…” The word trembles from your throat.

He smiles, so soft it’s almost tender. “I love it… hearing you say my name.”

Your hand lifts as though drawn by gravity. You rest your fingers against the stubble on his jaw, tracing the hollow under his cheekbone, the firmness of his lips. You want to close the gap, to stop listening to reason. You want the world to blur around you two.

His eyes slip closed for a moment, as if to savor your touch. Then, with breathtaking tenderness, he tilts your head up. His nose brushes yours. Your lips part. You feel the warmth of his mouth, the barest graze-

Your phone screams. You gasp and stumble back, fists clenching the hem of your shirt. You pull your phone from your back pocket to see Caroline’s name flashes on the screen. Your cheeks burn with mortification. You decline the call, heart pounding so fiercely you feel dizzy. Everything, your longing, your fear, your almost-kiss, rushes back in a tide of cold reality. “Oh God,” you whisper. “This was a mistake.”

Klaus watches you, eyes careful, as if he can read every thought flickering across your face. He steps forward, and you back into the hall, hand pressed to your chest. 

“Was it?” he murmurs.

You sniff, voice trembling. “Yes. I can’t do this.”

His head tilts, searching you. “Kiss me?”

You inhale, exhaustion and yearning tangled in your lungs. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” He reaches out, fingers grazing your shoulder.

You shake your head, words tumbling out. “Because you’re Klaus Mikaelson. You’ve hurt the people I love. You turned Tyler. Katherine killed Jenna-”

“You’ve hurt the people I love too. Your friends daggered Rebekah,” he interrupts, voice low.

“Stop.” Your palm presses against his chest.

“You’ve tried to kill me. But I never hurt you.”

“Stop.”

He doesn’t. His gaze softens. “You awoke my father.”

“Stop!” you repeat, voice raw.

He gives a sad little shake. “And yet… your opinion still matters.”

You swallow. The moisture in your mouth tastes like regret. “I can’t be the girl who falls for Klaus Mikaelson.”

His lips curve into a gentle nod. “But you are.”

Your eyes flick to the floor. “It can’t happen again.”

“It did happen, love.” He cups your cheek.

You exhale, voice raspy. “You should hate me.”

His smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I rather imagine I’m not very good at doing what I should.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I should hate you.”

“Why? Why must we hate each other?”

“Klaus-”

“No,” he says, voice dropping so low your pulse throbs in your ears. “Tell me why.”

You open your eyes, meet his gaze. “Because I helped betray you. I delivered Mikael. I-”

His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I know.”

“T-then why do you look at me like this?” Your voice cracks.

He tilts your chin up until you can’t look away. “Because every time I decide I should walk away from you…” He swallows, chest heaving. “…I find I don’t particularly want to.”

His confession hangs in the air, raw and aching. You taste tears you can’t shed, fear you can’t name. “Klaus…” you whisper.

He brushes his thumb over your lips, so slowly you can feel each ridge. “I’d give anything to be able to hear my name on your lips for the rest of my life,” he murmurs against your skin. His breath ghosts along your jaw.

A siren of regret screams in your mind. You press palms flat against his chest and slide back against the wall, breath jagged. “No. I meant what I said. This can’t happen,” you whisper.

He watches you, chest rising and falling, eyes dark with longing. Then he steps past you into the dim living room, shoulders broad in the doorway. He turns. “Come find me when you’re done pretending.”

He shuts the door behind him. You slide down until your back rests against the wood. You hear the echo of his words… the ghost of his lips, in every shuddering heartbeat.

✦──────────────────────✦

A week later the invitation arrives. Heavy cream paper, elegant script, the Mikaelson crest stamped in cold wax. With it came a box. You pop open the letter, your fingers shaking. You stomach twists as you read his request. You stare at the words for a long time. Then you throw the invitation across the room. 

Seconds later, your phone is ringing and you're being summoned to the Salvatore home. Once you arrive, you immediately regret going. 

"No." The word leaves your mouth before Bonnie even finishes explaining. "No."

Caroline sighs. "Y/N-"

"No." You stand abruptly from the couch. "I am not doing this again." The room falls quiet. They all know exactly what you mean. You look between them. Elena. Bonnie. Caroline. The people you'd do anything for. The people you've already sacrificed pieces of yourself for. And suddenly you're exhausted. "So that's it?" you ask quietly. "Every time you need something from Klaus, you send me?" Nobody answers, which is answer enough. Your fists ball. "I am so tired of being the distraction."

The words come out rougher than intended. But it's honesty. You're tired go lying. 

Caroline looks guilty immediately. "Y/N-"

"No." You shake your head. "Do you know what happened the last time?" They all look between each other, confused. They don't know. None of them understand. Not really. Not about the almost kiss. Not about how close you came. Not about how much it terrified you. You drag a hand through your hair. "Every time I look at him, I lie to him." Your voice breaks slightly. "And every time he looks at me..."

You stop. You can't finish that sentence.

Bonnie's expression grows irritated. "And you care about lying to him, why?" You feel sick. You can't let them know. They'd never understand. They'd hate you. She scoffs. "You know what he's done to us. You know the kind of person he is. We need Esther to meet Elena."

What are you doing? These are your fiends, your family. These are the only people you have in your life. You can't risk that. You can't choose them over him. Who would you be if you did that?

"Y/N-"

"No. It's fine." You cut Elena off. The words sound dead. You already know what's going to happen. You already know you'll go. That's who you are. You always go. You always choose them. Even when it hurts. You close your eyes. Then nod once. "I'll do it."

✦──────────────────────✦

The door to the Mikaelson ballroom swings open on polished hinges, and the first thing you feel is the heat. Hundreds of candles burning in wrought-iron candelabras, their flames dancing against gold-framed mirrors. The hem of your blue, silk gown whispers across the marble floor as you step inside. Your look is courtesy of Klaus. This night is supposed to be the simplest of your deceptions, but your pulse drums in your ears. This time, you know what you're doing. You're self aware. The first time you distracted Klaus, you hadn't realized it yet... how you felt. Now you truly are pretending. Pretend he deserves it. Pretend you don't care. Pretend you hate him. You're so fucking tired of pretending. 

Orchestral strings weep from a raised platform at the room’s far end as laughter ricochets from pillar to pillar. Women in jeweled bodices hook onto men who and offer their arms. You almost wish you could leave. At the threshold, you lift a wrist to gather your skirts, ready to retreat, rip off this stifling dress, and breathe in the night air instead.

Then he appears. Klaus stands beneath a crystal chandelier, backlit by candlelight so that his hair gleams. His tailored jacket hugs his broad shoulders, a single button undone at his collar. When his eyes find yours, it’s as if every other face in the room falls away. You feel your breathing hitch, your stomach tighten, as his gaze travels you slowly, deliberately, the same way a poet studies a newly discovered verse.

He smiles, and it’s soft, almost relieved. Your heart clenches so violently you press one hand to your ribcage. You remember the last time you fooled him, how easy it was when you didn’t know better. But now you’re awake. You feel the lie beneath your skin. You feel how badly you want not to.

He steps toward you, weaving through dancers and swirling skirts until he’s close enough that you catch the faint tang of cologe from his coat. 

“You came,” he says, voice low enough for only you to hear. The single candle on the nearest sconce trembles, casting a brief shadow across his angular cheek.

“Looks like it,” you manage, forcing your lips into a smile. Your throat tastes dry, like you’ve swallowed sand.

He tilts his head, peering at you as though he’s weighing every hidden thought behind your eyes. A spark of panic ignites and you wonder if he senses the guilt that pools in your gut.

“You listened to me,” he murmurs, stepping closer still. The scent of him is warm and it makes your knees weak.

You glance down at the glossy folds of your gown. “You were annoyingly persistent. You lift your chin in a defiant tilt.

His lips curve. “And?” He reaches for your hand.

Your fingers brush his palm. “And… maybe black was getting depressing.”

In that instant, his eyes soften so fiercely you almost believe you deserve it. “You look beautiful,” he whispers, as though making a vow.

Your tongue feels thick. You nod, unable to say more. Normally you’d quip back, roll your eyes, let a comment slide out. Tonight you simply accept the praise, and it feels like betrayal.

He sweeps his arm around your waist, guiding you onto the dance floor. The violins swell and you press your hand to his shoulder. His other hand cups the small of your back, a featherlight touch that causes every nerve to stand at attention. For a moment you let yourself lean into the familiarity, the undeniable comfort of being in his arms.

“You seem miles away,” he observes softly, his warm breath fanning your hair.

You jerk as if caught, head snapping up. “I-I’m here.”

He studies your face. “No. You’re not.”

Your heart thunders as you gaze past your shoulder to the far corner, where Elena stands with Esther, their heads bowed close together. Then, they travel up the stairs. Esther’s pale gown shimmers with silver thread; Elena’s hand gestures as she speaks. You should feel relief. This was your plan, after all. But your chest twists at the sight of them plotting, at the knowledge of your own betrayal.

Klaus shifts until his body blocks your view, anchoring you to the present with the steadiness of his weight. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s nothing,” you lie again. Your voice catches in your throat. “I’m just tired.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he takes your hand and leads you through a carved archway onto a balcony overlooking the estate. Moonlight pools on the stone floor, cool against the heat of the ballroom. A breeze tugs at your hair, and the chirp of night insects hums in the distance.

For a heartbeat, neither of you speaks. You stare down at the manicured gardens, nibbling at the inside of your cheek until the taste of blood is on your tongue. Guilt flares through you.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Whatever’s going on, you can tell me.”

Your chest constricts. You want to tell him everything. But to speak the truth is to betray your friends. Your lip quivers and you close your eyes to stop the tears that catch at the corners. You turn your face from him as hot tears trail down your cheeks.

“Love?”

You hide your face against the stone pillar, shoulders heaving. “No,” you choke, “please don’t—”

He slips an arm around your waist, drawing you flush against him. “What’s happened?”

You laugh and it’s hard and hollow. “Everything.” Anger flares in his eyes, not at you but at the idea someone hurt you. He gathers you tighter. “You should hate me.” The words rush out uncontrolled.

He stills, confusion and concern warring in his eyes as he pulls back just enough to look at you fully. “What?”

You press your forehead to his. “I keep hurting you.” 

He tilts his head, confusion and worry scrawled across his face. “Love-”

“I am so tired,” you sob. “Tired of lying to you.”

“Tell me,” he urges, voice soft as moonlight. You shake your head against his chest.

You shake your head until your hair brushes his coat. “I can’t.” Another tear escapes.

“Yes, you can.”

“No.” The agony of that single word echoes into the night. You pull away, fingertips grazing his chest. “You should leave.”

His jaw tightens. “No. You’re crying because something is tearing you apart, and we will face it.” He takes a breath so deep you feel the tremor in his shoulders. “Together.”

The pronoun nearly kills you. “There is no we.” You wipe your tears with your sleeve. “Klaus-” you begin, then catch yourself. You’re the one betraying him. You’re the traitor. You clutch at the stone railing as another wave of tears slips free.

He cups your face, thumbs trailing down your cheeks. “Look at me,” he says.

Reluctantly, you lift your eyes to his. There’s fear there, mingled with fragile hope. He looks almost unmoored. “I can’t do this anymore,” you whisper. “I can’t pretend I don’t care about you.”

His thumb brushes away a tear. “Is that what this is about?” A faint wry curl lifts one corner of his mouth. “Because if so, you were never fooling anyone.”

You manage a laugh that breaks into a sob.Your throat closes. “I came tonight because of Esther.” The words taste like ash.

His face drains of color and his voice drops to a fragile whisper. “What?”

“She wanted Elena here,” you say, and you taste the bitterness of your betrayal. The world tilts on its axis. Somewhere a violin weeps. “I was supposed to distract you.”

His gaze drops to the floor, then snaps back. When he speaks, his voice vibrates with controlled hurt. “So every smile, every word, every moment-”

You watch as something inside him fractures. His shoulders slump and his eyes glisten in the moonlight. He inhales sharply. “So the dress… the dance… the smiles…” His voice cracks. “All of it was a lie.”

Your chest caves. “No. It wasn’t.” You move forward, but he steps back. He inhales, like he needs strength. You step toward him again, desperate. “Listen to me,” you plead. He meets your gaze and it is hurt and anger and fear. “I came for them, yes. But somewhere along the way… I forgot who I was betraying. I tried to hate you.” You take another step. “I reminded myself of everything you’ve done.”

His eyes never leave yours. “And?”

“Then you’d say something kind. Or call me love. Or touch me.” Your voice cracks. “And I started hating myself instead.” Tears begin to fall again. “I didn’t come for Esther.”

He blinks. “You didn’t?”

The air hovers between you as if waiting. Behind you, the ballroom music drifts faintly through the air, but all you hear is the thunder of your own heart. He studies you, as though you might vanish if he blinks.

“You told me to find you when I was done pretending.” Your lips tremble. “Well… I’m done.”

You stare at one another The silence persists long enough for embarrassment to start creeping in. 

Then, abruptly, he closes the distance in two strides. He grabs your face and he tilts his head so that his mouth meets yours in a kiss both fierce and tender. It’s urgent, desperate. It’s a man drowning, and you’re his air. All the anger, longing, hurt, and relief pours into that single moment. Your knees go weak; you fold into him, clutching the silk of his jacket. 

He pulls away. His forehead presses to yours. You hear his breath hitch, tremble against your lips. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, voice raw.

Before you can answer, his hands find your waist and he lifts you in one fluid motion. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, a small gasp escaping into his mouth as he sets you on the stone ledge and steps into you. His hands move to your face, your hair, the curve of your jaw. You pull him closer by the lapels of his coat until there is nothing left between you. The kiss deepens, unhurried now. You feel the cool stone beneath you and the warm solidity of him against you, his thumb tracing slow arcs along your cheekbone.

Finally you part, foreheads pressed together, chests rising and falling in the same rhythm. He lets out a soft, astonished laugh. “You are going to ruin me, love.”

You smile, the ache in your chest easing. “I think we’ve already done that.”

He brushes a stray tear from your cheek with a tender thumb. “No more pretending,” he whispers.

Two strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you backward until your spine was flushed against Klaus’s broad, solid chest. The sheer, grounding warmth of him hit you instantly. He didn't ask what happened; he didn't demand names or threats to execute. He just held you, his chin resting gently on top of your head, anchoring you to reality.

"Breathe, love," he whispered, his thumbs tracing soothing circles into your hips. "Just breathe. You're safe. I'm right here."

You gripped his forearms, your knuckles turning white. "It felt so real, Klaus. It won't stop."

"Then we won't let it," he said softly.

Recognizing that sleep was a lost cause for now, Klaus shifted, pulling you back with him until he was propped up against the headboard. He guided your head to rest right over his heart, forcing you to focus on its steady, rhythmic thumping—a stark contrast to the chaotic franticness of your own.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your damp forehead.

"No," you croaked, burying your face in his neck. "I just... I need a distraction. Anything. Just talk to me? Turn my brain off."

A small, tender smile tugged at Klaus’s lips in the dark. The Hybrid, the Great Evil of New Orleans, the man feared by thousands, was being asked to yap. And for you, he would gladly talk a hole in the wall.

"Alright," he murmured, his fingers threading through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. "Let’s see. Did I ever tell you about the absolute disaster that was Marcel’s attempt to learn the cello in the late 1920s?"

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, the tension in your shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. "No."

"Oh, it was an offense to the ears, love. Truly," Klaus began, his voice dropping into that rich, theatrical storytelling cadence that never failed to mesmerize you. "He was convinced that if he mastered it, he could woo a particular songstress from the local jazz club. Elijah, bless his rigid soul, tried to tutor him. But Marcel had the grace of a dying ox with that bow. It sounded like a symphony of strangling cats. I actually had to compel an entire block of neighbors to believe they were suffering from collective auditory hallucinations just to keep the peace."

You closed your eyes, letting the vibration of his chest rumble against your cheek. Klaus kept going, seamlessly transitioning from Marcel's musical failures to a scathing, hilarious critique of 18th-century French poetry, and then to a passionate, highly opinionated rant about a modern art gallery opening he had visited a few weeks ago.

"They called it 'Avant-Garde minimalism,' Y/N," he scoffed, his fingers never stopping their gentle rhythm in your hair. "It was a canvas painted entirely white with a single, tragic red dot in the lower corner. The curator wept. Wept! I told him I’d seen better composition on a butcher's apron, and Elijah had to drag me out by my collar before I ripped the man's throat out purely on principle of aesthetic offense."

You giggled, a genuine, warm sound that finally chased the last remnants of the nightmare from your mind.

Hearing you laugh, Klaus slowed his speech, his tone softening into something incredibly sweet. He shifted down into the pillows, pulling you with him so you were face-to-face, your noses almost touching. His blue-green eyes searched yours in the dim moonlight.

"Better?" he asked, his thumb gently wiping away the faint tear tracks on your cheek.

"Much better," you whispered, the exhaustion finally hitting you, but this time, it was a heavy, peaceful kind of tired. "Thank you."

"Always," Klaus murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally to your lips. He pulled the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, tucking you securely against his side. "Sleep now, my sweet girl. I'll be right here, watching the dark. Nothing is getting past me."

Breathing in his familiar scent of expensive bourbon, paint paint oil, and old parchment, you finally let your eyes close. With Klaus guarding your mind, the nightmares didn't stand a chance.

He had blood on his hands that you chose to ignore. But still, you let him press kisses to your neck even if he’d be able to rip your throat out in an instant if he chose to. You let him hold you at night. You let him call you his wife. His love, his world, his everything, he’d whisper against your skin. 

Then you’d see a flash of gold, those fangs, blood on his mouth. Yet you ignored the danger, the glaring red flags he waved in your face and stayed. You wiped the blood of his enemies – perhaps even just an innocent bystander – from his skin. You’d tell him you loved him even if you knew you shouldn’t. 

Now all you saw was the man you loved, not the monster lurking beneath his skin. But you should’ve. 

You should’ve noticed before, but it was too late. It was too late to undo what had been done as much as you wished you could. You were a vampire now, whether you wanted to be or not.

The sound of a fist knocking on your bedroom door snapped you out of your wallowing. The noise was grating on your sensitive ears. You were still acclimating to your heightened senses.

“Love,” his familiar voice called out, piercing through the silence in your self imposed exile. “Please open the door so I can apologize to your face.”

Klaus was the last person you wanted to speak to. He had done this. You blamed him even if it wasn’t fair. Because it was his enemy who came after you to hurt him. It was him who’d snuck blood into your diet so if something like this ever happened, you’d come back as a vampire.

But you didn’t want to be a vampire. You desperately missed your connection to nature, to your magic. Now that was gone, leaving a gaping wound in its wake.

The only reason you’d even completed your transition was because the Mikaelson’s had begged you to. Rebekah had teared up just thinking about losing you for good. Elijah had told you he’d respect your choice, even if he’d hate it. Klaus had practically shoved the blood down your throat. 

“Go away,” you managed to choke out. 

He sighed softly, leaning to rest his forehead against the wood. He had the strength to rip the barrier off its hinges if he so desired, but he didn’t want to anger you further. Klaus had already broken your trust once by slipping his blood to your drinks. But he stood by his decision. If it hadn’t been for his paranoia, you truly would be dead and not a vampire. 

“Sweetheart, please. I know you are angry with me but you need to feed. You’ll dessicate at this rate.” 

Maybe it would be for the best – never leaving your bedroom again, instead desiccating in the comfort of your bed. Our bed, you corrected yourself. It was in fact the bed you’d shared with Klaus for years.

Finally he heard the sound of you shuffling around the room. He was positive this was the first time you’d left the bed for nearly a week. It was killing him to see you so distraught, especially when you blamed him for the situation. 

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as you finally opened the door. “There she is.”

To put it simply, you looked like hell – messy hair, bloodshot eyes and your skin had an unhealthy pallor to it. You hadn’t been taking care of yourself but you wouldn’t let Klaus help. 

At first he’d been angry you wouldn’t let him in. Then he heard your words to Elijah through broken sobs that first night: “I can’t do this, Eli,” you’d whimpered. “It’s all gone. Everything that was me is dead.” Being a witch had been an important part of your identity. He knew that better than most. And his actions – his enemy – had taken that part of you away. The part of you, you cherished so much. So he couldn’t stay angry with you.

He itched to reach out, to touch you. He’d been deprived of you for days and he missed you. Klaus felt hollow without you by his side. Each night he slept in the guest room was like another blow against his heart. But his fist clenched to fight the urge. He didn’t think his touch would be welcome. 

Your eyes finally met his for the first time in nearly a week. “Hi,” you finally said, voice hoarse from days of disuse. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered. Those blue eyes traced the contours of your face, searching for a sign that you’d be okay. But you just leaned into him, burying your face against his chest. He felt your tears soak through his shirt.

Embracing your vampirism felt like admitting part of you was gone forever, but slowly you were coming around. It felt like maybe, just maybe you could learn to love your new existence. But the night Klaus finally convinced you to feed straight from the vein, was the night everything went wrong. 

Perhaps if it had been Elijah with you, you would’ve been fine. Your brother-in-law at least held a little more regard for human life than Klaus. 

Once he’d helped you work up the courage to take a sip from the girl’s neck, it was like nothing else mattered. The feeling was nearly euphoric. The warmth of her blood on your tongue spread through your body, lighting every nerve on fire. You’d never felt anything like this before. And you never wanted the feeling to end. 

Klaus should’ve tried to stop you, but for once you seemed free. The weight of the transition didn’t seem to cling to you in this moment. So he let you take as much as you wanted from her. 

The blood fueled haze faded as your prey’s lifeless body fell to the floor. The blood drying around your mouth no longer felt nice. The metallic taste on your tongue made you want to throw up. The sight of a dead girl – killed by your own hand – was too much to bear. 

“See, it’s much better straight from the vein. You did good, love.” 

Klaus smiled. 

“I killed her,” you sobbed. 

“It’s okay, love. You’re a vampire now. It’s in our nature.” 

He said it so casually, like it was normal to leave bodies behind. For him it was. For you it wasn’t. 

You were shaking as you tried to wipe the blood from your mouth. “I don’t want that. I don’t want that,” you whimpered, words repeating over and over again. Klaus tried to touch you but you pushed his hands away. You felt disgusting. 

But in the blink of an eye, that feeling – the dread curling around your body like a vice – was gone. There was simply nothing. No more trembling hands. No more anxiety. No more guilt.

The silence between you two was deafening. He was trying to gauge your reaction. Part of him was relieved that you no longer looked so distraught, but the rest of him was worried. He’d seen you shut down before, but never quite this drastically. 

“Love?” 

You lifted your head. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out for you. You didn’t react much as he cupped your cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”

But wiping the blood away didn’t change anything. It didn’t change that you craved blood. And now that you’d gotten a taste, you’d do anything to get it.

By the time Klaus realized your humanity was actually off — that you weren’t just compartmentalizing — it was a little too late. 

Klaus had woken up to an empty bed. It wasn’t completely abnormal for you to be awake before him. What was abnormal was that you hadn't bothered to stay in bed with him. He often woke up with your hands in his hair, peppering little kisses across his skin. But the bed was cold. 

As he left the bedroom, the scent of fresh blood filled his nostrils. 

His first instinct was to panic – thinking you were hurt, or worse. But once he entered the living room it was the worse option. You were sitting on the couch, blood covering your chin, with two girls slumped on the floor next to you. 

“Sweetheart…” he hadn’t been expecting this. He knew last night had taken a toll on you and so he’d assumed you were going to refuse to feed again. Yet here you were, devouring these people, like it didn’t matter anymore. “What are you doing?”

“Eating,” you hummed, lapping up the blood from your fingers. 

The truth of what was really going on hit him like a tidal wave and god he felt like he was going to drown from the guilt. He blamed himself for putting you in this situation. And he knew you blamed him for becoming a vampire in the first place. 

“You turned it off,” he said softly. 

You hadn’t even realized it at first yourself. But when you needed to feed and you hadn’t even blinked when you grabbed the girl. You’re a vampire now. It’s in our nature. Those had been Klaus’s words last night. Right now you agreed with his statement. 

“I didn’t mean to,” you admitted. “But it feels so much better like this.” 

He had wanted you to embrace being a vampire. He’d wanted you to feel good in your new skin. But this was not how he wanted it to happen. He didn’t want this empty shell of you, that was completely unfeeling. 

“Turn it back on, Y/N” he demanded. 

You looked up at him. The words bounced around in your head for a moment before you responded. “No.” 

He was up in your face before you could even blink. “Turn. It. Back. On.” 

“No.” 

“Turn it back on or I’ll make you.” 

A soft scoff escaped your lips. “You can’t make me do anything. I started taking vervain the second I turned.” 

You’d had the sense to protect yourself from compulsion. As much as you trusted your husband, you couldn’t say the same for Kol or Finn. You’d been protected as a witch, but now that you were a vampire you could be compelled by an original. The vervain had seemingly come in handy now. 

In the moment of surprise he had, absorbing the words from you, you’d snapped his neck. 

He’d spent two weeks trying to track you down. The trail of bodies pointed him right to you. While he’d been two steps behind you for days, he’d finally caught up. 

You were lounging on a beach chair, soaking up the sun. You lifted your sunglasses up to get a good look at your husband. “Hey, honey,” you chirped. “Took you longer than I expected for you to find me.” 

“You seem chipper,” he said. 

You stood up, crowding Klaus’s space. “I’m having a good day.” Well as good of a day you could have with your humanity off. “You need a drink?” 

Klaus glanced to where you’d gestured. The man who had been sitting in the chair next to you seemed dazed. And he had a very obvious bite mark on his neck. You’d clearly been feeding from him for a while. 

“I’m fine,” he said, smile tight as he looked at you. 

He was hating every second of this – seeing his wife like this, empty and clearly cruel. Cruel was never a word he’d have ever used to describe you before all of this. You’d been sweet and gentle with him. You had this ability to calm every worry he had. But you were also stubborn and never backed away from a fight. You never hesitated to protect those you loved, yet never went out of your way to hurt people. Even if you were a Mikaelson in name, you didn’t have a Mikaelson heart. Though right now, you were reminding him more and more of himself. 

“Suit yourself.” 

You tried to turn back to your meal, but Klaus caught you. “You need to come home.” 

“No thank you.” 

“Please, love,” he said softly. 

The sight of him looking at you like that – pleading with you to come home to him – made you falter for a moment. But the thought of going home with him, meant accepting the guilt that came with the bodies you’d left in your wake. That closed your walls right back up. 

He’d seen the way emotion flickered in your eyes only for it to disappear again. “Damn it, Y/N. I need you to come with me. We’ll deal with this together. You are my wife.”

“I’m fine where I am, Klaus.”

“That’s not going to happen, sweetheart.” Klaus wasn’t going to take no to an answer. He didn’t care what he had to do to get his precious wife back, he’d do it. So before you could react, he was rendering you unconscious, scooping you up into his arms. “I’m getting you back.” 

“Are you okay, brother?” Elijah asked gently. 

Klaus had been pacing in front of the room they were keeping you in for days. He’d barely been able to make himself go in there. They were depriving you of blood and waiting until the vervain was out of your system. But seeing you in pain – starving – was a sight that Klaus couldn’t bear. 

“I’m fine,” he snapped back. 

Elijah sighed softly. “You need to calm down. I know this isn’t easy for either of you but there is nothing you can do but wait.” 

He wanted to tear his hair out or break something. He was losing his goddamn mind. A soft hand – Rebekah’s hand – on his shoulder stalled his pacing just for a moment.  

“I’m going to check on her, okay?” 

You lifted your head with great effort as Rebekah entered the room. “Bex,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

“I brought you some water.” 

You gulped down the drink as she held it to your lips. The liquid soothed your parched throat if only for a moment. Because you knew the hunger wouldn’t go away until they finally gave you blood. “You know I need food.” 

“I know,” she said softly. She brushed your hair out of your face. Rebekah wasn’t happy to see you like this but it was a necessary evil. You needed to be broken down just enough to finally turn your humanity back on. “But you know why we’re doing this. You need to turn it back on.” 

You didn’t want to do that. That meant feeling the guilt, the pain of everything you’d done. 

She sighed softly. “Then we’ll keep going like this, until the vervain is all out of your system.” 

If they’d been willing to bleed you out, they’d have gotten the vervain all out of your system. But starving you had already been hard enough for them to do. You were family. Hurting you like that was off the table. 

Klaus was the next to check on you. It was the first time he’d come in since he’d stuck you in the damn room. But he was certain that the vervain was out of your system. 

“You finally showed up,” you murmured. 

He had a bottle of blood in his hand as he approached you. He cupped your cheek, turning your face towards his. “I’m here.” 

The sight of him looking at you like that broke the fragile dam inside of you that had been precariously holding back the flood of emotions. He didn’t even need to compel you to get it done. Keeping blood from you had broken you down enough. 

You slumped forward, into him. Klaus quickly undid the restraints that had kept you there. 

“Hey, hey.” He couldn’t keep himself from comforting you, pulling you into his arms. He couldn’t stand the sight of you crying if he couldn’t be the one to wipe your tears away. He pulled you into his arms. “Love, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

You sobbed against his chest. The guilt was clawing at your insides from your actions over the past few weeks. 

“Shh,” he stroked your hair. “Just let it out.” 

He knew coming to terms with all of this was going to be rough, but he was going to be there every step of the way. He would do anything in his power to make this easier for you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. 

“No, no, I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I put you in this position.” 

“I just… I don’t know how to do this Klaus. It’s like something inside of me is dead.” 

That broke his heart. “I know. But it's not dead. Things are just different now.” 

Perhaps it was different. Maybe it was dead. Maybe things would be okay in the long-run, even if right now you felt a little broken. But the one thing that would never change was that Klaus loved you. Klaus would never leave you. He’d hold you together, put you back together piece by piece until you felt whole again. 

“I love you.” 

Y/N stayed by the door, her fingers twitching against the fabric of her skirt. “It’s not that I don’t like your work, Nik. You know I think you’re brilliant.”

“Do I?” He turned then, his blue-grey eyes searching hers with a vulnerability he only ever showed her. “Because it feels as though you find my soul—the part of me I put on these canvases—utterly repulsive.”

“That’s not true,” she whispered, but she couldn't meet his gaze.

“Then look at this.” With a sharp, decisive flick of his wrist, Klaus pulled the cloth away.

It was breathtaking. It wasn't just a portrait; it was an act of worship. He had captured her sitting in the courtyard of the compound, the afternoon sun filtering through the ivy to dappled gold across her skin. He had captured the exact way her lips parted when she was lost in thought, and the soft, intelligent light in her eyes. It was the most human thing the Original Hybrid had ever created.

Y/N didn’t gasp in delight. She didn't smile. Instead, the color drained from her face, leaving her ghost-white. She recoiled, her back hitting the doorframe with a dull thud.

“Destroy it,” she choked out.

Klaus froze. The hurt that flashed across his face was instantaneous, quickly followed by a spark of hybrid rage—the defense mechanism he used to guard his heart. “I beg your pardon?”

“Burn it, Niklaus. Please. Throw it in the fireplace. Paint over it. Just... make it go away.”

“I spend days pouring my heart into a tribute for you, and you want it reduced to ash?” He stepped toward her, his stature looming, his voice rising in a dangerous crescendo. “Is it so terrible to be loved by me? To be seen by me? Tell me why you hate it! Tell me why you hate me!”

“I don’t hate you!” she screamed back, the tears finally spilling over. “I’m trying to save you, you idiot!”

Klaus stopped in his tracks, his chest heaving. “Save me? From a painting?”

Y/N wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her breath coming in jagged hitches. She looked small against the backdrop of his grand, bloody history. “There’s an old superstition. A curse. My grandmother used to tell me about it when I was a little girl. She called it the Artist’s Curse.”

Klaus narrowed his eyes, his anger flickering into confusion.

“She said that if an artist truly loves someone—deeply, completely—and they try to capture that person’s soul on a canvas... the universe takes it as a goodbye,” Y/N explained, her voice trembling. “The moment the portrait is finished, the person in it starts to drift away. They die, or they leave, or the love just... withers. It’s like the painting traps the essence of the relationship, and there’s nothing left for the real world.”

She looked at the portrait with genuine terror. “I didn't tell you because I knew you'd laugh. I knew the great Klaus Mikaelson wouldn't care about some silly human folklore. But I was so scared, Nik. I thought if I never let you paint me, I could keep you forever. I thought if I stayed off your canvas, I’d stay in your life.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but the air had changed. The jagged edges of Klaus’s temper smoothed out instantly. He looked at the painting, then back at her, and his expression crumbled into something agonizingly tender.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t find it stupid. To a man who had spent a thousand years running from a father who hunted him and a mother who cursed him, the idea of the universe conspiring to steal his happiness wasn't a "silly superstition." It was his lived reality.

“Oh, love,” he breathed.

He crossed the room in two strides, cupping her face in his large, paint-stained hands. He forced her to look up at him.

“You’ve been carrying that fear all this time?” he asked softly. “You’ve been keeping me at a distance to protect us?”

“I just can't lose you,” she whispered, leaning into his touch. “I don't care about the art. I care about you.”

Klaus leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. He smelled of cedarwood and the sharp tang of turpentine, a scent she realized she actually loved because it meant he was home.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice a firm, unbreakable promise. “I have spent ten centuries breaking curses. I have outlived every poet, every prophet, and every god who tried to tell me what I could and could not have. Do you truly believe a bit of oil and pigment has the power to pull me from your side?”

“The legend says—”

“The legend hasn’t met me,” he interrupted, a small, arrogant smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am the Hybrid, Y/N. I am the thing that monsters fear in the dark. If the universe wants to take you from me, it will have to do a lot more than paint a picture. It will have to tear the stars from the sky to get me to let go of your hand.”

He kissed her then—a deep, grounding kiss that tasted of bourbon and "always and forever." It was a seal of a different kind of contract, one that no superstition could touch.

When he pulled back, he kept his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, anchoring her to him.

“The painting stays,” he murmured against her ear. “Not as a goodbye, but as a map. So that a thousand years from now, when the world has forgotten the name Mikaelson, they will look at that canvas and know exactly what my heaven looked like.”

Y/N finally looked at the portrait. The fear was still there, a tiny, lingering spark, but as Klaus squeezed her hand, it was drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming devotion in his eyes.

“It really is beautiful, Nik,” she admitted, resting her head on his shoulder.

“It’s a start,” he replied, reaching for a clean brush with his free hand. “But I think I’ll need at least another thousand years to get the lighting on your smile just right.”

Since his family's returning to New Orleans, Elijah was probably the only one to realize how many of the old Mikaelson antiques were gone from the compound. While Klaus was solely focused on regaining his empire and Rebekah kept getting on and off the wagon, it fell on him to try and search for their family heirlooms.

The weather wasn't welcoming that night. The cold air of the French Quarter brought the smell of forbidden magic and a forgotten past. The lashing rain caused tourists to stay hidden from view, leaving the streets empty for people of Elijah's kind. This time, however, he did not come to the quarter for a war, he came for a memory of a life he once had.

You were sitting in an old, dusty armchair in the back of your shop. The dim glow of the nightstand lamp being the only source of light in the small room. You weren't stupid, you knew no one was coming that night. The only people who visited nowadays were those mindless tourists who hoped to find a lost, magical artifact. It was all that was left of New Orleans history.

The faint, ringing sound of the bell hanging above the front door was almost lost to you in the rhythmic ticking of hundreds of grandfather clocks. Your brows furrowed in surprise as you set your tea pot aside and stood up to meet the client.

His eyes were the first thing you noticed. Stark, dark, carrying a weight of centuries-old history. His long coat and neatly styled hair were soaked, the water dripping to the floor in even sounds. He scanned through the shelves as if looking for an old friend. Only after that he noticed you, his eyes pausing on your figure hidden in-between the shelves.

"I apologize for the intrusion," he spoke, his voice a mixture of velvet softness and aristocratic calmness. "I trust I am not interrupting anything of great importance?"

You smiled at him, your features enchanting in the content of potential profit. The man did not look like a tourist, not in the slightest.

"Not at all." You shook your head. "We are open for five more minutes."

"I see..." He paused by a shelf, observing one of the trinkets.

You immediately made your way to him, standing nearby and offering him a charming smile. You glanced at the cufflinks that seemed to pique his attention. They were silver, with small symbols engraved on them.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" You started, gaining his interest. "It was made in 1740, ordered by a noble woman named Sofia Lescheres for her husband, Quentin."

You felt proud, coming up with such a story right on the spot. You knew nothing about the cufflinks, but the mysterious man seemed to be one for old stories.

"Actually," he picked up the topic, a small glint of amusement glancing at his face. "It dates forty years earlier, you see, Quentin Lescheres died in 1704."

You paused, completely caught off guard by his correction. You felt panic rise inside yourself, your cheeks flushing red at being caught mid-lie.

"Yeah, I might have messed something up. Sorry." you mumbled.

To your surprise, the men let out a warm, noble laugh. As much as you wanted to pretend otherwise, you had to admit it was the most captivating sound you heard in your life.

"Pray, tell me your name, darling." He smiled at you with a hint of amusement still hidden behind his eyes.

"I'm Y/N, Mr...?"

"Elijah Mikaelson, it's a true pleasure to meet you, dear Y/N." He replied, gently taking your hand and pressing a soft, graceful kiss to it.

Your already red cheeks blushed even more, if that was still possible at that point.

"Forgive my natural boldness, but this place is filled with exquisite craftsmanship." He praised, letting go of her hand. "Perhaps you could find it fitting that..."

You frowned when he suddenly paused. Your eyes followed his gaze, landing on an old, expensive medallion with the letter 'M' engraved on top. Your lip corners rose shyly, letting him admire the antique.

"I've had it since I opened this place," you admitted. "I honestly think it's charming."

It took you a long while in silence to understand that he wasn't listening. You frowned, surprised by his stillness.

"Elijah?" You spoke his name slowly, your hand covering his.

You could feel him step back immediately, his eyes drifting from the medallion to you. You felt extremely stupid, offering him comfort he clearly didn't need nor want. His eyes softened when he noticed your shameful posture.

"Forgive me, darling." He smiled at you. "This piece is just magnificent, it possesses a soul modern things lack."

You returned his smile, shame still burning your cheeks. You looked at the trinket, your features softening. You slowly picked it up and offered it to him.

"Thank you."

When his hand touched yours around the medallion, you felt his breath slower. He paused, his eyes locked on the spots where your skin met. You looked up, searching his expression, and he offered you a slip of his mask, a peek into vulnerability he hid from the world. Slowly, you took your hand back, making him snap back to his usual demeanor.

"Forgive me," he spoke, taking a step back. "It's been a while since I felt such... peace."

Your breath hitched on his words. You watched as his fingers gently checked the medallion. You noticed how well he fit into such a place, like he was older than anything in the shop.

"I can pack it for you." You offered, your voice shaking slightly.

He glanced up at you and offered you a smile.

"That would be wonderful."

This time, you made sure your skin didn't get into contact. You turned around, your back to him so you could hide the effect his presence alone was having on you. You began carefully wrapping the piece with a dark foil.

"You have a remarkable eye for detail, Y/N," he noticed suddenly.

You felt his presence closer, his chest mere inches from your back. His breath grazed your skin like a lover's kiss, making goosebumps rise on your body. Your hands trembled as you tried and failed to prepare the medallion. Finally, when the ribbon you picked stayed on the packaging, you turned to him.

You quickly regretted your move. Out of a sudden, your chest was pressing against his, your eyes locked on each other, and your breaths mingling. Your lips parted, wanting to say something, but you kept quiet, not sure which thought should be voiced first.

"You are a dangerous distraction, Y/N." He whispered against your parted lips. "Your company is... refreshing. A rare quality in this city."

You could feel your whole body flushing, your mind losing control and your gaze becoming dizzy. You never felt like that before, no man had ever managed to make you experience something like this. For Elijah, it took mere seconds.

"Stay a moment longer. The world outside can wait for its monsters."

You felt his nose brush against yours gently, almost making you lose it. The closed area in between the shelves wasn't helping calm down your burning body. You were sure your temperature had already risen to a dangerous level.

Your breaking point came when you heard the quiet shift of the ribbon. You looked down, seeing him unpack the medallion. His fingers caressed the graver, his posture relaxing. You watched as he gently unclasped the old fastening and brought it to your neck, closing it around it. Your eyes met his with pure shock, not understanding his movement. He took a stack of money, much more than the necklace cost, and placed it in your trembling hand, closing your fingers around it. You tried to speak, but no words would leave your parted lips.

"This should cover the expense." He said calmly, a slight smile adoring his lips.

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, leaving your mind in a state of mess you couldn't even name properly. You weren't even sure if you could still speak.

"Your shop is full of beautiful things, dear Y/N." He whispered against your ear. "I most definitely won't let it slip my mind."

★He's always there for you, no matter if you just woke up or go to sleep, he's constantly by your side

★ He never lets anyone disrespect you, one bad word about you and the person is dead

★ He's not very affectionate in public, but his arm is always wrapped around you waist

★ He makes sure everyone knows you are his wife, so they you're always safe

★ He acts like he's not jealous, but he's more than happy to kill every man who as much as looks at you for too long

★ If you're an original, he makes a deal with Klaus so that your dagger is permanently destroyed

★ He plays with your hair whenever he's nervous

★ He buys you flowers everyday, you that you always have a fresh boquete

★ Before he proposes, he's tense for weeks, afraid he'll say the wrong thing

★ Your wedding is the first time he cries in centuries

★ He forces Klaus to undagger Rebekah for your big day because she's your best friend

★ Every time you go out for a date, you purposely don't take your coat so that he gives you his

★ You love when the tie stays on

★ When he reads, you're always snuggled between his chest and arm

★ You share your love for music and play together a lot

★ His diaries are full of stories about you

★ He makes you coffee/tea every morning

★ You're the only person who can get him to wear anything besides a suit

★ He absolutely adores braiding your hair

★ You in lingerie and his dress shirt is his favorite of your looks

★ Your wedding bands have your initials engraved on them

★ His cufflinks are always matching your outfit

★ All of his melodies were made for you

★ Whenever you're sad, he holds you in bed for hours without end, letting you cry and reminding you how perfect you are

★ He's not one to repeat 'I love you' over and over again, his actions do that for him

★ But when he does say it, it always makes you feel like the most important person in the world

★ He loves using old norse endearments towards you

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 :)

Elijah Mikaelson

Elijah didn’t trust you at first. And he certainly didn’t believe the whole soulmate thing.

Because of his beliefs, he tried to keep you away from him. Always avoided you.

He soon started to believe when his own mother told him it was real. 

He thought it better to get to know you. Quickly, he was fascinated by you. He couldn’t stay away from you for more than a day.

He wanted to hear your laugh. To see your smile. 

He will protect you with his life.

Klaus Mikaelson

Klaus all but laughed when he heard you were his soulmate. 

He didn’t believe in soulmates. Especially for a one thousand year old vampire. He was a vampire, how could he have a soulmate?

As time passed, he found out it was real. Even for him. 

He had so many feelings about it. Could he really settle down for once in his long and miserable life? Have someone by his side at all times to support him and love him? 

But then the bad thoughts come rolling in. Could he trust you? Would you betray him? How can he trust you just like that?

To his surprise, you have nothing more to give him but kindness. You care about him deeply. And as much as he’d like to not believe it, he starts to crave more of you. Crave your attention and your warmth.

Kol Mikaelson

Kol knew soulmates existed, since he used to be a witch himself. But he never knew old vampires like himself, or just normal vampires, would have a soulmate. They’re dead, after all. How can they have a soulmate when dead?

Seeing you be his soulmate, he just couldn’t believe it. He was too shocked to even be in the same room as you.

But as time passed, he made sure to look after you. Watching you to make sure you had no bad intentions to his family.

The weird thing about you to him was how kind you were. He was a monster, and you were an angel. Two opposites don’t belong together.

But somehow, you accepted who he was. He felt his cold heart warm up when he was around you. He craved your warmth and your smile.

He made an oath to protect you with his life.

Rebekah

Being the only daughter in the family, she couldn’t help herself but to be attached to people. When she met you, she just knew you both had a connection.

She was amazed at how naive you could be around monsters like them, but still loved the way you treated them. 

She cared for you deeply and wanted to protect you. Although she may be a brat sometimes, she tries her best to repay the kindness you give to her.