Masterlist

Official masterlist over my fics of Klaus Mikaelson.

Klaus Mikaelson x Reader

smut/suggestive - ✧ fluff - ♡ angst - ✦ comfort - ✿

that time of the month ⎯⎯You burrow further into the blankets, voice muffled. “A new body?” ✿

the woman ⎯⎯"Are you quite finished glaring daggers, love? I believe the poor woman is in danger of bursting into flames under your stare alone," you merely inhaled sharply and said, "How many women have you been with?" ♡✧

come find me ⎯⎯He cannot. To speak it would be to surrender. To speak it would be to lay his soul at her feet, raw and wanting and entirely hers. ✧

in the eyes of the beholder ⎯⎯"That’s a dreadful attempt at impressionism," he comments one evening, arms crossed as he studies your canvas. "Your brushstrokes lack conviction. Have you even looked at a Monet before?" ♡

then we're even ⎯⎯Like she is something holy, something he was never meant to touch. ✧

breathe with me ⎯⎯His heart clenched. He had seen war, carnage, despair, and yet this—watching you locked in a battle against an enemy that existed only in the shadows of your mind—this felt crueler than anything he had ever faced. ✿

tell me ⎯⎯You tilt your head. "Of course not. Just standing in the dark, whiskey in hand, looking like the embodiment of every tragic poem ever written." ♡

knit me a threat ⎯⎯“Darling,” he drawled, stepping into the study, “would you happen to know why my coat has been invaded by a miniature version of myself? ♡

torment ⎯⎯Klaus sighs, dramatic, running a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you have like a thing for older men or something?” ✧ ♡

unraveling ⎯⎯His jaw clenches, fingers twitching against the desk. “Because, my love,” he whispers, voice thick with restraint, “I wanted you to feel the ache as I have.” ✧

masquerade ⎯⎯“In a world built on secrets and shadows, we find ourselves dancing in the light of our hidden truths.” ♡

heist ⎯⎯Klaus smirked. “Ah, yes. Borrowing. Without permission. That’s called theft, love.” ♡

road trip ⎯⎯“I don’t need a map,” he replies, completely unbothered. “I have an excellent sense of direction.” ♡

move ⎯⎯“You are the kind of storm that arrives in the dead of night, shaking the windows, rattling the doors. You disrupt. You demand to be noticed.” ♡

argument ⎯⎯His smirk is slow, predatory. “I could steal someone else’s drink for you.” ♡

wildflowers ⎯⎯“Darling,” he drawls, “am I supposed to be flattered or humiliated?” ♡

selene ⎯⎯His eyes flicker with something unreadable. “A love cursed to only exist in the quiet hours of the night,” he muses. “How tragic.” ♡

a wolf's lament ⎯⎯“You move like a ghost,” she murmurs, and it is not the first time she has accused him of this. ✦

the stars ⎯⎯Klaus hums beside her, hands folded behind his head, fingers threading into the wild mess of curls at his nape. “I think about many things.” ♡

restless ⎯⎯He considered that for a long moment. “Perhaps the moon prefers it that way,” he mused. “Perhaps it doesn’t want to be touched. Perhaps it’s content to watch, to exist in the quiet, to remain untouchable.” ♡

sugar ⎯⎯Klaus grinned at the memory. “Two hours and thirteen minutes. I was quite impressed.” ♡

nik ⎯⎯Because it was the only name that did not come with expectation, with weight, with history. It was just his, just theirs, just a thread between them that refused to break no matter how much the world tried to sever it. ♡

watercolored ⎯⎯“You told that old woman in the market that I was in need of a motherly embrace!” ♡

hold you close ⎯⎯“Shhh.” His lips brushed against your temple, and you nearly stopped breathing. “You wiggle like that again, and I’ll take it as an invitation.” ♡

jealous ⎯⎯“I do hate to steal her away, but—oh, you know how it is. She does have a rather short attention span, after all.” ♡

bleeding heart ⎯⎯“But if there is a day meant to celebrate love, then why should I not love you a little louder?” ♡

the world tilted ⎯⎯Klaus’s scream—raw, unpracticed, and filled with an agony that no immortal soul should ever endure—broke the night ✦

I could have you ⎯⎯“I could have you,” he murmured, his voice like silk, smooth and slow and dangerous. “If I wanted.” ♡✧

antique ⎯⎯"‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day—’" ♡

lavender and chamomile ⎯⎯A rare moment, a mutual understanding. ✿

hammock ⎯⎯The sky above is deepening now, the colors bleeding into something richer—indigo creeping in at the edges, stars beginning to flicker to life, hesitant but present. ✿

marriage auction ⎯⎯Klaus hums, swirling his champagne. “That’s lovely, sweetheart.” ♡

picture day ⎯⎯“You could at least pretend I’m not the most difficult person you’ve ever photographed.” ♡

trinkets ⎯⎯ “I may have acquired it through slightly less than legal means.” ♡

scarf ⎯⎯“Because I’d rather be cold than watch you shiver.” ♡

we ⎯⎯Klaus scowled. “I will throw you into the sun.” ♡

sap ⎯⎯“You’re rather difficult to look away from.” ♡

ghost of you ⎯⎯He carved himself into you, into the deepest parts of your soul, until forgetting him would mean unraveling yourself entirely. ✦

like a man starved ⎯⎯It was nothing. It was everything. ♡✿✦

master chef ⎯⎯“I wanted to do something special,” he continued, finally looking at you. “Something… personal. And what’s more personal than a meal prepared with my own two hands?” ♡

at my worst, at my best ⎯⎯His eyes searched yours, his breath hitching. “I don’t deserve you,” he said quietly. ✦♡

intruder ⎯⎯“You really should get better locks, by the way.” ♡

deception ⎯⎯“Gaslighting implies a level of effort that I am simply not putting in. Deceiving you doesn’t require much.” ♡

gentle waters ⎯⎯He reached for your hand, his touch gentle as he brushed his thumb across your knuckles. “Let me take care of you tonight,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. ✿

sweet escape ⎯⎯He smirked. “If this is your idea of fun, love, I worry for you.” ♡

pottery ⎯⎯“Show me what you’ve got, Picasso.” ♡

s'mores ⎯⎯“Nothing,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re just more captivating than the stars, that’s all.” ♡

the line between us ⎯⎯“I’m saying,” he interrupted, his voice firm now, “that I’m tired of being just your best friend. I’ve loved you for longer than I care to admit, and it’s agony pretending I don’t.” ♡

the paint beneath ⎯⎯“You always did stare at art like it owed you something.” ♡

blood ⎯⎯"What are you suggesting? A blood beauty contest?” ♡

anything ⎯⎯“Did you… raid every orange grove in the area?” ♡

history ⎯⎯“Perhaps it requires a certain level of intellect to appreciate.” ♡

show me ⎯⎯“I’m not gentle. I don’t know how to love without breaking everything I touch.” ♡✧

you ⎯⎯“You are my destruction, love. And my salvation. My madness and my solace. Do you think leaving spared me? No. It condemned me to a century of torment.” ✦

crawlin' back to you ⎯⎯“Where are you?” you asked, your voice steady despite the tears streaming down your face. There was a pause, and then he said, “Outside. In the rain.” ♡

fixed ⎯⎯“No. I came because I couldn’t stay away.” ♡

shouldn't be here ⎯⎯ “Loving you is the only thing in my long, cursed existence that has ever felt easy. The only thing that’s ever made sense.” ♡✦

concert ⎯⎯"It’s not because I think I have the right to you. It’s because I’ve tried—God, have I tried—to stay away." ♡

vino veritas ⎯⎯“Flattery won’t get you out of trouble if you embarrass me in front of the sommelier.” ♡

not a chance ⎯⎯“Let me guess—you’re mysterious, brooding, and devastatingly complicated?” ♡

canvas ⎯⎯“Have you ever painted me?” ♡

echoes of you ⎯⎯"Klaus Mikaelson wept" ✦

bold ⎯⎯“If I’m a fool, it’s only because of you,” ♡

kitchen ⎯⎯“Are you telling me you’re challenging me to a dance battle?” ♡

storm ⎯⎯just the two of them, dancing through the storm together. ♡

sparkling commentary ⎯⎯“What can I say? I’m a giver.” ♡

a royal pain ⎯⎯“Exciting? You’re like a cranky old man stuck in a twenty-something’s body.” ♡

burden ⎯⎯Every shadow needs light to be revealed ✦

silent spectator ⎯⎯This was now no longer a game of observation or veiled curiosity. It was undeniably, absolutely, desire ♡✧

kiss me like you mean it ⎯⎯kisses, kisses and more kisses ♡

snowman ⎯⎯ ‘Oh look, it’s Greg—the gallant snowman of the yard!‘ ♡

sweet talker ⎯⎯Maybe klaus isn't so bad after all ♡

dusty tomes and worm love ⎯⎯“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” ♡

my inner aesthetician ⎯⎯In a warm, candlelit sanctuary, two souls share playful banter as they engage in a soothing skincare ritual. ♡✿

fire and tenderness ⎯⎯In a candle-lit embrace, warmth blooms as tender kisses chase away the cold. With whispered apologies, a spark ignites into passionate connection, where playful banter entwines with sincere affection, promising to shield from the world’s chill. In this moment, hearts intertwine, wrapped in comfort and light. ♡

morning brew ⎯⎯ a timeless soul navigates the soft glow of a quaint coffee shop, enchanted by a vibrant girl who brings light to his shadowed existence. ♡

are you asking me on a date, Klaus? ⎯⎯ The long awaited date between a girl, and an old grumpy original hybrid. (First fic ever) ♡

Series

technique ⎯⎯Then Klaus, in the most delighted tone imaginable, says, “Sweetheart, I do believe you just murdered an innocent shrubbery.” ♡

double it ⎯⎯Then, in the most insufferably smug voice imaginable, Klaus drawls, “Careful, sweetheart. You’re starting to look like you actually know what you’re doing.” ♡

tam lin ⎯⎯And you—always drawn to him, always at his side, your fates tangled like ivy clinging to stone, entwined in a way the world could not unmake. ✦

fae ⎯⎯“You cannot keep him,” you whispered, though your voice was steady. “You cannot have him.” ✦

ever yours, ever mine part I ⎯⎯And no matter what came next—no matter how many lifetimes you lived, how many battles you fought, how many times you lost and found each other again— That promise would never break.

ever yours, ever mine part II ⎯⎯Then—softly, quietly—he said, “I don’t think I was made for happiness.”

ever yours, ever mine part III ⎯⎯Klaus coughed, spitting blood into the dirt. His eyes flickered to you, and that was when they struck him again. You felt the impact as if it were your own. ✦

ever yours, ever mine part IV ⎯⎯"You're real." It was a whisper, a breath, a plea.

ever yours, ever mine part V ⎯⎯The witch’s expression softened—not with kindness, but with understanding. “She is something that should not be. Something caught between. Not alive. Not dead. And certainly not human.”

territorial ⎯⎯“Whatever you say, Nik.” ♡

trouble ⎯⎯“Ian,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “What a name. Sounds like he was born to be dull.” ♡

I wouldn't hesitate ⎯⎯“if I had the chance to fall in love with you again, I wouldn’t hesitate.” ✦

I didn't hesitate ⎯⎯ “The thought of you being anyone else’s sunlight is something I can’t stomach.” ♡✦

something about me

Last updated: march 22nd 2025, 13:00

you haunt me | k.m

⎯⎯ "You are so used to taking, Niklaus. It must unsettle you to be the one left wanting."

warnings: (;

The night air is thick with the scent of rain, though the storm has long since passed. A heavy hush lingers between the trees, the world stilled as if it, too, is waiting—waiting for her.

Klaus stands beneath the boughs, his presence a shadow stretched thin beneath the silver wash of the moon. He has chased ghosts before, but none so exquisite as the one before him now. She is there, poised just beyond reach, wrapped in the hush of midnight, her lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite a secret.

"You haunt me," he murmurs, stepping forward. His voice is rough velvet, edged with something he would never name. "Do you enjoy it?"

She does not move away, nor does she close the space between them. Her silence is a blade against his skin, the sharpest of tortures. "Should I not?" she muses, tilting her head as if considering his torment. "You are so used to taking, Niklaus. It must unsettle you to be the one left wanting."

Wanting. The word drags across his ribs like a knife. He has known hunger, thirst, the all-consuming need to own, to devour, to make something irrevocably his. And yet—

She is the first thing he has ever craved that refuses to be taken.

His fingers twitch, aching to trace the line of her jaw, to tilt her chin up until there is nothing but him in her gaze. But she is not his to touch—not yet. She will not be claimed, only chosen. And so he waits. And aches. And yearns.

She steps closer then, slow and deliberate, until he can taste the whisper of her breath in the space between them. "Tell me, Klaus," she murmurs, her voice laced with something dangerous. "How does it feel to burn?"

A low, humorless chuckle escapes him. "Like you already know the answer. Like you intend to keep me in this inferno forever."

She watches him, the moonlight carving sharp angles into the smooth curve of her cheek. "And if I do?" she taunts, the whisper of amusement laced with something darker.

He exhales, slow and measured, though his patience frays with each breath. "Then I will burn," he admits, voice thick with something unspoken, "and I will enjoy every second of it—so long as it is your fire."

She lets the silence settle, lets his words seep into the space between them. Then, with the softest tilt of her chin, she leans in—close enough for him to see the flicker of mischief in her gaze. "You speak as if you have a choice in the matter."

His lips curl, a slow, predatory smile. "Perhaps I do not. But neither do you."

Her breath catches for just a moment—a fraction of hesitation, a slip of control. It is enough.

His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers skimming over the barest edge of her wrist, light as a whisper, heavy as a promise. "Do not think yourself untouched by this fire, love," he breathes. "You stand in the embers with me."

For a moment, something flickers in her gaze. A spark. A threat. A promise.

Then she steps back, slow, measured, leaving his hand empty, his pulse roaring.

"Perhaps," she says, as she disappears into the night, "but you are the one left in the ashes."

And just like that, she is gone, leaving Klaus alone with his hunger, his need, his endless, aching yearning.

He exhales sharply, a growl caught between frustration and something darker, deeper. The night stretches on, empty without her, but he is not defeated. No, not yet.

He follows the whisper of her presence, the ghost of her scent lingering in the air, like a trail meant to be found. A game. A cruel, exquisite game. He smiles to himself, slow and wicked, though there is nothing amused in the curl of his lips.

The hunt is far from over.

༊*·˚

Through the dense trees, the flicker of a lantern glows in the distance, a beacon or a taunt—he does not know. But he moves toward it, toward her, drawn as if by instinct, as if by something written into the marrow of his very bones.

She will not make it easy. She never does.

But that is what makes her his favorite kind of torment.

And so he walks, deeper into the night, deeper into the ache, knowing that when he finds her again, she will slip from his grasp once more, leaving him to chase, to hunger, to burn.

Still, the lantern's glow draws closer, and with it, her presence sharpens in his senses. She is waiting for him—of that, he is certain.

And then he hears her, her voice lilting through the hush. "So predictable," she muses, the shadow of her form shifting as he approaches. "Like a moth to a flame."

He exhales sharply, a breath of laughter tainted with frustration. "And yet you continue to light the fire, love. Tell me—why do you wait for me, only to run?"

She tilts her head, considering him with something unreadable in her gaze. "Perhaps I like seeing how far you'll follow."

He steps forward, slow, deliberate. "You already know the answer."

"Do I?" she challenges, though there is the faintest waver in her voice, the smallest falter in her resolve.

He takes another step, closing the space between them. "You do," he says, voice low, heavy with something that threatens to consume them both. "You know I will always follow."

She sways toward him, just a fraction, just enough for him to feel the warmth of her body in the cold night air. "And if I let you catch me?"

His fingers brush against her wrist again, firmer this time, grounding, insistent. "Then you will see what it is to be caught by me."

A sharp inhale, a flicker of hesitation—but she does not pull away.

Instead, she leans closer, voice barely a whisper against his skin. "And if I run again?"

His grip tightens ever so slightly, his lips a breath away from hers. "Then I will chase you until the world crumbles beneath us."

She does not answer, not with words. But her fingers curl against his, just for a moment, just long enough to let him know—

The game is not over.

And so she slips away once more, vanishing into the night like mist, leaving Klaus standing in the lantern’s glow, breath unsteady, heart pounding, the chase beginning anew.

hihihhihhihi (maybe it needs a part 2/smut?)

taglist: @ohapple

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

love-struck fool | k.m

⎯⎯"But considering the company I keep—" he gestures vaguely at you, "—I wouldn’t put it past you to have moved it simply to infuriate me."

warnings: none I think

The grand library of the estate is shrouded in the warm glow of candlelight, the scent of aged parchment thick in the air. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stretch toward the high vaulted ceiling, filled with countless tomes of forgotten knowledge, bound in leather and dust. It is a place of quiet reverence, of knowledge hoarded and whispered secrets bound in ink.

And yet, at this very moment, it is also a place of sheer and utter chaos.

"Where is it?" Klaus growls, storming through the rows, yanking books from their places and tossing them aside with increasing frustration. "It was here! I know it was here!"

"Klaus," you sigh, stepping into the library, hands on your hips as you watch the scene before you unfold. "If you’ve lost another book, I swear—"

"I did not lose it!" he snaps, before immediately pinching the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. "It has merely… relocated itself."

You arch a brow. "Books don’t relocate themselves."

"Perhaps not under normal circumstances," he admits, straightening and casting you a pointed look. "But considering the company I keep—" he gestures vaguely at you, "—I wouldn’t put it past you to have moved it simply to infuriate me."

You scoff. "Oh, please. If I wanted to infuriate you, I’d do something far more creative than hiding your precious bedtime story."

Klaus narrows his eyes. "It is not a bedtime story. It is a rare manuscript, one of a kind, containing valuable information—"

"Oh, forgive me," you interrupt, lips twitching. "A very important bedtime story."

He exhales through his nose, nostrils flaring as he glares at you. "Are you going to help me find it, or must I burn this entire room to the ground and sift through the ashes?"

You blink at him. "You’re being dramatic."

"Am I?" he challenges. "You underestimate how much I need that book."

You sigh and step further into the room, rolling up your sleeves. "Alright, alright. What’s it called?"

Klaus hesitates. The silence stretches.

"Klaus," you prod, "what’s the name of the book?"

He shifts, avoiding your gaze. His voice is lower now, grumbled under his breath. "It… may have a rather embarrassing title."

Your grin is immediate and victorious. "Oh, this just got interesting."

"Don’t," he warns.

"Say it."

"No."

"Klaus."

"No."

"Niklaus Mikaelson, if you want me to help, you’re going to tell me the name of the book right this second."

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Fine."

You wait, eyes gleaming.

He exhales sharply. "It’s called—" he pauses, then mutters something unintelligible.

You cup a hand to your ear. "I didn’t quite catch that."

He glares at you with the heat of a thousand suns. "It’s called… ‘Love Sonnets of the Immortal Heart.’"

Silence.

You stare at him.

He stares back, bracing himself.

And then you laugh. Loud, unrestrained, doubling over as tears prick the corners of your eyes.

"You—" you gasp between laughs. "You lost a book of love sonnets?! That’s what this whole tantrum was about?!"

Klaus scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. "They are very well-written sonnets, I’ll have you know."

"Oh, I have no doubt," you wheeze, wiping at your eyes. "But really, Klaus? You could’ve just asked for help instead of destroying half the library."

He mutters something about pride and meddlesome distractions, but you only grin, shaking your head.

"Come on, you tragic, love-struck fool," you say, dragging him toward the far shelves. "Let’s find your poetry before you start composing your own out of sheer despair."

Klaus huffs, but as you set off in search of his lost treasure, you swear you catch the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

just cleaning out my drafts a bit <3

taglist: @ohapple

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

@liataylorsversion

Ohhh my god—. First of all, the fact that you laid this out like a beautifully structured slow-burn movie in my head?? I'm unwell. Genuinely kicking my feet reading this because the tension, the pacing, the way you get Kai so right?? You’ve absolutely nailed the dynamic. And that masquerade scene??? STOP. My heart cannot take the drama and the yearning.

Thank you so much for trusting me with something that’s clearly been living rent-free in your head (and now mine too). This is such a rich, layered, delicious request and I am absolutely going to work on it. Truly, these kinds of thoughtful, vivid ideas are what I live for. It’s going to be such a joy to bring this one to life—and trust me, I’ll take my time to make it feel exactly as you imagined (and hopefully even more 🤍).

You’ve basically handed me a gourmet meal to cook with and I’m so excited to serve it back. Thank you again, I seriously appreciate this so much—keep ‘em coming whenever inspiration strikes. 💌

I already have one called 'the woman'! 🤍But I can make one more if you want? <<3

sharing type | k.p

⎯⎯ He’s already halfway to imagining their bones broken in alphabetical order.

warnings: fluff

The Mystic Grill buzzed with its usual half-hearted charm—dim string lights flickering overhead, lazy country music floating from the jukebox, and the scent of onion rings clinging to everything like a curse. You sat beside Elena in a corner booth, sipping a strawberry soda through a striped straw, one leg curled beneath you as you listened to her recap the latest Salvatore drama.

Kai and Damon had wandered off to the bar to pretend they could stand each other for more than ten minutes. So far, no blood had been spilled. A win, in your book.

You gave her a sly grin. “They’re growing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Barely.”

Elena glances at you the moment the shadows fall across your table—two strangers, tall, arrogant, too sure of themselves. They lean in, leering, stinking of cheap cologne and worse intentions, voices slick with the same tired charm they’ve probably used on half the bar.

You don’t even blink. Just sip your drink and exchange the look.

That silent, unimpressed look shared only by women who’ve seen gods bleed. The do they have any idea who our men are? look. The should we warn them or let them die oblivious? look.

You sigh—long, theatrical, drenched in boredom—and place your glass down with deliberate care. The straw shifts like a white flag in the cup. Then you twist in your seat, letting them see the full force of your disdain. Your expression could cut glass.

“See that guy over there?” you say, voice feather-light, motioning with your chin toward the bar.

Kai hasn’t looked away since the moment the men approached. He’s perched on the stool like a lounging serpent, elbow on the counter, eyes glinting beneath lazy lashes. Still, there's nothing lazy about the way he watches. His gaze is lethal—like a knife dipped in something slow and fatal.

He’s already halfway to imagining their bones broken in alphabetical order.

“The one who looks like he’s moments from setting someone on fire with his mind?” you continue sweetly, tilting your head just so. “That’s my boyfriend.”

Elena, perfectly timed, gestures at Damon—who’s swirling his bourbon like it holds the last nerve he has left, already glaring hard enough to burn holes through both men.

“And mine’s the one who’s murdered people for less,” she says with a bright, innocent smile.

The men freeze.

Smirks falter. Confidence flickers.

One of them clears his throat, the sound dry and nervous. “Oh. Uh. You’re with… them?”

“Mhm,” you chirp, rising from the booth like it’s a stage and you’ve just been cued. Elena moves in tandem, the both of you calm, polished, rehearsed.

The strangers barely have time to stammer out an excuse before Kai shifts.

He doesn’t move much—just turns to face them, slow and serpentine, one brow arching with something between amusement and malice. His fingers twitch like he’s already chosen which spell to use. Not if—which.

The men take one look at him—truly look—and bolt like someone shouted fire.

Cowards.

You and Elena stroll back to the bar like you’re returning from a casual walk. Damon spares a glance over his glass and mutters, “Trouble?”

Elena shrugs. “Handled.”

Kai is still watching you, eyes narrowed, chest rising a little too slowly. You reach out and press your hand to his sternum—firm and warm beneath your palm.

“They weren’t worth it,” you murmur. “Just two boys playing brave.”

“I wasn’t going to kill them,” he lies.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I was just mentally planning their funerals,” he amends, with a slight pout. “That’s different.”

You grin, rising up on your toes to kiss the edge of his mouth—the corner, barely there, featherlight. He sucks in a breath like it startles him every time. Like the softness always strikes harder than the fire.

“You’re adorable when you’re unhinged,” you whisper.

Kai huffs. But you see the way he glows under your praise—subtle, hesitant, like he’s not quite used to being loved this way. Not yet. But he wants to be.

Damon groans something foul about lovebirds, but neither of you hear him.

Kai’s already tugging you gently toward the door, his fingers tangled through yours with an urgency he can’t mask.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs, low and rough into your ear. “Before I accidentally test a fire spell.”

༊*·˚

The door barely clicks shut behind you before Kai’s already kicking off his shoes, peeling off his jacket, and sprawling dramatically across your couch like he owns the place.

And to be fair—he kind of does.

He’s been slowly overtaking your space like ivy: leaving books open on your counters, jackets slung over chairs, a set of rings on your nightstand that you’re pretty sure he thinks you haven’t noticed. His toothbrush showed up in your bathroom three weeks ago without a word.

You haven’t asked him about it. He hasn’t offered. But he’s here more often than not, and you like it that way.

“Movie time,” he announces, claiming the middle cushion like it’s a throne and opening his arms wide like he expects tribute.

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean our movie night? The one where I pick the movie because last time you picked The Shining and then asked why I don’t sleep with the lights off anymore?”

Kai shrugs, wholly unbothered. “Not my fault Jack Nicholson is a cinematic genius.”

“He tried to murder his family.”

“With style,” Kai says, deadpan.

You throw a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him dramatically, like you’ve wounded him. Flops sideways and groans, sprawled like a fallen king.

Eventually, you settle on something safe and cozy—an old rom-com, something where no one dies and everyone ends up kissed. Kai grumbles at first, makes sarcastic comments for the first fifteen minutes, but his hand finds yours anyway. Lazy fingers playing with your knuckles. Thumb brushing over your wrist like it calms him to feel you breathing.

It’s not long before he shifts closer. And then closer again. Until your legs are tangled and his head is buried against your shoulder, nose in your neck like he’s trying to breathe you in.

“You smell good,” he mutters into your collarbone.

You hum, threading your fingers through his hair. “Better than popcorn?”

“Better than blood.”

You snort. “Romantic.”

He grins against your skin. “I’m serious. You smell like… peace. And cinnamon. And that one shampoo that says it’s made of like, eleven herbs and doesn’t specify what any of them are.”

You laugh and tip your head back, letting it rest against the cushions. Kai just watches you for a moment. Soft-eyed. Quiet. Like he can’t believe this is real.

And maybe he can’t.

He shifts again, tugging the blanket over both of you. His arm winds around your waist, snug, protective, heavy in a way that feels more grounding than suffocating. His voice is softer now, low and earnest:

“Thank you.”

You blink. “For what?”

“For not running away. For… making room for me. Even when I make it hard.”

Your hand curls instinctively into his shirt.

“You make it easy, Kai.”

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for days. You lean in, press your forehead to his, let silence bloom soft between you. The only sound is the TV droning on in the background and the quiet rhythm of your hearts.

Eventually, he murmurs:

“I’d kill anyone for you.”

You smile, eyes fluttering closed. “I know.”

“And I’d only sort of feel bad about it.”

“Progress.”

He chuckles against your skin. “I’m working on it.”

You kiss his temple, slow and fond. “I know.”

And then you both fall silent again. Wrapped in warmth. Wrapped in each other.

Kai Parker—terrifying, reckless, half-reformed mess of a man—falls asleep on your chest twenty minutes later, soft snores muffled against your t-shirt.

You don’t move.

Not even when the credits roll. Not even when your arm goes numb.

Because it’s Kai. And for once, he feels safe. And more than that—he trusts you.

You’re not moving. Not yet.

Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

thank you to @sc4rrc for the request <3 I hope you enjoyed it!!

feel free to request fics with kai again! <3

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bite | k.m

⎯⎯The thing took a step forward, its voice slipping through the cracks in reality. "You reek of death. Of dying. It’s in your blood, your bones. Do you think he’ll save you?"

warnings: mention of blood, werewolf bite

The night air was thick with the scent of wet earth and pine, the forest swallowing the last remnants of moonlight. She ran, breath ragged, feet catching on roots and stones, but she could still hear it behind her. The growl, low and guttural. The snap of branches under something too heavy to be human.

Then came the impact.

She barely had time to turn before it was on her, weight crashing into her side like a wave of muscle and fury. The pain was immediate—a searing, white-hot explosion as fangs tore into the soft flesh of her shoulder. A scream ripped from her throat, lost to the night, and then—

Darkness.

She didn't know how long she lay there, half-buried in damp leaves, blood seeping into the hungry ground. When she forced her eyes open, the world swayed. The trees loomed over her, gnarled hands stretching toward a sky that had already forgotten her. Every nerve in her body screamed, but worse than the pain was the heat—burning her from the inside, pulsing through her veins like fire licking at kindling.

She had to move.

The fever set in before she even reached the road. Her limbs felt foreign, her head light, as though she were floating somewhere outside of herself. Every breath rattled against her ribs, and the bite—God, the bite—throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Klaus. She needed Klaus.

The world shifted around her, flickering between reality and something else. Something darker. The trees were no longer trees, but towering figures with hollowed-out eyes. The wind carried voices, whispering her name, pulling at her like unseen hands. Shadows crawled at the edges of her vision, melting into the corners of the road as she stumbled forward.

She pressed a trembling hand against her shoulder, feeling the warmth of blood still oozing sluggishly from the wound. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She could already feel it spreading—this poison, this curse. If she didn’t make it to Klaus in time—

No. She wouldn’t think about that.

A car’s headlights flared in the distance, burning away the darkness for a moment. She raised her arm, her body screaming in protest, and staggered into the road, praying the driver would stop.

The last thing she saw before the fever took her under was the blur of a car door swinging open and the sound of her name, sharp and panicked, cutting through the night.

༊*·˚

The tires screeched against the pavement, the car swerving before lurching to a halt mere feet from her. The world blurred in and out of focus as she tried to steady herself, breath ragged, pulse erratic. The hunger gnawed at her ribs, sharp and insistent, but worse than that was the fever, the fire burning beneath her skin, spreading like poisoned veins of molten lead.

The door slammed. Footsteps. A voice—low, cautious, concerned.

"Miss? Are you—?"

She blinked, and the man was gone. No, not gone—changed. His skin sloughed away like candle wax, revealing something else beneath. His eyes stretched wide, too wide, black pits where his pupils should have been. His mouth twisted, split open with too many teeth, grinning at her like the night itself had given it form.

She stumbled back, breath catching in her throat. Her body screamed for blood, her fangs ached in her gums, but her hands were trembling, shaking so badly she could barely hold them up to defend herself.

"No," she rasped, though whether she was denying the hallucination or the hunger clawing at her insides, she didn't know.

The thing took a step forward, its voice slipping through the cracks in reality. "You reek of death. Of dying. It’s in your blood, your bones. Do you think he’ll save you?"

Klaus. She had to get to Klaus.

She turned, her limbs unsteady beneath her, and ran. The darkness chased her, the world warping and shifting at the edges of her vision. She didn’t stop to hear if the driver—if the thing—followed. She only knew she had to move, had to reach him before the fever swallowed her whole.

The trees loomed like silent giants, their skeletal arms clawing at the sky as she stumbled forward. Every breath burned, every muscle screamed, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

Her bare feet, torn and bloodied, sank into the damp earth, mud sucking at her heels as she ran. The sound of her own ragged breathing drowned beneath the thunderous pounding of hooves—no, footsteps—no, something else. She didn’t know what was chasing her, only that it was there, hidden in the black between the trees, whispering, laughing.

A sob tore from her throat. She glanced back, chest heaving, only to see shifting shadows where there should have been nothing. The moon twisted, stretching long, spindly fingers through the leaves, distorting the world into something unnatural.

Run.

The word pulsed through her, not as thought but as instinct, deep and primal. Her legs carried her forward, uneven and weak, her vision blurring with unshed tears. Her skin was burning, fevered, crawling from the inside out, and yet the cold night bit at her like she was already dead.

Dead.

No. She had to find him. She had to—

A branch snagged her shoulder, ripping through cloth and flesh, but she barely felt it. The pain in her arm was worse, spreading like wildfire, molten and unrelenting. Her veins burned, her head swam, and suddenly, the voices were in front of her, waiting.

She choked on a sob, skidding to a stop, eyes darting wildly between the trees. Shadows moved—no, they didn’t. Nothing was there. But something was. She could hear them breathing, hear them whispering, hear the slow, deliberate sound of hooves dragging across the forest floor.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, warm against the ice of her skin. Her hands trembled, fingers curling uselessly in the fabric of her torn dress.

Please.

She didn’t know if she had spoken the word aloud or if it was just another thought swallowed by the fever.

Something moved behind her. Close.

She ran.

And she ran.

Blindly, desperately—her breath hitching, her chest seizing with every ragged inhale. Her limbs burned, her body a betrayer, sluggish from the fever, the venom, the agony coursing through her veins like molten iron.

The night howled around her, branches snapping in the dark, shadows shifting at the edges of her vision. Were they real? Or just another trick of her fevered mind? It didn’t matter. The terror was real. The need to escape was real.

She could still hear them behind her. Footsteps—or hoofbeats—or the low, guttural growl of something closing in.

She didn’t dare look back.

The ground was unforgiving beneath her bare feet, cold and damp, littered with jagged stones and the gnarled roots of ancient trees. Her legs trembled beneath her, threatening to give way, but she couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.

Then her foot caught—

A twist, a yank, a moment of weightlessness—

And then she was falling.

The world tilted, the sky flipping over itself, and her stomach lurched before she hit the ground with a brutal, bone-rattling force. Pain exploded through her body. Her shoulder throbbed, white-hot agony radiating outward, a cruel reminder of the bite that still festered, still burned.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs. For a moment, all she could do was gasp, her mouth opening, closing, struggling to pull in oxygen, her vision pulsing with black spots.

Move. Move. Move.

Her limbs flailed, dragging, clawing at the frozen earth, desperation overriding the pain. She had to keep going, had to get up, had to—

Hands.

Strong. Unyielding.

Grabbing her arms.

She screamed.

A raw, guttural sound, torn from the depths of her terror.

She fought. She thrashed, her nails catching on fabric, on skin, on something solid and real. She didn’t know what was holding her, who was holding her, and she didn’t care—she had to get away.

Tears streaked down her face, blinding her, turning the world into a haze of light and darkness. Her mind twisted, distorted, the fever dragging her under, making monsters of everything around her.

And then—

A voice.

Low. Familiar. Soothing.

“Shh, it’s me. It’s me, love.”

Her body convulsed with a sob, her head shaking violently, refusing, unable to believe it, unable to see past the horrors clawing at her mind.

“Look at me.” A plea. Gentle, commanding. Steady. “Look at me.”

And somehow—somehow—she did.

The world stopped its violent tilt.

The dark smears of night sharpened into clarity. And there—

There were his eyes.

Blue. So blue. A color she had known all her life, a color that had seen her in every light, every shadow. Blue like the ocean, like a storm-wracked sky, like something eternal.

Klaus.

Her lips parted, a broken sob escaping, and then—

She collapsed against him.

The last of her strength bled from her limbs, leaving her nothing but a trembling, fevered wreck in his arms. Her fingers curled into his shirt, weak, desperate. Her body shook violently, wracked with chills and pain, and he—

He just held her.

One hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through sweat-dampened strands, the other curled protectively around her back, pressing her against the solid, unyielding warmth of him.

And then he saw it.

The bite.

His entire body locked.

The breath he had been holding slipped from his lungs in a sharp, lethal exhale. The world around him blurred—no trees, no cold, no night—nothing but that jagged wound carved into her skin.

A werewolf bite.

A death sentence.

His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together, fury a sharp, electric thing in his veins. The scent of the infection, of the festering venom, coiled in the air like a promise of death. And he—

He knew exactly who had done this.

His grip on her tightened, barely restrained violence coiling in his muscles. Rage burned, hot and consuming, but it wouldn’t help her now. Not yet.

He forced himself to move, to act, to fix this before she slipped any further from him.

Without hesitation, Klaus brought his wrist to his mouth and bit down, tearing through his own skin with the ease of long practice.

The blood welled instantly, dark and rich, dripping slow and steady. He didn’t wait for her to ask. He pressed it to her lips, his voice low, urgent.

“Drink.”

She didn’t move.

“Come on, love,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against hers, his fingers trembling where they brushed against her cheek. “Please.”

Her lips parted.

The first pull was weak. Barely there.

Then—then she latched on.

A sharp breath shuddered through him, relief and something deeper twisting in his chest.

He closed his eyes, his head tipping back as she drank, her mouth warm against his skin. He held her tighter, one arm firm around her, the other still stroking through her hair, soothing, comforting, desperate.

“That’s it, darling,” he murmured against her temple. “That’s it. I’ve got you.”

And he did.

Even as fury seared through his veins.

Even as vengeance coiled in his gut.

Even as he swore to himself, to the night, to the gods who had long since stopped listening—

He would find the one who had done this.

And he would make them suffer.

this was not a request but just something that I wanted to get out. enjoy <3

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I love this idea so much—thank you for sending it in! 🥹✨ The thought of reader being completely unaware and just thinking Klaus is an old-souled gentleman is honestly so cute and full of fun potential. I’m definitely going to work on this one! Thank you again for the inspiration, and please keep the ideas coming—I adore hearing them! 💛

Ahh, thank you so much—hearing that my stories bring you comfort means more to me than I can say 🥺💛 And your request? It’s absolutely beautiful. The vulnerability, the trust, the slow, patient love—it’s exactly the kind of story I adore writing. I’ll definitely be working on this one, and I promise to give it all the softness and care it deserves. Thank you for sharing such a tender idea with me 🤍✨

Thank you so much for your kind words—that truly means the world to me! 🥹💛 I’m so grateful for your support, and I absolutely love this request. The strangers-to-friends-to-lovers arc with Klaus, especially layered with the struggle of a new, unwanted transformation… yes please. I’ll definitely be working on it, and I’ll make sure to give it the care and depth it deserves. Thank you again for trusting me with your idea! 🫶✨

requests

Just wanted to say—I have seen all your lovely requests, even if I don’t get the chance to respond to every single one! I’m working on them all, I promise, and I appreciate each and every idea so much. 🥹💛 It seriously means the world that you take the time to send them in. I’d also absolutely love to receive more—whether it’s Klaus, Kai, or even characters from different fandoms!

My inbox is always open for inspiration, and your creativity keeps me going. ✨🫶

Ahh, thank you so much!! That request is so cute—and honestly, I’d love to write it! 💛 I mainly post Klaus because he's my forever favorite, but I’m definitely open to writing for other characters too, especially someone as complex and chaotic as Kai. You’re so right—there’s way too little content for him, and I’d be happy to help change that!

The scenario you described is adorable (and so well thought out??), and I can already picture the little glances, the tension, the playful chaos, all of it. I’ll add it to my list and make sure to give it the love it deserves! 🫶✨

in the quiet of dawn | k.m

⎯⎯He had spent centuries memorizing faces, reading the subtlest shifts in expression, the silent language of fear, of desire, of betrayal. But there was no fear here. No walls. Just the quiet proof of trust, resting beside him with absolute certainty that she was safe.

warnings: fluff

The first thing he felt was warmth.

Not the kind that came from the morning light spilling through heavy curtains, nor the kind that flickered from a fire long since burned to embers. No, this warmth was something else entirely—something alive, something fragile, something he had spent lifetimes chasing but never holding for long.

He did not move at first. He only breathed, letting the quiet moments before waking stretch into something sacred. He could hear the soft, steady rhythm of her breath, feel the rise and fall of her chest against his side, the delicate weight of her arm draped across him as if, even in sleep, she sought him. As if, in the dark world of dreams, she had reached for him and found him there.

Klaus opened his eyes slowly, unwilling to disturb the peace that had settled between them like a whispered vow. The room was gilded in the hush of early morning, shadows long and golden where the sun brushed against old wooden floors. Dust motes floated in lazy circles, undisturbed by the chaos that so often followed him wherever he went.

But here, in this moment, there was no chaos.

Only her.

His gaze fell to her face, half-buried in the pillow, her hair a tangled halo around her shoulders. There was something achingly vulnerable about her like this—her features softened by sleep, her lips slightly parted, her lashes casting faint shadows against her cheek. He had spent centuries memorizing faces, reading the subtlest shifts in expression, the silent language of fear, of desire, of betrayal. But there was no fear here. No walls. Just the quiet proof of trust, resting beside him with absolute certainty that she was safe.

He lifted a hand slowly, brushing his fingertips along the curve of her arm, barely a whisper of contact. He traced the shape of her shoulder, down to where her fingers rested against his ribs, curled loosely as if even in sleep, she was tethered to him. The touch was featherlight, reverent, as though she were made of something finer than the mortal world allowed, as though she might slip through his grasp if he dared to hold on too tightly.

And yet, the fear of losing her gnawed at him, even now.

He had lived long enough to know that beautiful things were never meant to last. That happiness, for creatures like him, was always fleeting. But this—

This felt different.

This felt like something the gods themselves might envy, something stolen from the hands of fate before it could be ripped away. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling the faint scent of her skin, something familiar yet utterly intoxicating. A part of him wished he could stay like this forever, frozen in a moment untouched by the violence of the world outside these walls.

But the world was waiting.

And Klaus Mikaelson had never been a man allowed peace for long.

Still, as she stirred beside him, a soft sigh leaving her lips as she nuzzled closer in half-wakefulness, he let himself believe—just for now—that maybe, just maybe, this morning was the beginning of something he was never meant to lose.

And if the world ever dared to take her from him, he would burn it down to bring her back.

thank you to anon for the req! 🤍 a short and sweet one this time

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if I had known | k.m

⎯⎯He chuckled darkly. “I prefer to think of myself as an unreliable narrator.”

warnings: non I think

"Klaus, be honest with me. How accurate is Beowulf?"

Across the room, Klaus barely lifted his eyes from his sketchbook, charcoal smudging the tips of his fingers as he shaded something unseen. "Darling, I was not in the mood to fight sea monsters during that particular century," he said, voice as smooth as ever.

She narrowed her eyes. "You're saying sea monsters did exist?"

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but he simply turned the page of his sketchbook, dragging the charcoal in long, deliberate strokes. "I'm saying some stories are best left unconfirmed. Keeps the mystery alive, don’t you think?"

She groaned, flopping onto her back with a dramatic sigh, her worn-out anthology held loosely in one hand. "Fine. What about The Odyssey? Was Odysseus real? Did he actually outwit a Cyclops, or was that poetic exaggeration?"

Klaus set his charcoal aside, finally looking at her with something between exasperation and reluctant amusement. "If I had a coin for every fool who claimed to have 'discovered' Troy, I could buy the entire Greek coastline and still have enough left to bribe every historian in Europe to rewrite the tale in my favor."

She bolted upright, gripping her book as if it held the secrets of the universe. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait—so was Troy real? Was Homer real? Did you know Homer?"

Klaus let the question hang between them, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He tilted his head, watching her unravel in real time, enjoying the weight of her curiosity pressing against him like a storm cloud ready to burst.

After a long, excruciating pause, he said, "Oh, sweetheart." He leaned forward, voice dipping into something maddeningly fond. "You’re adorable when you think I’m about to give you a straight answer."

She let out a frustrated noise and lobbed her book at him. Klaus, the ancient predator, the immortal hybrid, merely caught it midair with one hand, never breaking eye contact.

This was going to be a long night.

༊*·˚

She jabbed a finger at him, eyes gleaming with scandalized disbelief. “I refuse to believe you never met Shakespeare.”

Klaus barely spared her a glance, reclining into his chair like a man who had suffered one too many lifetimes of literary debates. “I refuse to discuss that insufferable playwright.”

Her jaw dropped. “You hate Shakespeare?” She clutched her book as if his words had personally offended the entire English language. “But why?”

Klaus exhaled sharply, tilting his head back as if pleading with the heavens for strength. “Because, love,” he drawled, “every time I so much as set foot in London, people mistook me for one of his tragic villains.” He gestured vaguely, as if swatting away the memory. “I was apparently the living embodiment of ‘sound and fury.’”

She gasped, dramatic, scandalized, delighted. “You’re Macbeth!”

Klaus groaned, dragging a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose like a man on the verge of an existential crisis. “God, grant me patience.”

She ignored his suffering entirely, sitting up straighter, grinning now. “No, wait—this is incredible. You are a Shakespearean tragedy! The brooding antihero with a questionable moral compass, haunted by his past, doomed by his own nature—”

Klaus gave her a flat look. “I am not doomed.”

“Debatable,” she shot back, grinning. “And I bet he based a character on you. Oh my God, were you Iago?”

“I am not Iago,” he said, affronted.

“Edmund from King Lear?”

“Absolutely not.”

Her eyes widened. “Richard III?”

Klaus made a strangled sound, looking like he was deeply regretting every life choice that had led him to this conversation. “For the last time, no.”

She hummed, flipping lazily through her book. “You’re definitely a Hamlet.”

Klaus stood up. “I’m leaving.”

She grabbed his wrist before he could make a dramatic escape. “No, no, wait! Just tell me one thing. Did you meet him?”

He sighed, giving her a long, withering look.

“…Did he base a character on you?”

A slow smirk curled his lips, something secretive and smug. “Now, that is a question you’ll have to spend the rest of your life wondering about, love.”

And just to infuriate her further, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before vanishing from the room.

She stared after him, scowling, before promptly pulling out her laptop and searching for every villainous Shakespearean character with a suspiciously familiar personality.

It was going to be another long night.

༊*·˚

She set her book down with deliberate care, leveling him with the kind of suspicious look that meant she was about to interrogate him. “You were alive when The Great Gatsby was published. Tell me—did people actually throw parties like that?”

Klaus barely looked up from his glass of bourbon, swirling the amber liquid with practiced ease. He exhaled a quiet laugh, low and knowing. “Darling, those parties were nothing compared to the ones in the 1700s. Now those were proper celebrations—duels at dawn, masked balls that lasted days, fountains of champagne.” He smirked. “Men wagering their fortunes over a single hand of cards. Women sneaking off into candlelit gardens, whispering scandalous secrets between sips of absinthe.”

She sighed dreamily, chin resting in her hands. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

His smirk deepened, voice dipping into something smooth, teasing. “If I had known, I would’ve saved you a dance.”

She groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow and launching it at him. “That was too smooth—but you’re still avoiding my question!”

Klaus caught the pillow midair, utterly unbothered, setting it neatly beside him like it hadn’t just been a weapon. “I’m merely expanding your perspective, love. You’re comparing a firecracker to a storm. The 1920s were lively, certainly—an era of indulgence, excess, and a great deal of creative drunkenness. But Gatsby? He was melodramatic.” Klaus took a slow sip of his drink before adding dryly, “And for what? A woman who wasn’t even worth the trouble.”

She gasped, clutching her book to her chest as if shielding it from blasphemy. “Excuse me?!”

Klaus arched a brow, completely unfazed by her horror. “I’m right, and you know it.”

“No, you’re not!” she protested. “Daisy was his dream! She was—”

“A selfish socialite with the emotional depth of a teaspoon,” Klaus interrupted smoothly, eyes gleaming with amusement. “And let’s be honest, love—if Gatsby had even a fraction of my cunning, he wouldn’t have spent all that time throwing hollow parties in the hopes of impressing a woman who barely looked past her own reflection.”

She pointed at him, scandalized. “You are the villain in every book!”

He chuckled darkly. “I prefer to think of myself as an unreliable narrator.”

She flopped back dramatically against the couch, groaning. “You are so lucky I love you, otherwise I’d throw this entire book at your head.”

Klaus hummed, utterly content, as he swirled his drink again. “That’s the thing about literature, sweetheart. Everyone is the hero of their own story. Until they aren’t.”

She eyed him, suspicious. “That sounded like something Fitzgerald himself would say.”

A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips. “Now, that is a question you’ll have to spend the rest of your life wondering about.”

And just to infuriate her further, he clinked his glass against her book like it was a toast and took another sip, smug as ever.

༊*·˚

She hesitated, watching him carefully, as if gauging whether her next question would earn a genuine answer or another one of his infuriating evasions. “So… what do you think of Pride and Prejudice?”

Klaus exhaled a long-suffering sigh, tilting his head back against the couch as though the weight of two centuries had suddenly settled upon his shoulders. “That insipid book has been haunting me for centuries.”

Her mouth fell open. “What?”

He waved a hand, as if dismissing some unseen specter of literary torment. “Do you have any idea how many women have compared me to Mr. Darcy over the years? It’s exhausting.”

That was it—she completely lost it, bursting into laughter so hard she had to clutch her stomach. "You? Mr. Darcy?"

Klaus shot her a flat look, unimpressed. “Yes, love. Apparently, brooding and being emotionally unavailable is endearing.”

She gasped between wheezes. “Wait—do they know you?”

“Clearly not well enough,” he muttered, swirling the drink in his hand. “Though I suppose I should be grateful they don’t go around comparing me to Heathcliff instead.”

“Oh, come on,” she teased. “You do have that whole ‘tortured soul, passionate devotion, morally ambiguous choices’ thing going on.”

He shot her a pointed look. “Darling, I have never buried anyone in the moors out of spite.”

She grinned. “That we know of.”

He huffed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement.

She tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to think. “Still… you do have a certain Darcy quality about you.”

Klaus groaned. “Not you too.”

“Well…” She shrugged, all innocence. “I do love a good brooding anti-hero.”

Faster than she could react, Klaus reached for her, pulling her effortlessly into his lap. His voice dipped low, teasing. “Careful, sweetheart. You may just tempt me into living up to the comparison.”

She smirked, tilting her head. “Oh no, anything but that.”

His lips found hers, warm and insistent, though his grin never quite faded. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I knew you only loved me for my library.”

She sighed dramatically, draping herself over him as though she were utterly besotted. “It’s true. The first time I saw all those first editions, I knew I had to keep you.”

Klaus chuckled, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Well, darling, as long as you keep asking me ridiculous questions, I suppose I have no choice but to stay.”

And somehow, she got the distinct feeling that even if she never asked another question again, he still would.

request from anon!🤍

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insomnia | k.m

⎯⎯"Listen to me, love," he murmurs, his voice low and slow, dipping into something nearly hypnotic. "There is nothing to chase, nothing to solve, nothing to fear. Not tonight."

warnings: fluff

The night is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves outside the window, the distant hoot of an owl, the soft crackling of the dying embers in the fireplace. But for you, the quiet is a cruel thing. A restless thing. A thing that keeps your mind racing and your body aching for rest that never comes.

You shift beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of the shadows cast by the flickering light. Your limbs are heavy, your eyes burn, but sleep is as elusive as ever, slipping through your fingers every time you dare to reach for it.

Klaus notices, of course. He always does. He had been lying beside you in silence, giving you space, waiting to see if you might find rest on your own. But now, he turns to you, shifting until his face hovers just above yours, his expression softened in the dim glow of the firelight.

"Still awake, love?"

You sigh, pressing your palms against your eyes before nodding. "Apparently, sleep has decided I am undeserving."

Klaus huffs a quiet laugh, a fond, knowing sound, before he reaches out, fingers tracing the curve of your cheek. "Then allow me to intervene."

He shifts closer, rolling onto his side, tucking you against him with an ease that speaks of familiarity, of long nights spent exactly like this. His hand finds your back, palm warm and steady as he begins to trace idle patterns along your spine.

"You do know it is entirely unnatural to stay awake for this long? Even for a stubborn little thing like you," he muses, voice a low, soothing murmur. "Your body craves rest, and yet you fight it so fiercely."

You exhale, melting into his touch, letting the weight of his arm drape over you. "I don’t do it on purpose. My mind just doesn’t know when to shut up."

Klaus hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there. "Ah, yes. That brilliant mind of yours. A curse and a blessing, all wrapped in one. But even the sharpest of minds need respite, my love."

He shifts again, so that his lips ghost along your temple, slow and deliberate, as if willing you to absorb his warmth, his steadiness, his ease. "Close your eyes," he whispers.

You do. Not because you think it will work, but because Klaus’s voice has a way of making you obey without question.

"Breathe, darling. Slow and deep."

You inhale, exhale. Klaus follows suit, deliberately matching his breath with yours, a steady rhythm meant to coax you into relaxation. His fingers never stop their slow, lazy paths along your back, his touch a gentle lullaby against your skin.

"There, that’s it," he praises, his voice little more than a breath. "Let the tension go. You are safe, you are warm, and you, my love, are far too beautiful to suffer through another sleepless night."

You huff out a soft laugh, eyes still closed. "Flattery won’t make me sleep any faster."

Klaus chuckles, dipping his head to nuzzle against your neck. "No? And here I thought my charms were irresistible."

You can feel the smile on his lips as he presses another kiss just below your ear, his nose brushing against your skin as he lingers there, inhaling deeply.

"But if my words will not lull you to sleep, then perhaps another approach is in order."

Before you can ask what he means, Klaus shifts, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him, guiding your head to rest against his chest. His fingers tangle into your hair, nails grazing your scalp with featherlight precision. The sound of his heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, a deep, grounding rhythm that steadies the restless flutter of your own pulse.

"Listen to me, love," he murmurs, his voice low and slow, dipping into something nearly hypnotic. "There is nothing to chase, nothing to solve, nothing to fear. Not tonight."

Your lashes flutter, your body sinking deeper into his warmth. Klaus’s fingers trace slow, looping circles against your shoulder, a motion that sends shivers down your spine, though not from restlessness. Not from tension.

"The world will still be waiting for you come morning. You need not carry it now."

You exhale, long and deep, and Klaus smiles against your temple, feeling the way you relax further into him.

"That’s my girl," he murmurs. "Now sleep."

And maybe, just maybe, this time—you do.

thank you to anon for this request! <3 another fic to keep you up at night💛

taglist: @ohapple@myworldrightnow@deactiveblogx@witch-of-letters @xtwistedchaosx@liataylorsversion@pardonmydelayyy

tell me love, do you dance | k.m

⎯⎯“You owe me a favor,” he reminds her, that maddening glint in his eye.

warnings: fluff

part I part II part III

She stands in front of the mirror, arms crossed, glaring at her reflection as if sheer force of will could undo the situation she’s found herself in.

A date. With Klaus Mikaelson.

She had tried to convince herself it wasn’t a date, just an unfortunate consequence of a poorly placed golf shot and his insufferable need to win. But when he arrived at her door, dressed in a dark button-down with sleeves casually rolled, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he surveyed her, she knew—oh, she knew—this was exactly what he wanted it to be.

And worse? She had let it happen.

Now, she sits across from him at an intimate corner table, candlelight flickering between them. He had chosen the restaurant with an almost lazy confidence, barely letting her protest before ushering her inside. And damn it, she had tried to argue, to insist on something casual, something with bright lighting and absolutely zero romantic ambiance, but Klaus had merely smirked, tilting his head like he was indulging a child’s tantrum.

Which, naturally, had only made her more determined to prove this wasn’t affecting her.

She clears her throat, reaching for her glass of wine. “So,” she begins, attempting nonchalance, “is this where you tell me my second favor involves something ridiculous? Because I swear, if you make me wear a ‘Klaus Mikaelson is Always Right’ shirt in public—”

Klaus chuckles, swirling his own glass. “Tempting,” he muses, “but no.”

She narrows her eyes. “Then what is it?”

He leans back, watching her, fingers tapping idly against the stem of his glass. “You’ll know soon enough.”

That is not reassuring.

She exhales sharply, tapping her fork against the plate. “I don’t like surprises.”

Klaus smiles, slow and knowing. “And yet, you keep walking right into them.”

She huffs, taking a sip of her wine, refusing to acknowledge the way that statement makes something twist in her stomach.

They fall into conversation—somehow, effortlessly. It’s infuriating how easily he can drag her into a debate, how he counters her jabs with effortless charm. And then, just as she’s beginning to forget that this—this—is exactly what he wanted, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and says, “Tell me, love, do you dance?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Dance,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. “Do you?”

“I mean—” She frowns. “Sort of? I took some lessons when I was younger, but why—”

His smirk deepens, and before she can protest, he stands, extending a hand.

“Klaus,” she warns.

“You owe me a favor,” he reminds her, that maddening glint in his eye.

Oh. Oh no.

She looks around, suddenly hyperaware of the quiet music drifting through the restaurant, of the space near the back where a few couples sway lazily, lost in their own little worlds.

“You’re joking,” she says flatly.

Klaus merely quirks a brow. “Am I?”

She glares. He waits.

And damn it, damn it—she should say no, should plant herself firmly in her seat and refuse to let him win.

But he’s looking at her with that insufferable patience, with that challenge laced beneath his amusement, and the part of her that hates losing, that refuses to back down, bristles at the thought of letting him have the last word.

So she exhales sharply, slaps her napkin on the table, and takes his hand.

The grin that spreads across his face is downright sinful.

He leads her to the open space, settling one hand at her waist, the other curling around her fingers. The contact is warm, steady, and before she can overthink it, he pulls her close, moving in slow, effortless steps.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” she mutters.

Klaus hums, the sound vibrating against her. “Oh, absolutely.”

She doesn’t know how it happens, how the irritation fades into something quieter, softer. But somehow, she finds herself relaxing, letting him guide her through the motions.

And then—then—he murmurs, low and teasing, “You’re not half bad, love.”

She scoffs, tilting her chin. “And you? Where did you learn?”

Klaus chuckles, twirling her—twirling her, the bastard—and when she stumbles slightly, he catches her, his grip firm, unshakable.

“You’d be surprised,” he says, voice dropping just enough to make warmth creep up her spine.

She swallows, heart pounding against her will. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” he smirks, dipping her ever so slightly, his face hovering just above hers, “here you are.”

And just like that, she knows—this was never about the favors.

It was always about this.

final part of the technique mini series <3 Hope you guys enjoyed it! <3

taglist: @ohapple @myworldrightnow@deactiveblogx@witch-of-letters@xtwistedchaosx@liataylorsversion@pardonmydelayyy

im thinking about making another part if you guys want?👀 maybe a part with smut?👀

ever yours, ever mine | k.m part VI

⎯⎯Names were scrawled onto parchment, tucked into pockets, folded and unfolded until the ink smudged. Names were spoken over candle flames, carried on the wind, traded in the hush of darkened rooms where shadows moved on their own. Each name, a new possibility. Each possibility, another road to follow.

warnings: a bit more witchcraft

part I part II part III part IV part V part VI

The world had never felt so vast.

It opened before them like an endless map, the ink still wet, the borders uncertain. Cities rose and fell in the distance, marked by candlelight in high windows, by the distant hum of voices speaking in tongues she did not know. There were lands where the air was thick with salt and brine, where the sea stretched on without end, swallowing the sky at the horizon. There were valleys where mist curled like breath from the mouths of sleeping gods, where ancient ruins stood half-buried in the earth, whispering stories long forgotten.

She had seen much before. But now—now there was no choice but to keep moving, keep searching, keep hoping that somewhere, someone held the answer.

Klaus knew the world well.

He knew the winding alleys where secrets were bought with coin or blood. He knew the places untouched by time, where spells had been carved into stone long before their names had ever been spoken. He knew which doors to knock on, which names to say, which hands to shake and which throats to slit. And yet, even with all his knowledge, all his cunning, what she was—what she had become—remained a mystery.

It haunted him.

And it haunted her, too.

The search spanned continents.

They sought witches in the Highlands, where the wind howled through the heather, and magic was woven into the land itself. In the deep and sunless woods of Eastern Europe, where women with ink-stained fingers read futures in the marrow of bones. In the desert sands that stretched golden and endless beneath a ruthless sun, where spells were buried beneath dunes, waiting to be unearthed. In the snow-cloaked peaks where the air was thin and sharp, where the wind carried whispers of things older than gods.

Names were scrawled onto parchment, tucked into pockets, folded and unfolded until the ink smudged. Names were spoken over candle flames, carried on the wind, traded in the hush of darkened rooms where shadows moved on their own. Each name, a new possibility. Each possibility, another road to follow.

Some doors opened. Others remained closed.

There were those who listened, those who turned them away, those who looked upon her with something she did not understand.

A flicker of recognition. A spark of fear.

No true answers.

Not yet.

But the pieces were beginning to take shape.

༊*·˚

She was not well.

It came in waves—silent, creeping, impossible to predict. Sometimes it was nothing more than a shiver at the base of her spine, a strange awareness, as though something unseen had passed too close. Other times, it was sharper. Her pulse staggered—too slow, then too fast, like an instrument out of tune. Her breath caught in her throat, lodging there like a whisper that had lost its way.

The world had always been sharp, but now it was unbearable. Light burned too bright. Sound struck too hard. Even the weight of her own limbs felt wrong, as though something beneath her skin did not quite fit.

Some nights, she woke to find Klaus watching her.

He sat in the dim glow of a dying fire, shadows pooling beneath his eyes, his fingers curled into a fist against his knee. The frown between his brows was one she had known since childhood, the look of a man who had spent his life waging war against the things he could not control. Klaus did not ask if she was all right—he knew the answer. But when she reached for him, his hand was already there, slipping beneath the sheets, fingers lacing with hers.

For a while, that was enough.

But it was not getting better.

The cold found her more easily now.

She had known winter before, but this was different. It lived beneath her skin, sinking deep into her bones no matter how warm the air. Some days, her fingers curled in on themselves, aching as though frost had bitten into her knuckles. Other days, the cold settled into her spine, an invisible weight pressing between her shoulder blades.

Then there was her reflection.

She had caught glimpses of herself in glass and still water, only to recoil at what she saw. The hollowness beneath her eyes, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the strange, distant look in her own gaze. It was as if something was slipping away, something vital, something she could not name.

Klaus never spoke of it. But she knew he saw it, too.

Because when he kissed her wrist, her palm, the inside of her fingers, it was different now. There was a quiet, desperate reverence to it. A need to memorize every inch of her skin, every warmth left in her body, every part of her that still belonged to him.

And she let him.

Because some nights, she feared that one day, he would press his lips to her hand— And find nothing left at all.

༊*·˚

The French Quarter hummed with magic.

It lived in the streets, in the rhythm of footsteps against cobblestones, in the scent of burning sage curling through the night air. It pulsed beneath the city like a heartbeat, woven into the iron balconies and crumbling brick, into the lace-curtained windows where candlelight flickered long after midnight.

The witches here were unlike those they had met before—bold, unafraid, bound to the city as though it was stitched into their very bones. There was no secrecy in their power, no need for whispers or careful steps. They moved through the Quarter as though it belonged to them, and in many ways, it did.

The air was thick with unsaid things when she and Klaus stepped into a dimly lit parlor. A single candle burned upon a wooden table, its flame steady despite the draft that stirred the heavy drapes. The scent of herbs lingered in the warm, spiced air, mingling with something older—something bitter and strange.

A woman sat at the table, dark-eyed and still, hands resting atop a deck of worn tarot cards. She did not ask their names.

“I have heard of you,” she said instead, tilting her head just so. Her voice was smooth as river stones, her gaze knowing. “The one who cannot wake.”

A shiver chased down her spine.

Klaus was tense beside her, though his expression betrayed nothing.

The witch dragged a finger along the rim of her cup, slow, thoughtful. “You are not what you were,” she mused. “But neither are you something that should be.”

The room felt smaller all at once.

Klaus’ voice, when it came, was low and steady. “Then what is she?”

The witch exhaled softly. Not quite a sigh, not quite a breath—just the sound of understanding that came too easily. Her gaze was heavy, almost pitying.

“A question not easily answered,” she murmured. “But you are getting closer.”

She did not blink, did not shift her weight, did not move as her eyes found hers across the candlelit space. Dark as an August night, filled with something knowing, something unshakable.

“You feel it, don’t you?” the witch whispered. “The pull. The hunger. The breaking.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts before she could stop herself.

The hunger.

It was not the hunger of mortals, nor even the thirst of vampires. It was something else entirely. Something deeper. Older. It gnawed at the edges of her, waiting, always waiting.

She had not spoken of it. Not to Klaus. Not to anyone.

But she had felt it. Felt it in the way her pulse beat strange beneath her skin. Felt it in the way she sometimes reached for things without meaning to—only to find them already in her hands. Felt it in the way the night air whispered against her ear, though no voice was there.

Klaus’ fingers brushed against hers beneath the table, warm, grounding. She let him.

Because for all the questions they had asked, for all the answers they had searched for— This was the first time someone had spoken of what she had been too afraid to name.

༊*·˚

It was happening more often now.

The moments where the world blurred at the edges, where the sounds around her stretched thin—voices calling through water, distant, distorted. It was not dizziness, not exhaustion, not anything she could name. One moment, she was solid, tethered, real. The next, she was slipping—weightless, untethered, as though she was falling through the cracks of something unseen.

Once, in the candlelight of a rented room in Lisbon, she reached for a glass of water and found it already in her hand. She did not remember taking it. Did not feel the weight of it until it was there, until the cool condensation slicked her palm.

Klaus had seen it. He had not spoken. But the line between his brows deepened, and when he reached for her wrist, it was not to steady the glass—it was to steady her.

The witches knew more than they said.

In Cairo, where the sandstorm howled outside an apothecary door, an old woman with gold rings on every finger had traced her palm, eyes sharp with something unsaid.

In the Carpathians, where the wind bit deep and the forests stood like sentinels beneath the moon, a man with ink-stained hands had burned dried herbs and muttered a name in a language she did not know.

In the swamps where the trees wept moss into the river, where fireflies danced in the humid dark, a woman had gazed at her for a long, silent moment before pressing a vial into her hand and saying only: Drink when the hunger finds you.

Each one had offered something different—a word, a warning, a thread in a tapestry neither she nor Klaus could yet decipher.

But some words remained the same.

"She is not a vampire." "She is not mortal." "She is not what she was."

It was the not that haunted her.

And it haunted Klaus, too, though he did not speak of it.

He only held her tighter at night, arms wound around her as though he could anchor her here, to him, to whatever was left of the life she had once known. His grip was never painful, never desperate—but it was firm, unyielding, like a vow unspoken.

As though if he held her tightly enough, she would not slip through his fingers.

༊*·˚

The nights grew longer.

Or perhaps it only felt that way—time stretching thin like gossamer, folding in on itself as the search carried them forward, city to city, name to name, question to unanswered question. The days blurred together, marked only by the passage of places, the flicker of candlelight on unfamiliar walls, the hush of voices speaking in tongues older than written word.

The search continued.

Through dust-choked libraries where parchment crumbled at a touch. Through temple ruins where the wind whispered through broken stone. Through the quiet sanctuaries of those who still remembered the old ways, the lost ways, the ways that had been buried beneath centuries of fear and forgetting.

And somewhere—somewhere in the tangled weave of magic and old knowledge, in the spaces between the spoken and the unsaid—the answer was waiting.

Waiting to be found.

Waiting for her.

Waiting for whatever came next.

hope you guys enjoy! <3

taglist: @ohapple @myworldrightnow@deactiveblogx@witch-of-letters@xtwistedchaosx@liataylorsversion@pardonmydelayyy

Do you want other characters featured in the series? <3