only a fool for you | k.m
⎯⎯ He scoffs, shaking his head with an exasperated huff. “Hardly a feat of mind-reading, love. I say that at least once a week.”
The first time you do it, Klaus barely reacts.
“You’re about to say that Elijah is a sanctimonious bore and that you’d rather rip your own heart out than listen to another one of his lectures,” you remark lazily, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl and popping it into your mouth. Your tone is casual, almost bored, as if the thought has simply drifted into your mind rather than been pulled straight from his own.
Klaus pauses mid-motion, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, his expression shifting ever so slightly. His lips part, as though to say something, but then he hesitates. It’s brief—almost imperceptible—but you catch it. A flicker of something in his eyes, a tiny, fleeting crack in his usual unwavering confidence. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
He scoffs, shaking his head with an exasperated huff. “Hardly a feat of mind-reading, love. I say that at least once a week.”
You only hum in response, letting a slow, knowing smile curl at the edges of your lips as you turn your attention back to the fruit in your hand. You roll the grape between your fingers, feeling the smooth skin before popping it between your teeth. You don’t push, don’t argue, don’t try to convince him.
Because you don’t need to.
You felt that tiny shift in his demeanor, the barely-there hesitation. He doesn’t believe you. Not yet. But he will.
Over the next few hours, you push further, testing the limits of his patience. You answer his questions before he asks them, your voice calm, offhanded, as if the words had simply been plucked from the air. You finish his thoughts mid-sentence, stealing the words from his tongue before they ever get the chance to form. You respond to things he never speaks aloud, offering up the exact phrasing he would have used himself, as if you had reached inside his mind and sifted through his thoughts like pages in a book.
The first time it happens, he merely eyes you warily, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features before he brushes it off. The second time, his frown deepens, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly as he studies you in quiet calculation. But by the third time—by the third time, he stops speaking altogether, lips pressing into a thin, tense line, his mind working double-time to solve a puzzle that shouldn’t exist.
You say nothing, offering no clues, no explanations. You only smile, letting the moment simmer, letting him stew in his own suspicions.
At dinner, you sit across from him, idly swirling your wine, watching the way the candlelight flickers across his face. He’s been silent for a while now, brooding, his expression drawn tight with barely concealed scrutiny. You wait until you can feel his gaze settle on you again, that piercing blue stare searching for something—some tell, some trick—before you sigh, feigning exasperation.
“Yes, my love,” you murmur, lifting your glass, “I would absolutely despise a honeymoon in Paris.”
Klaus stills. Entirely. His shoulders go stiff, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass, his jaw locking in an instant.
“I—” His voice cuts off, his breath catching on the syllable. He blinks at you, eyes dark, sharp, disbelieving. “What?”
You take a slow sip of wine, watching him over the rim of your glass. “You were thinking about our hypothetical honeymoon destinations,” you explain lightly, as if the answer is obvious, “and decided I would loathe Paris.”
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leans forward, his forearms braced against the table, his entire posture shifting into something calculating.
His gaze, sharp as a blade, lingers on yours. “How did you know I was thinking that?” His voice is quieter now, lower, threaded with something dangerous.
You merely smile, placing your glass back on the table with an elegant clink. “I told you,” you say smoothly, tilting your head, eyes gleaming with something just as sharp as his own.
He doesn’t believe you. Not yet.
But the doubt is there now, an insidious thing creeping into the spaces between his thoughts, weaving itself into the cracks of his certainty. You can see it in the way his gaze lingers on you a fraction too long, in the way his expression shifts when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. He’s thinking about it, turning it over in his mind, dissecting every moment of the last few hours, trying to find the trick, the deception, the logical explanation.
The next time he catches you off guard, you’re curled up in the library, skimming the delicate, timeworn pages of an old book, when the door swings open with a sharp thud. Klaus strides in with purpose, his gaze alight with triumph, something razor-sharp and wicked curling at the edges of his smirk.
“If you can truly read my mind,” he announces, folding his arms over his chest, his stance one of self-assured challenge, “then tell me what I’m thinking right now.”
You lift your eyes from the book, arching a brow at him, entirely unbothered.
“Oh, that’s easy,” you say, turning a page with lazy precision. “You’re trying to throw me off with something ridiculous.” You let the words settle for a beat before tilting your head in mock consideration. “Perhaps something utterly nonsensical, like… ‘Would an elephant look dashing in a three-piece suit?’”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Klaus stares at you, his blue eyes widening, just for a fraction of a second, before narrowing into something far more suspicious. His jaw ticks, his fingers flex where they rest against his arms, his smirk flickering like a flame in the wind.
“That’s—” He cuts himself off, lips pressing together in a hard line. “You cheated.”
You only smirk, utterly composed, lifting the book slightly in emphasis. “Did I?”
He watches you for a long moment, his scrutiny burning, but he isn’t one to concede so easily. No, Klaus Mikaelson is nothing if not relentless.
So he tries again, this time with something sharper, something specific, something you couldn’t possibly guess. You answer without hesitation, the words slipping past your lips like they had always been yours to speak.
Again, he tests you, his thoughts shifting, reshaping, dancing through fragmented memories, searching for something you won’t see coming. But you do. Every single time.
His scowl deepens, his frustration a slow-growing storm gathering behind his eyes. “This is madness.”
“Is it?” You tilt your head, the picture of effortless amusement. “Or is it simply inconvenient for you to know that I now have unfettered access to your thoughts?”
Klaus exhales sharply through his nose, his gaze flicking away, jaw tight, as if physically restraining himself from tearing apart whatever trickery he believes is at play. He lingers like that for a moment, caught between disbelief and intrigue, something thoughtful stirring beneath the surface.
And then—just when you think he might let it go—he smirks.
It’s a slow, dangerous thing, curling at the edges of his lips, something gleaming darkly in his eyes.
“Well then,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice dropping into something smooth, velvety, deliberate. “Let’s put this to the test, shall we?”
For the next two days, Klaus subjects you to an unrelenting barrage of trials, each more absurd than the last.
He starts simple, rattling off random numbers and demanding you guess them. You answer without hesitation, much to his growing irritation. Next, he moves on to trivia, digging through the depths of his own memories, conjuring details you shouldn’t know. He asks you to name his childhood pets (trivial, truly). He quizzes you on the exact number of times Kol has irritated him to the point of attempted murder (an estimate will do). He even tries to catch you off guard by suddenly blurting, “What am I thinking right now?” at the most inopportune moments—once while you’re nearly asleep, another while your mouth is full of wine.
You get it right every time.
His suspicion deepens. His tests grow more elaborate.
At one point, he ropes Elijah into the ordeal, dragging his older brother into the room and snapping, “What am I thinking, then?” with the expectation that this will be the thing to finally stump you.
You don’t even glance at Klaus. Instead, you look at Elijah, who has barely lifted his head from his book, and reply, “That I should tell you, because Elijah is far too obvious for this to be a challenge.”
Elijah exhales sharply through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he’ll allow. “She has a point.”
Klaus shoots him a venomous glare before returning to you with renewed determination.
And so, the trials continue.
He writes words on scraps of paper, clutching them close to his chest like a deranged magician preparing for the grand reveal. He narrows his eyes and focuses, willing his thoughts to be unreadable, only for you to recite them back to him with eerie precision. He even attempts to picture something truly mortifying—Kol in a tutu, Elijah with a mustache, himself in an era so atrociously styled that he grimaces at his own imagination. But you only laugh, completely unaffected, relaying every detail with delightful accuracy.
By the end of it, Klaus is both thoroughly vexed and genuinely alarmed.
By the third day, he’s staring at you as if you’ve grown a second head, pacing the length of the room like a man on the verge of spiraling.
“This isn’t possible,” he mutters, running a hand through his curls, voice half-wondering, half-infuriated. “Even for you.”
You watch him with barely contained glee, draped lazily across the couch, fingers idly tapping against your thigh.
“Maybe I’ve ascended,” you suggest lightly. “Reached a new level of enlightenment. You always said I was remarkable.”
He stops pacing to fix you with a sharp glare. “You’re remarkable,” he agrees, voice edged with grudging admiration, “but you’re not a bloody psychic.”
You sigh, tilting your head, a mockery of contemplation. “Well, technically, I don’t read minds.” You pause for effect, then smile sweetly. “I read your mind.”
Klaus groans, dragging a hand down his face in visible exasperation. “You’re insufferable.”
You only grin, stretching luxuriously before folding your arms behind your head. “And yet, you love me.”
You keep it going for nearly a week.
A full week of carefully chosen words, eerily precise predictions, and watching Klaus spiral deeper into the rabbit hole of disbelief. By the end of it, he is fraying at the edges—his scowl more permanent, his glares laced with something dangerously close to paranoia.
And then, at last, he snaps.
“I demand you tell me how you’re doing this,” he growls, backing you into a corner with swift, deliberate steps, hands braced against the wall on either side of your head.
You press back against the cold surface, heart kicking up its pace—but not from fear. No, from something else entirely.
His breath is warm, his body close, his blue eyes burning with frustration and something darker beneath.
You bite your lip, feigning consideration, dragging it out just to see the way his jaw tightens, his fingers twitch.
Then, with a slow, wicked smile, you lift onto your toes, press the lightest whisper of a kiss to his cheek, and murmur—
The sound Klaus makes is nothing short of an indignant squawk.
He jerks back, staring at you, aghast, mouth parting slightly as if the betrayal is too great to put into words. His chest rises and falls, shoulders stiff, and then—realization dawns in full, devastating force.
He looks betrayed. Utterly, profoundly betrayed.
But he doesn’t finish. He just lunges.
You shriek, laughing as you dart away, weaving through the room with the desperate knowledge that escape is impossible, but that won’t stop you from trying. Klaus is faster, stronger, hungry for vengeance.
“Oh, love,” he calls smoothly, but there’s a deadly gleam in his eyes, a promise wrapped in velvet. “You know I can hold a grudge.”
Your heart pounds as you skid around a table, using it as a barrier between you. “Klaus, wait—”
“Days,” he reminds you, circling like a predator, his lips curling. “Days of torment.”
You dart left—he’s already there. You whirl right—his smirk only widens.
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” you try, breathless, your grin betraying you.
His head tilts. His fingers flex.
“No,” he agrees silkily. “But I will make you suffer.”
You don’t even get the chance to scream before he pounces.
ps; there will be a part 2 to this story that will explain how she can "read his mind" <3
