joelmillersbedroom

[joelmillersbedroom]

[joelmillersbedroom]

I just read your latest fic and omg! I love your writing style and the way you write the reader as a virgin is chefs kiss! Okay now I feel like we need a Klaus x virgin!Reader fic from you to complete the set. I don't have any ideas on the scenario so hopefully your brilliant mind can come up with something or you can combine it with another request? But can the reader be like 25+ (only because that's around the age that I imagine Klaus to be) and life just happened and life with the Original Vampires never really left room for relationships and she didn't want to just fuck some random stranger for her first time?

Dreams

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Klaus Mikaelson x f!reader} A drunken confession leads to an unexpected night with Klaus, where fantasy blurs into reality, and your first time becomes unforgettable.

♡♡ thanks for the request beautiful anon!!! &&.. you are right I have to complete the set ~xo ♡♡

3.9k words - Warnings: smuttt, first time, virgin!reader, teasing, oral sex (f!receiving), drunk Rebekah, sex dream confessions, reader insecurity && Klaus being sweet...

“I swear on my eternity, I won’t tell a soul,” Rebekah promised, eyes wide and wine-glossed.

You squinted at her. “You said that last time.”

“That was about stealing from Elijah’s wine stash. This is your sex life. Entirely different. Totally private.” She drained the dregs of her glass, then held it out. You refilled it, trying not to roll your eyes.

“What sex life?” You muttered.

Rebekah gave you a look, all wide-eyed and scandalised, “You mean to tell me,” she began, dramatically setting her wineglass down like the stem offended her, “you’ve never...wait. Not even once?”

You groaned, already regretting everything. “Can we not...”

“Not even a casual drunken hookup?” she pressed, scandalized. “You’re twenty-seven.”

“Exactly. And busy. And constantly surrounded by immortal egomaniacs with god complexes,” you muttered, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Not exactly a dating pool.”

“And yet,” she said, one brow arching like a knife, “you’ve had plenty of time to dream about my brother bending you over every surface in the compound.”

Your mouth dropped open. “What did you just say? You said you wouldn't tell anyone about that!"

Rebekah shrugged, a mischievous smile playing over her lips. "It was a slip of the tongue."

You groaned again.

She nudged your ankle with her bare foot. "Don't be embarrassed. It's actually rather endearing that you've got such a schoolgirl crush."

"It's not a crush. I don't know what it is," you confessed. "They just happen, okay? It's not like I want them to. But the suddenly he's there, and the next thing I know... he's not wearing any clothes, and we're kissing, and-"

"Okay," Rebekah interrupted, "you don't have to go into detail. I'm quite certain I can imagine what happens next."

"Well, that makes one of us."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't have any idea what the rest of it would feel like," you said, voice small. You picked up the bottle and took a swig straight from it.

Rebekah gave you a sympathetic look, reaching for your hand. "I'm sure you'll find a lovely guy soon enough… and have lots of sex."

"Whose having lots of sex?"

You froze, bottle still tilted in your hand.

Rebekah went very still beside you. Her grip on your fingers tightened just slightly..whether in apology or panic, you couldn’t tell.

Slowly, mechanically, you turned your head toward the sound of Klaus’s voice.

He stood in the doorway to the parlour, arms folded loosely over his chest, one brow lifted in open amusement. His curls were tousled, his shirt half-unbuttoned, and his smile... that was the real danger. Lazy, knowing, smug. The kind of smile a man wore when he already knew the answer to the question he’d just asked.

“Rebekah?” he prompted, his gaze flicking to his sister, who stared back at him like a deer caught in vampire headlights.

She cleared her throat. “Oh, you know. Just girl talk.”

He stepped further into the room, his gaze settling on you. You looked away, pretending to be fascinated by a loose thread in the cushion beside you. He chuckled and flopped down beside Rebekah, sprawling his legs out, taking up every inch of space, a king on his throne.

For a moment, there was silence, punctuated by the faint sounds of jazz music spilling through the windows and the clink of the bottle against your teeth as you took another sip.

You set the bottle down a little too hard. “I should go.”

Rebekah gave a weak little laugh, clearly trying to help but already retreating. “Oh, don’t be dramatic-”

“No, really,” you cut in, rising so quickly your foot caught on the edge of the rug. You stumbled, recovered, didn’t look at either of them. “It’s late. I’m tired. And apparently incapable of keeping my mouth shut when wine is involved.”

Rebekah made a soft, protesting sound, but didn’t move to stop you. And you rushed towards the front door as fast as you could without looking like a total fool.

A shadow flickered at the edge of your vision, and you turned, pulse skipping. A figure leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, mouth quirked up in a knowing smile.

Klaus. Of course it was Klaus.

He blocked the way. The hallway felt suddenly narrower, the air heavier, as you came to a stumbling halt. Your cheeks burned, your heart pounding. He raised an eyebrow, smile deepening. He had a dimple. Somehow, it only made him more handsome.

"Running away, love?" he asked, tone smooth as silk.

"No." You answered too quickly, voice tight. "Just tired. Need sleep. Goodnight."

He did not move. Instead, his smile widened. You stepped sideways, trying to slip past, but he shifted effortlessly, mirroring you. Casual. Precise. Unyielding.

Your glare sharpened, but he only looked more amused.

"What?" you snapped, folding your arms.

"Are you really leaving because of what I overheard?"

You stared at him, defiant but humiliated. "What do you think?"

"I think there is no need to be embarrassed," he said, voice low and husky.

"Embarrassed?" You let out a weak laugh, shifting again, eyes darting toward the exit he was blocking.

“There is nothing wrong with a healthy sex drive, sweetheart.”

“There is also nothing wrong with wanting to die when someone overhears you talking about said sex drive.”

He chuckled and stepped closer.

Your back hit the wall. The impact was gentle, but it still made you flinch. You stiffened, shoulders locking, spine straightening as if you could will yourself invisible. You refused to shrink away.

Klaus stopped in front of you, gaze locked to yours. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, little dreamer,” he said, voice like smoke curling through the dark.

You swallowed hard. The heat in your face crept down your throat, coiling in your chest and belly. Every inch of you felt laid bare.

“Please move.”

“In a minute.”

“Nik.”

He leaned in, his face impossibly close, his lips almost brushing your cheek. “I'll tell you a secret,” he said. “If you stop blushing and look me in the eyes.”

You hesitated, then obeyed. Slowly, you lifted your gaze. His eyes burned into yours and he smiled, slow and sweet. The kind of smile that could undo you.

“Better.”

You felt your breath catch. “What is your secret?” you whispered.

“I have had dreams about you too.” His fingers found your jaw and traced the line of it, featherlight. “About this pretty mouth. These soft hands. What I might find if I peeled off all your layers and tasted the skin beneath.”

“Stop,” you said, but there was no force behind it. Your voice cracked. Your face burned. You could barely breathe.

He did not laugh. He did not push. He just watched you.

His eyes searched yours, then dropped briefly to your mouth. “Why have you never done it?” he asked, voice quieter now, stripped of any teasing.

You blinked. “What?”

Klaus tilted his head, expression softer than you had ever seen it. “You said you have never had sex. Not even once. Why?”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know. Life. Bad timing. Shitty options.” You shrugged. “And maybe…” You hesitated. “Maybe I didn’t want my first time to be with someone who’d forget it five minutes later.”

Klaus’ smirk faded... not all the way, but enough that something earnest slipped through. Something sharp. “And you think I would?”

You looked up at him then, finally. He was watching you carefully. No teasing. Just quiet, simmering intensity.

“I don’t know what you’d do.”

He reached out, brushing his knuckles gently along your cheek. “Then let me show you.”

You swallowed.

He stepped closer, his palm curving over your cheek, tilting your head up, forcing you to meet his eyes. He was smiling again, but there was something different about it. Something gentler.

"I would never disrespect your trust, sweetheart," he promised, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. "Nor would I ever treat the privilege of being your first anything lightly."

"And you..." Your voice faltered, but his touch was warm, and his gaze was steady. "You won't ...tell anyone? About any of this?"

He smiled. "I wouldn't dare."

"Okay," you whispered, and his lips were suddenly so close, and his arms were slipping around you, and you could smell the spice of his cologne and the sweetness of bourbon and feel the warmth of his breath.

"Okay," he echoed, his lips brushing yours, then his tongue, teasing your mouth open, tasting you. You gasped, and he made a soft, satisfied sound, pressing closer, his body molding to yours.

"Is this alright, love?" he murmured, one hand sliding down your spine, curving over the swell of your ass.

You nodded.

"Need to hear you say it, sweetheart," he said.

You swallowed, meeting his eyes. "Yes."

He smiled and kissed you again, his hands seeking yours, fingers intertwining. Then he broke the kiss, gently tugging you by the hand as he led you down the hall. His room was dim, draped in shadows. You saw glimpses of a large bed, an easel, a wall of books. 

Then the door closed, and it was just you and him.

You hesitated, not sure what to do, how to move. He seemed to understand, reaching for you again, gathering you close to him by the waist.

"Relax," he said, kissing the side of your neck. "Your heart is racing."

You laughed weakly. "Can't really help it."

"Do I scare you?"

"No," you answered, a little too quickly.

He smirked, catching the lie.

"It's just..." You shrugged, feeling like a silly little girl. "This is a big deal."

"It is," he agreed.

"But I... I'm not completely clueless. I mean, I have internet. And books. And..." You blushed, realizing you were rambling.

Klaus's expression was somewhere between amused and fond. He leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.

"Sweetheart, I am well aware of the fact that you've spent an indecent amount of time imagining me naked and writhing on top of you."

You blushed hotly. "I was not -"

He chuckled and began to back you towards the bed, his hands skimming your waist, the curve of your hips. "I know the sorts of things that are on your mind," he murmured.

You stumbled, falling back against the mattress, and he followed you down, covering your body with his, surrounding you in heat and skin and steady breath. One of his hands braced by your head, the other slipping beneath you to curve around your hip, grounding you.

You tilted your chin and met his mouth again before he could say something else smug. He hummed against your lips, amused but pleased, letting you set the pace for a few heartbeats. Then he caught your lower lip between his teeth and nipped gently, his hand sliding up the hem of your shirt, spreading heat across your stomach.

"Still okay, sweetheart?" He whispered.

"Mhm," you managed, gasping when his teeth grazed the delicate shell of your ear.

He leaned back, just far enough to tug off his shirt. You bit your lip, tracing the shape of the tattoo, heat creeping through you, pooling between your thighs. He watched you, his gaze warm, his eyes bright. He smiled when he caught you staring at the trail of hair that led down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

"Now your turn," he said.

You hesitated, heart fluttering, a sudden spike of nervousness. But Klaus didn't rush you. Just waited, smiling, patient and steady.

Slowly, you reached for the bottom of your shirt and tugged it over your head.

His breath caught.

His pupils dilated.

And then, slowly, his hand found yours again. "May I?"

You nodded.

His knuckles traced the curve of your jaw, then brushed lightly along the hollow of your throat. Slowly, slowly, slowly, his palm flattened against the space between your collarbones, the tips of his fingers dipping beneath the edge of your bra.

Your breath hitched.

"So soft," he murmured. His fingers slid over the swell of your breasts, then down, finding the catch. You heard the fabric tear and felt the lace pull free, the sudden rush of cool air and warmth from his hands making you gasp.

Klaus groaned, leaning down, his breath ghosting across your bare chest. "You are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on," he murmured. Then his mouth was closing over your nipple, and you arched against him, moaning.

"You like that?" he asked, his tongue flicking the hard little nub.

"Mmmhm."

He chuckled, then sucked gently.

You whimpered, squirming.

"Still okay, love?" He asked, pausing, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"Don't stop."

"Bossy," he teased, smirking, moving to the other side.

He lavished the same attention there, his tongue swirling, his lips tugging, his hand stroking the underside, squeezing, massaging. You moaned and whimpered, clutching his hair, arching up against him, seeking pressure, friction. He pressed closer, you could feel his erection straining against the denim, his hips moving in time with his tongue.

He kissed the soft valley between your breasts, then began to trail his mouth lower, leaving a burning path in his wake. He pulled your jeans down with agonizing slowness, his mouth following, until his lips were at the apex of your thighs. Your hands clutched the sheets, breath catching as the tension that had been building all night surged forward all at once. Pure need, panic, heat, all tangled together in your chest.

“Nik...wait.”

He froze instantly. His hands paused on your hips, his mouth barely brushing your inner thigh.

His head lifted. “Too fast?”

You shook your head. “No. I just…” You swallowed. “You don’t have to do that.”

A wicked grin spread across his face. He leaned down, nuzzling the damp spot on your panties, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice dropped, rough and low. “Who told you that?”

You tried to sit up, flustered. “It’s just...I know that’s not always... expected. Especially for a first time.”

Klaus moved before you could finish the thought, pushing you back down. He moved slowly, deliberately, crawling back up the length of your body, pinning you beneath him, his lips brushing yours.

“You think I brought you here, laid you out on my bed, listened to those little noises you make...” his hips rolled gently into yours, enough for you to feel the thick press of him through his jeans, “...just to skip the part where I get to taste you?"

He kissed you again, his tongue parting your lips, his teeth grazing, nipping, sucking. You moaned into his mouth, and he rolled his hips against yours again, harder.

"Do you like the way I taste?" He asked, his voice a low purr.

You nodded, dizzy, unable to think.

"So why wouldn't I want the same?" He whispered, kissing a trail down your jaw, your neck, your chest, settling back between your thighs. "Why wouldn't I want to know what you taste like when you come on my tongue?"

Your whole body burned. You stared at him, unable to form words.

He smiled. Slowly, deliberately, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of your panties and pulled them down, sliding them past your knees, tossing them carelessly over his shoulder.

You felt his breath, hot and gentle, on your bare skin.

"So beautiful," he murmured. His hands parted your thighs, revealing the most intimate parts of you, all slick and swollen and wanting.

He made a low, hungry sound, then dragged his tongue through the length of you, looking up at you from beneath those lashes.

"That's it," he murmured. "Look at me. Look at what I'm doing to you."

You kept your eyes open, heavy, hooded, watching his tongue slide through you again, and again, his lips closing over your clit, sucking gently, his tongue swirling, his stubble rubbing. It was too much, the sight of him, the sound of him, the smell of him, the feel of him. You felt like you were unraveling.

He made a soft, humming sound. His hand left your thigh, his fingers sliding inside you. Your head fell back, your eyes squeezing shut, a broken moan leaving your throat.

"Keep looking, love," he said.

You managed to open your eyes, looking down the length of your body at him. His eyes were bright, focused, fixed on you. His mouth was curled in a smile, his tongue still tracing the hard little bud between your legs. Your body responded, bucking, twisting, writhing, pleasure rolling through you in waves, growing stronger, hotter.

"Oh," you gasped. "Oh, god."

"No," he murmured. "Just Klaus."

He pressed deeper, crooked his fingers, and you were gone. Your head fell back, the pleasure crashing over you, drowning you. Your whole body tensed, trembled, your thighs clamped down on either side of his head. He kept working you through it, his tongue still swirling, his fingers pumping, dragging out the release until you were boneless and limp, sinking into the mattress.

Klaus rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a wolfish smile playing across his lips. "Delicious," he purred.

You managed a weak smile, your cheeks burning, your breathing still coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He sat back on his knees, his hands working at the button on his jeans.

"I can-" You began, trying to push yourself up.

"Shhh," he soothed, "I've got it, love. Lie back. Relax."

"But…"

"If I let you touch me now, I won't last long," he confessed, pushing the denim and his boxers down his hips, revealing all of himself. You were momentarily distracted by the flex of muscle, the perfect expanse of warm skin pressing into yours.

Then his hands were back on your thighs, spreading you open, positioning himself. You felt the blunt head of him slide through your wetness, and you gasped. You had imagined this moment. Dreamed of it an embarrassing amount of times. Woken up sweaty and panting, aching between your legs, wishing he were there to take care of it. And now, finally, you were going to get the chance to feel him. To really feel him.

"Look at me," he said, his hand cupping your cheek.

Your eyes flicked up to his.

"Breathe."

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to relax.

"That's it," he praised, pressing deeper. He was beautiful, his chest and shoulders flexing, muscles coiled and trembling, the effort of being gentle written in the lines on his forehead.

You felt a twinge of pain, a pinch, then the ache and stretch as your body yielded to him, the pressure and the heat, the sensation of fullness. You gasped, and his hand found yours, tangling your fingers together. He pressed a little deeper, his teeth scraping over the delicate curve where your neck met your shoulder. You whined, clutching at him.

"Easy," he soothed, "you're doing so well, love. So good."

Your cheeks flushed, a strange swell of pride blooming in your chest. You tilted your head, exposing more of your neck.

"Please," you gasped.

"Please, what?"

"Kiss me."

"Like this?" His lips ghosted over your collarbone, his lips curving upward. "Right here?"

"No. Yes. Higher."

"Here?" His lips skimmed the hollow of your throat, his smile growing.

You let out a soft, impatient whine.

"Or here?" He kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling, smug.

You made a soft, frustrated sound and caught his mouth, kissing him hungrily. He made a pleased hum and returned the kiss, his tongue stroking, his teeth nipping, his lips claiming. His hips rolled gently, and you gasped.

"That's it," he purred.

You moaned, your legs wrapping around him, drawing him deeper, wanting more. He gave a breathless laugh, and moved faster, the pace changing, deepening, until his hips were slamming into yours, the room filling with the sounds of skin on skin, his low, guttural groans, the high, breathless sounds spilling from your own lips.

The pressure was building fast. Too fast, too strong. Your body felt like it couldn’t contain it, like everything inside you was tightening, winding tighter with every thrust, every graze of his chest against your breasts, every filthy word murmured against your skin.

Your nails dug into his back, and his fingers found your clit again, circling fast and perfect.

"Yes, love, that's it, just like that."

That did it.

You shattered.

The orgasm hit like lightning. Sharp, consuming, full-body. You cried out, legs tightening around him, entire body shaking as the waves crashed through you.

Klaus groaned into your mouth, slamming into you one last time before he spilled inside you with a curse and a growl that sounded like it had been pulled from the pit of his chest. His whole body shuddered, muscles flexing, arms locked around you as he buried his face in your neck, his mouth sucking a mark into the soft, delicate skin, his breath warm and ragged against you.

The room was quiet after that, nothing but the sound of his breath and yours, the distant rumble of a passing car, the ticking of a clock. You felt drunk, your body heavy and warm and sated, your head spinning. Klaus rolled to the side, his arm still thrown over your middle. He tugged you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “I think you scrambled my brain.”

He laughed.

Your cheeks burned, and you buried your face against his chest.

He caught your chin, forcing you to look at him. He was grinning, and his cheeks were flushed. He leaned in, kissing you again, the smile never fading.

"So," he said, when he pulled away, his hand tracing lazy circles along your back. "Any regrets?"

You shook your head.

He grinned, and rolled on top of you, pinning you beneath him, his hands finding yours.

"Good," he said, kissing your nose. "Because we're only just getting started."

You swallowed. "Only?"

"Well, you have a lot to catch up on, sweetheart."

You laughed, breathless and still a little dazed. "God, what have I gotten myself into?"

Klaus smirked and leaned in, brushing his lips over your cheek. “Something far better than your dreams.”

Sleep came fast after that. Your body blissed-out and warm, your mind wrapped in the steady rhythm of his breath against your back. When you stirred hours later, the room was bathed in soft morning light. The air smelled faintly of coffee and cologne.

You blinked, eyes adjusting, and found him across the room, sitting in a chair by the window, shirtless, hunched over a sketchpad.

His hand moved in sure strokes, charcoal-stained fingers dancing. His eyes lifted when he felt you watching and a slow smile spread across his face.

“Caught me,” he murmured.

You stretched beneath the covers, muscles deliciously sore. “What are you drawing?”

He flipped the pad closed with a flick. “A keepsake,” he said. “For me.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t want to show me?”

He stood, crossing to the bed, placing the sketchpad face-down on the nightstand. Then he leaned over, his palm skimming along your hip, the sheets slipping away as his lips found yours.

“I’ll show you someday. But first...breakfast, a bath, and perhaps... round two?”

You flushed, smiling helplessly as he pressed you back against the pillows. "Are you always this demanding?"

He nipped your lip and tugged on it, his hand slipping lower. "Not at all, sweetheart. Usually I'm worse."

[joelmillersbedroom]

My Lady | K.M

["Come on, darling," he coaxed, ignoring Klaus entirely. "Wouldn't you rather have some fun company? Nik here is such a brooding bore when he travels. All 'look at this building I destroyed in 1492' and 'here's where I disemboweled a rival in the 17th century.'"]

Contains Smut (jump to the next asterisk if you'd like to skip)

Masterlist

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"Klaus!" you whined, arm flung across your forehead in theatrical distress. "I'm literally dying!"

Klaus strolled into the courtyard, finding you dramatically sprawled upside down on a chaise lounge, your hair cascading toward the floor, and your face flushed from the oppressive New Orleans summer heat. The courtyard offered little relief from the humidity that hung in the air like a wet blanket.

His lips quirked upward at the sight of you. Even in your disheveled state, or perhaps especially because of it, you were captivating. Your eyes found his as he approached, and you pointed accusingly at him.

"How are you wearing a Henley right now? It's like a thousand degrees!" You gesture wildly at his typical dark clothing, which showed no signs of being affected by the heat.

Klaus chuckled, crouching beside the chaise to be at eye level with your upside-down face, his amusement evident in his eyes.

"One of the perks of being the most powerful creature on earth, love," he teased, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your flushed cheek. "The weather doesn't bother me."

You groaned, rolling your eyes dramatically.

"Show off," you muttered. "I'm melting, and you're just...comfortable. It's not fair."

Klaus tilted his head, studying you with predatory interest that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with how your thin summer dress clung to your curves, damp with perspiration.

"I could always turn you," he suggested silkily, though he knew your answer. It was a conversation you'd had many times. "Then you'd never have to suffer through another heatwave."

You shot him a look, somehow managing to appear formidable despite your ridiculous position.

"Nice try. I'd rather melt than become a vampire," you retorted stubbornly. "Now be useful and fan me or something."

Klaus laughed outright at your demanding tone, a sound few in New Orleans ever heard from the feared hybrid.

"Always so demanding," he mused, standing up and moving to sit at the end of the chaise. "I've killed men for less, you know."

Despite his words, he lifted your legs and settled them across his lap, his supernaturally cool hands providing immediate relief against your overheated skin.

"Mmm, that helps," you sighed, some of the tension leaving your body. "Maybe you are good for something after all."

Klaus scoffed, his eyebrows shooting up in an exaggerated expression of offense as he placed a hand over his heart.

"Good for something?" he repeated, his British accent more pronounced in his mock outrage. "I'm wounded, love. Truly devastated."

Despite his theatrical affront, his cool fingers continued to trace patterns on your calves, providing relief from the oppressive heat. His blue-green eyes glittered with amusement.

"Here I am, a thousand-year-old Original hybrid, feared across continents, and I've been reduced to a personal cooling system for a stubborn human." He shook his head in feigned dismay, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "What would my enemies say if they could see the great Klaus Mikaelson now?"

You grinned up at him, finally righting yourself on the chaise lounge though you kept your legs draped across his lap. Your hair was a tousled mess, and beads of sweat still glistened on your neck.

"They'd say you've gone soft," you teased, poking his chest with your toe playfully. "The big bad wolf, tamed by a human girl."

You leaned in closer, the mischief in your eyes matching his own.

"But don't worry, your secret's safe with me. I won't tell anyone you're actually sweet underneath all that...murdery exterior."

Klaus captured your foot as you poked him again, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that was both gallant and possessive.

"Careful, sweetheart," he warned, though his eyes still danced with humor. "I have a reputation to maintain. And I'm not above proving just how 'murdery' I can be to anyone who crosses me."

He pulled you closer across his lap, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, his touch a delicious contrast of cool against your overheated skin.

"Or perhaps I'll demonstrate other skills entirely," he murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive timbre as he leaned in, your lips almost touching. "I can think of several ways to make you forget about the heat."

You raise a brow, "Absolutely not," leaning back and flopping back against the chaise, "too hot for that."

Klaus let out a short, surprised laugh at your blunt rejection, not used to being denied anything he wanted, especially in this department. His eyebrows rose as he watched you dramatically flop back against the chaise, your arms spread wide in surrender to the heat.

"Too hot?" he repeated, sounding both amused and slightly incredulous. "That's a first. I don't believe anyone has ever refused my advances due to the weather."

He leaned back slightly, studying your flushed face with a glint in his eyes that suggested he wasn't entirely deterred.

"Though I must say, love, the sight of you all...glistening..." his gaze traveled appreciatively over your body, lingering on where your thin dress clung to your skin "...is making it rather difficult to respect your climate-based abstinence."

You roll your eyes at him, though a smile tugs at your lips despite the discomfort.

"Your ego will survive the blow," you retorted dryly. "And stop looking at me like that. I'm serious, Klaus. It's too hot to even think about...that."

You fan yourself with your hand for emphasis, eyes narrowed at him in warning, though there was no real heat behind it. You drape your arm over your face. 

Klaus sighed dramatically, but his hands remained cool against your legs, providing some relief.

"Very well," he conceded with exaggerated magnanimity. "Though I'm certain I could change your mind..."

He trailed off suggestively before shifting gears, his expression becoming more contemplative.

"Perhaps we should leave New Orleans for a while," he suggested, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your ankle. "I have properties all over the world. We could go somewhere cooler. London is quite pleasant this time of year. Or perhaps a villa in the Swiss Alps?"

The casual way he suggested international travel, as if they might pop over to another continent the way most people would go to the corner store, was so quintessentially Klaus.

You peek at him from under your arm, "Seriously? What about everything you have to do here? You can’t just...leave"

Klaus gave you a look that was equal parts amused and arrogant, his lips curving into that signature smirk that had both charmed and terrified people for centuries.

"Can't I?" he challenged softly, his tone suggesting that the normal rules and limitations simply didn't apply to him. "I'm Klaus Mikaelson, love. I do as I please."

He shifted on the chaise, turning more fully toward you while keeping your legs draped across his lap. His cool fingers continued their soothing patterns against your overheated skin.

"New Orleans has survived without me before. It will manage for a few weeks," he continued, his blue-green eyes gleaming with sudden enthusiasm for the idea. "Elijah can handle any pressing matters. And frankly, the city could use a break from my...particular brand of leadership."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

You studied him from beneath your arm, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. It was these glimpses of the man beneath the monster that had drawn you to him in the first place, the moments when his passion wasn't directed at vengeance or power, but at beauty and experience.

"You're serious," you said, slowly sitting up despite the heat, your eyes searching his face. "You would really just...drop everything and go?"

Klaus reached out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch gentler than most would believe him capable of.

"For you? Yes." The simple answer held an unexpected weight, a reminder of how much he had changed since you'd entered his life. "Though I must admit, the thought of you in a bikini on a private beach is certainly an added incentive."

He grinned wickedly, the tender moment giving way to his more typical roguish charm.

You shove his shoulder, "of course it is," but can't help the giggle that escapes you.

"I heard Y/N and bikini. I’m in. Where are we headed?" Kol says, strolling into the courtyard.

Klaus's expression darkened instantly at Kol's intrusion, his playful demeanor with you vanishing like smoke. He turned his head slowly toward his younger brother, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"We are not headed anywhere," he corrected, emphasizing the 'we' with a threatening edge to his voice. "Y/N and I were discussing a private getaway."

Kol sauntered further into the courtyard, completely unfazed by his brother's obvious displeasure. He flashed a charming, mischievous smile at you before dropping dramatically onto a nearby chair, sprawling with casual grace.

"Private's boring," he countered, his own accent lilting with amusement. "Besides, I'm excellent company. Ask anyone."

You couldn't help but laugh at the immediate tension between the brothers, though you remained comfortably draped across Klaus's lap, one of his hands still possessively on your leg.

"I don't think your brother shares that assessment," you observed dryly, glancing at Klaus's thunderous expression.

Kol leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with the particular brand of chaos he so enjoyed creating, especially at his brother's expense.

"Come on, darling," he coaxed, ignoring Klaus entirely. "Wouldn't you rather have some fun company? Nik here is such a brooding bore when he travels. All 'look at this building I destroyed in 1492' and 'here's where I disemboweled a rival in the 17th century.'"

His impression of Klaus was deliberately terrible, designed specifically to irritate his brother.

Klaus's jaw tightened, his grip on your leg firming slightly.

"Kol," he said, his voice deceptively soft, a sure warning sign to those who knew him well, "don't you have somewhere else to be? Preferably far from here?"

Kol grinned wider, clearly enjoying getting under his brother's skin.

"Not really, no. My schedule's wide open." He winked at you. "So, where are we thinking? Somewhere with beaches, I hope. I'd love to see what kind of swimwear our Y/N favors."

At this, Klaus's patience visibly snapped. He moved with supernatural speed, suddenly standing over Kol with a hand around his throat.

"Choose your next words very carefully, brother," he growled, his hybrid nature flickering beneath the surface of his control.

You sighed, used to the Mikaelson siblings' dramatic confrontations, and pushed yourself up from the chaise despite the heat.

"Boys," you admonished, sounding more like a tired parent than a girlfriend, "can we not do this today? It's too hot for Mikaelson drama."

Rebekah makes an appearance from one of the balconies, "Do snap his neck, Nik. He pissed me off today" 

You turn, glaring at the blonde Mikaelson.

Klaus's grip on Kol's throat tightened momentarily, a smirk crossing his face at Rebekah's encouragement. His eyes never left his younger brother's face, though Kol still managed to look amused despite the precarious position.

"See, Rebekah agrees with me," Klaus said silkily, the dangerous edge in his voice unmistakable.

Rebekah leaned over the balcony railing, her blonde hair cascading down as she observed the scene below with casual interest, as if her brothers threatening to kill each other was merely everyday entertainment, which in the Mikaelson household, it essentially was.

"He used my favorite lipstick to write obscenities on my mirror," she explained to you, her British accent clipped with annoyance. "Chanel, limited edition. Snap away, Nik."

"Rebekah! No," you exclaimed, fixing the Original sister with a stern look before turning to Klaus. "And you! Let him go. I'm not spending another week listening to you all plot revenge because you daggered him again."

You place a hand on Klaus's arm, your touch gentle but firm. "Klaus."

For a tense moment, it seemed he might ignore you, his fingers still wrapped around his brother's throat. Then, with visible reluctance, he released Kol with a small shove.

"Consider yourself fortunate that Y/N has more patience for your antics than I do," he warned, stepping back to stand beside you, his arm possessively circling your waist.

Kol rubbed his throat dramatically, though they all knew it would take far more than that to cause him any real discomfort.

"Always hiding behind your girlfriend's skirts, Nik?" he taunted, unable to resist pushing further. "How the mighty have fallen."

Rebekah rolled her eyes, pushing away from the balcony railing.

"If you're not going to kill him, at least tell me where you're planning to go," she called down. "I might join you. This city is dreadfully dull at the moment, and the heat is ruining my hair."

You look between the three Original siblings, a mix of exasperation and fondness on your face.

"So much for our private getaway," you murmured to Klaus, leaning into him despite the heat. "I think our couples vacation package just got upgraded to include all the homicidal Mikaelsons."

Klaus looked down at you, his irritation with his siblings momentarily forgotten as he took in your resigned amusement.

"I could still kill them both," he offered helpfully, though there was a glint of humor in his eyes now. "Problem solved."

"No," you say firmly, "just...how about we all just go to the beach instead? Is there even a beach around?"

Klaus looked at you with an expression of mild betrayal, clearly not thrilled at the prospect of his romantic getaway transforming into a family outing.

"There's Grand Isle," he conceded reluctantly, his thumb absently stroking your waist where he still held you. "About a 2-hour drive south. Though I was thinking more along the lines of a private island in the Caribbean, not some local stretch of sand crowded with tourists."

Kol clapped his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm, bouncing up from his seat.

"Grand Isle it is! I'll go pack the alcohol," he declared, clearly delighted at having successfully inserted himself into your plans. "We'll need lots of it to make this family bonding tolerable."

Rebekah disappeared from the balcony, only to reappear moments later in the courtyard, already looking more excited than she had in weeks.

"I have a new bikini I've been dying to wear," she announced, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Elijah will hate this plan, which makes it even better."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Elijah appeared in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a full suit despite the heat, not a drop of sweat visible on his composed face.

"I'll hate what plan?" he inquired, his voice measured and elegant as always.

Before Klaus could intervene, Kol jumped in with gleeful mischief.

"Family beach trip, brother! Sun, sand, and siblings. What could possibly go wrong?"

Elijah's expression remained impassive, but a slight tightening around his eyes suggested he was already calculating the potential disasters.

"Indeed," he replied dryly. "Given our family history, I imagine quite a lot."

Klaus looked down at you, shaking his head slightly.

"You see what you've started?" he murmured, though there was more resignation than genuine anger in his tone. "Now we'll have the whole circus with us."

You stood on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to his cheek, your eyes twinkling with amusement.

"It'll be fun," you whisper back. "Besides, this way they can't destroy the compound while we're gone."

Klaus sighed dramatically, but his arm remained firmly around your waist.

"You have a strange definition of 'fun,' love," he commented, watching as his siblings began debating the logistics with increasing animation. "The last time all of us were at a beach together was 1702, and it ended with a small village being burned to the ground."

Rebekah waved a dismissive hand.

"That was Kol's fault, and they were witch hunters anyway," she pointed out breezily. "Besides, Y/N will keep you all in line. She's the only one with any sense around here."

Elijah checked his watch, somehow managing to look both resigned and dignified.

"If we're to undertake this...excursion...I suggest we leave early tomorrow to avoid the worst of the traffic," he said, already bringing order to the chaos as was his nature.

Klaus looked at you with a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

"Still certain about this, sweetheart?" he asked quietly. "It's not too late to slip away, just the two of us. I'm quite skilled at disappearing."

Your smile fades, sensing the tension in his tone. Suddenly, the feeling of guilt starts to creep in. “I’m sorry, did I overstep? I didn’t mean to” 

Klaus's expression softened immediately at your sudden concern, the irritation in his eyes giving way to something softer. He reached up to cup your face with one hand, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"No, love," he assured you quietly. His voice pitched low enough that even his siblings' supernatural hearing would have to strain to catch his words. "You didn't overstep."

He glanced at his siblings, who were now engaged in an animated debate about transportation arrangements, before returning his gaze to your worried face.

"I just...I wanted some time alone with you," he admitted, a rare vulnerability flickering across his features. "Away from all this chaos and plotting and New Orleans politics. Just us."

The admission seemed to cost him something; Klaus Mikaelson wasn't accustomed to expressing such straightforward desires, especially not in a way that might be perceived as weakness.

Your guilt visibly deepened, your eyes clouding with regret as you placed your hand over his where it rested on your cheek.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't think. We can still go away, just us. I'll tell them I changed my mind."

Klaus studied your face for a moment, then shook his head with a small, genuine smile that few besides you have ever witnessed.

"No," he decided, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "You were right to include them. They're...family." The statement still sounded somewhat foreign on his tongue after centuries of betrayal and daggerings. "And they're your family now, too, God help you."

He leaned in to press his forehead against yours, his next words meant only for you.

"Besides, I've waited a thousand years to find you. I can survive sharing you with my insufferable siblings for a weekend." His lips quirked upward. "Though I make no promises about Kol's continued existence if he makes one more comment about you in swimwear."

Your smile returned, relief washing over your features as you wrapped your arms around his neck, uncaring of the heat or his siblings' presence.

"Thank you," you say softly. "And I promise we'll take that trip, just us. Anywhere you want to go."

Klaus's arms encircled your waist, pulling you closer despite the summer heat.

"I'll hold you to that, love," he murmured against your ear. "I have quite a list of places I want to show you. And things I want to do to you in those places."

His suggestive tone made you blush, which only widened his smile.

Kol's deliberately loud voice interrupted the moment.

"If you two are quite finished being disgustingly sweet, we need to know if we're taking one car or two tomorrow. Personally, I vote for separate vehicles. The thought of being trapped in a car with Nik for two hours while he glowers is less than appealing."

Klaus rolled his eyes but kept his arms around you.

"Two cars," he called back without looking away from you. "I'm not subjecting Y/N to your incessant chatter for the entire drive."

Rebekah snorted elegantly.

"As if your brooding silence is any better," she retorted, before turning to you with a conspiratorial smile. "Come on, Y/N. Let's go plan what to pack. You'll need something spectacular to make my brother properly regret taking you to a mere local beach instead of his pretentious private island."

˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚˚

By the time you finally made it back to your room, the sun had long dipped below the horizon, and your limbs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. Your feet hurt, and you were about three outfit changes away from a full mental breakdown. Rebekah had run you through what felt like a full fashion week

Klaus looked up from the grimoire he'd been studying, his lips curving into an amused smile at your dramatic entrance. He was lounging on the bed, already changed into comfortable pants, his chest bare in concession to the persistent heat, which didn’t actually bother him.

You flopped face-first onto the mattress beside him with an exaggerated groan, your hair splaying across the pillows. You didn't even bother to remove your clothes or shoes, you simply lay there like a woman who had survived some great ordeal.

"Rebekah's made me try on so many things," you mumble into the bedding, your voice muffled. "I think I've worn more clothes in the last three hours than in my entire life."

Klaus chuckled, setting aside the ancient spell book and shifting to gently remove your shoes, one at a time.

"You've discovered one of my sister's most fearsome qualities," he commented, his fingers massaging your feet briefly after freeing them. "Her shopping stamina is truly supernatural. Even I find it exhausting, and I've endured torture sessions that were less grueling."

You turn your head to the side, just enough to peer at him with one tired eye.

"She made me try on fourteen swimsuits," you informed him gravely. "Fourteen. And then she decided the first one was best anyway."

Klaus laughed outright at that, the sound warm and genuine in a way that few outside this room ever heard.

"That sounds like Rebekah," he agreed, his hands moving to your shoulders, beginning to knead the tension there with just the right amount of pressure. "Though I must admit, I'm looking forward to seeing the results of her tyranny."

His voice dropped lower, taking on that seductive quality that never failed to send a shiver down your spine, even in your exhausted state.

"Perhaps you'd care to model the winner for me now? Give me a private showing?"

You groan again, this time in response to his magical fingers working the knots from your shoulders.

"Not a chance," you mutter, though there is a smile in your voice. "I'm saving it for tomorrow. Besides, I think if I change clothes one more time today, I might actually die."

You finally summoned the energy to roll onto your back, looking up at him with tired but affectionate eyes.

"Your sister is intense," you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "She's convinced I need to, and I quote, 'make your jaw drop' when you see me at the beach."

Klaus caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm, his blue-green eyes darkening slightly.

"My jaw drops every time I see you, love," he murmured against your skin. "Though I admit I'm intrigued by whatever Rebekah has planned."

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours.

"Should I be worried about having to murder every man on the beach tomorrow?" he asked, only half-joking. "Because I will, you know. Without hesitation."

You smile, “Please don’t kill anyone for me,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck

Klaus smirked against your lips, his weight shifting to hover over you more fully, supported on his forearms.

"No promises, love," he murmured, the possessive glint in his blue-green eyes making it clear he wasn't entirely joking. "A millennium of habits isn't easily broken."

His lips finally met yours in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened, his hand sliding beneath your shirt to caress the warm skin of your waist. Despite your exhaustion, you respond eagerly, your arms tightening around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Besides," he continued between kisses, trailing his lips along your jaw and down to the sensitive spot just below your ear, "you can't expect me to behave when every man on that beach will be staring at what's mine."

The possessive words should have irritated your independent nature, but coming from Klaus, whispered against your skin in that lilting accent, they sent a shiver of desire through you instead.

"I thought you'd be used to it by now," you teased breathlessly, your fingers threading through his dirty-blonde curls. "People stare at me whenever we go out."

Klaus pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own darkened with desire and something deeper, more vulnerable.

"I'll never be 'used to it,'" he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "Just as I'll never be used to the fact that you chose me, knowing exactly what I am."

The rare moment of openness caught you off guard, and your teasing smile softened into something more tender. You cup his face between your palms, eyes meeting his directly.

"I'll always choose you," you whisper, the simple truth of it reflected in your gaze. "Even when you're being a possessive, paranoid, infuriating pain in my ass."

Klaus laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest where it pressed against yours.

"Such romantic declarations," he teased, nipping at your lower lip. "You do know how to make a man feel special, sweetheart."

His hand slid higher beneath your shirt, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast as he kissed you again, more deeply this time, swallowing your soft gasp of pleasure.

"Now," he murmured against your mouth, his voice dropping to that seductive timbre that made your body respond immediately, "I believe you mentioned being exhausted from changing clothes so many times..."

His lips traced a burning path down your neck as his clever fingers began working on the buttons of your shirt.

"Allow me to help you out of these," he suggested, his smirk evident in his voice even as his mouth continued its delicious assault on your sensitive skin. "After all, I wouldn't want you to overexert yourself."

You lift your head to look at him, “Yeah? I am still hot, so I think taking these off is a great idea.”

Klaus's eyes darkened at your agreement, a predatory smile spreading across his face as he sat back on his heels, straddling your thighs. His hands moved to the buttons of your shirt with deliberate slowness, unfastening each one with tantalizing precision.

"You are indeed hot," he agreed, his voice dropping to that rough velvet tone that never failed to make your pulse quicken. "In every sense of the word."

*

As he parted your shirt, revealing the lace of your bra underneath, his gaze traveled over your exposed skin with open hunger. Despite the countless times he'd seen your body, his reaction was always the same, as if each time was the first, and each revelation of your skin was a gift he hadn't expected.

"Beautiful," he murmured, helping you sit up just enough to slide the shirt from your shoulders before easing you back down.

His hands skimmed down your sides to the waistband of your shorts, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake despite the lingering heat of the day. With practiced ease, he unfastened them and began sliding them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Better?" he asked, tossing the shorts aside and running his palms up your bare thighs. "Though I must say, you're still overdressed by my standards."

Your breath hitches as his fingers trace the edge of your underwear, your body already responding to his touch despite your earlier exhaustion. The heat that had been oppressive all day transformed into something entirely different under his skilled hands, a heat that came from within, that made you arch toward him rather than pull away.

"Your standards are impossible," you managed to reply, your voice already husky with desire. "You'd have me naked all the time if you could."

Klaus chuckled, the sound dark and promising as he unhooked your bra with a flick of his fingers, drawing it slowly down your arms.

"Can you blame me?" he asked, his gaze appreciative as he took in your bare breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples and drawing a soft moan from your lips. "When you're the most exquisite thing I've seen in a thousand years?"

He lowered his head to replace his fingers with his mouth, his tongue circling one sensitive peak before taking it between his lips. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you.

Klaus took his time, lavishing attention on each breast until you were squirming beneath him, your earlier fatigue completely forgotten. Only then did his mouth begin a downward journey, trailing kisses across your ribs, your stomach, and the jut of your hip bones.

His fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear, drawing them down with deliberate slowness as he looked up at you from beneath his lashes, his blue-green eyes nearly black with desire.

"Now you're properly dressed," he murmured approvingly as he tossed the last piece of fabric aside, leaving you completely bare beneath him. "Or undressed, as the case may be."

You instinctively brought your thighs together, "stop," you say softly, blushing, looking at me like that.

Klaus's lips curved into a knowing smile as he placed his hands gently on your knees, not forcing them apart but simply resting there, his thumbs tracing small circles on your skin.

"Like what, love?" he asked, his voice a seductive rumble as he held your gaze. "Like you're the most magnificent thing I've ever seen? Like I want to worship every inch of your body until you're trembling and crying my name?"

He leaned forward, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your inner knee, his eyes never leaving your flushed face.

"I'm afraid I can't stop," he continued, his accent thickening with desire. "Not when you're laid out before me like this. Blushing so beautifully for me."

His hands slid up slightly, applying the gentlest pressure to your thighs, a request rather than a demand.

"Let me see you, Y/N," he murmured, his tone softening to something almost reverent. "All of you."

The way he said your name, like it was something precious on his tongue, sent a shiver down your body. Despite your instinctive shyness, you found yourself responding to the gentle coaxing of his hands, your thighs slowly parting for him.

Klaus's breath caught audibly at the sight of you exposed to him, his eyes darkening further as they took in every detail. There was something almost worshipful in his expression, a stark contrast to the ruthless hybrid who terrorized New Orleans.

"Perfect," he whispered, his hands sliding further up your thighs, his thumbs now dangerously close to where you were already wet for him. "Do you have any idea what you do to me, sweetheart? How you make me feel?"

He moved up your body to capture your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, his bare chest pressing against your breasts, creating a delicious friction that made you gasp into his mouth. One of his hands tangled in your hair while the other continued its teasing journey between your thighs, never quite touching where you most wanted him.

"Even after all this time," he murmured against your lips, "I still can't believe you're mine."

His fingers finally slid through your folds, finding you slick and ready for him. He groaned at the discovery, his forehead resting against your as he began to circle your clit with exquisite precision.

"So wet for me already," he praised, his voice rough with need. "Is this what you needed, love? My hands on you? My mouth?"

His lips trailed down your neck as his fingers continued their skilled assault, drawing soft moans from your throat as your hips began to move against his hand, seeking more.

"I always need you," you exhale, arching into his hand. "Klaus," you continued, whispering his name.

Klaus growled low in his throat at your words, the sound more beast than man as he captured your lips in a fierce, consuming kiss. His fingers worked more deliberately between your thighs, circling your clit before sliding lower to tease your entrance.

"Say it again," he commanded against your mouth, his voice rough with desire. "My name on your lips is the sweetest sound in this world."

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as pleasure built within you, making you arch more insistently against his skilled touch.

"Klaus," you gasp, head falling back as he slides one finger inside you, then another, curling them to hit that perfect spot that made you want to cry out "God, Klaus, please..."

your plea broke off into a moan as he lowered his head to take one nipple between his lips, sucking hard as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm inside of you. Your body responded eagerly to his every touch, your hips moving in counterpoint to the thrust of his hand.

"Please what, love?" he teased, lifting his head to watch your face contort with pleasure. "Tell me what you need."

Your eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, met his as your hands moved to fumble with the waistband of his pants.

"You," you managed, your voice breathy and urgent. "Inside me. Now."

Klaus's control visibly frayed at the demand, his eyes flashing gold for a brief moment before returning to their stormy blue-green. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste you with a groan of appreciation that sent another wave of desire through your body.

"As my lady commands," he murmured, quickly divesting himself of his remaining clothing with supernatural speed.

He settled between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance as he braced himself above you on his forearms. For a moment, he simply looked down at you, his expression a complex mixture of desire, possessiveness, and something deeper that he rarely allowed himself to name.

"Mine," he whispered, the single word containing a thousand years of loneliness and the wonder of having finally found someone who accepted all of him, monster and man alike.

You reach up to cup his face, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones with tender affection even as your body arched impatiently beneath his.

"Yours," you agreed softly, the simple truth reflected in your eyes. "Always yours."

Klaus finally pushed forward, entering you in one smooth thrust that had you both gasping. He stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt inside of you, his forehead pressed against yours as you shared breath.

"And I am yours," he admitted in a rare moment of vulnerability, the words barely audible even to you. "Completely."

Before you could respond, he began to move, setting a rhythm that was neither gentle nor rough but perfectly calibrated to drive you toward the edge. Each thrust was deliberate, hitting exactly where you needed him most, his centuries of experience evident in the way he read your body's responses.

"Klaus," you moaned, your legs wrapping around his waist to draw him deeper, your hands clutching at his back as the pleasure built within. "God, yes, right there..."

He increased his pace in response to your encouragement, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit as he drove into you with increasing urgency. His lips found your neck, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin there, careful not to break the surface despite the vampire instincts that urged him to taste you.

"Come for me, love," he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release until you found yours. "Let me feel you come around my cock."

The crude words combined with his skilled touch pushed you over the edge. You cried out his name as your body convulsed around him, waves of pleasure washing through you with an intensity that left you breathless and trembling in his arms.

Klaus grinned in triumph as he felt your inner walls pulsing around him, his control finally snapping. His thrusts became harder, more erratic as he chased his own release, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he murmured a stream of praise and possession against your skin.

"So perfect, so beautiful, mine, all mine," he groaned, his body tensing above you as he finally found his release, spilling deep inside you.

*

For several moments afterward, you remained entwined, both breathing heavily as you came down from your shared high. Klaus eventually rolled to his side, taking you with him so you lay cradled against his chest, his arms wrapped possessively around you.

"Still hot?" he asked, a hint of smugness in his voice as he pressed a kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your cooling skin.

You snort softly at his smug question, your body still tingling pleasantly from your lovemaking. You pressed closer to him despite the lingering heat, your fingertips tracing the tattoo on his shoulder.

"Definitely," you admit, a satisfied smile playing on your lips. "But I like this kind of hot. Quite a lot actually."

You lean in to press a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart, feeling it beat steadily beneath your lips. Klaus hummed contentedly, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of your skin, tracing the curve of your spine with feather-light touches.

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by your gradually steadying breaths. Your mind wanders as you lie in his arms, thinking about the moments during your passion when you’d felt his lips at your neck, the careful restraint he always showed despite his nature. You’d noticed how he'd pulled back, even in the height of pleasure, maintaining that careful control he always exercised around you.

You lifted your head to look at him, eyes serious as they met his.

"Klaus, you know you can drink from me, right?" You say quietly, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. "I trust you. Completely."

Klaus went very still beneath your touch, his eyes widening slightly at your unexpected words. Something flashed across his face, hunger, desire, fear, before he carefully schooled his expression.

"That's...not a good idea, love," he replied, his voice rougher than usual, betraying the effect your offer had on him. "You don't know what you're asking."

You push yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with determination in your gaze.

"I know exactly what I'm asking," you countered firmly. "I've seen you feed. I know what you are, Klaus. I've always known."

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking there as he struggled with the offer and his own desires.

"It's different with you," he finally said, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness. "I don't want you to see that side of me. Not in our bed."

You lean into his touch, your expression softening but remaining resolute.

"It's part of who you are," you said simply. "And I love who you are. All of you."

Klaus's eyes darkened at your words, a complex mixture of emotions swirling in their blue-green depths. His thumb traced the pulse point at your throat, lingering there as if he could already taste you.

"You don't fear it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What I might do? That I might lose control?"

You shook your head, your hair brushing against his hand.

"You've never lost control with me," you reminded him, your faith in him absolute and unwavering. "Not once in all our time together. I trust you, Klaus. With my life. With everything."

Something in him seemed to crumble at your words, not his control, but rather the wall he'd built between these two parts of himself. He pulled you down to him, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, his hands framing your face as if you were infinitely precious.

"If I hurt you," he murmured against your mouth, "if I take too much..."

"You won't," you interrupted with complete certainty, your fingers threading through his hair as you held his gaze. "I know you won't."

Klaus studied your face for a long moment, searching for any sign of doubt or fear. Finding none, he gently guided you to lie beside him, positioning you so that your back was against his chest, your head tilted to expose the elegant line of your neck.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against your skin, "at any moment, and I will. Immediately."

You nodded, your body relaxing trustingly against his as his arm circled your waist, holding you close. You felt his lips press against your pulse point, soft and reverent, before they parted to allow his fangs to extend.

"I love you," he breathed against your neck, the words he so rarely spoke aloud given freely in this moment of ultimate vulnerability.

Before you could respond, his fangs pierced skin with surprising gentleness. You gasp, not in pain but in unexpected pleasure as the initial sting gives way to a sensation unlike anything you’ve experienced before. It was intimate in a way that transcended the physical, a connection that made your earlier lovemaking seem almost ordinary by comparison.

Klaus drank slowly, carefully, his arm tightening around your waist as a tremor ran through his body. You could feel his pleasure in the way he held yoy, in the soft sounds he made against your throat. It was nothing like the violent feeding you’ve witnessed when he tore into enemies; this was reverent, controlled, deeply personal.

After what felt like both an eternity and not nearly long enough, he withdrew his fangs, kissing the small wounds he left behind. You felt lightheaded but not weak, the experience leaving you with a strange euphoria that tingles through your entire body.

Klaus turned you in his arms to face him, his expression more open and vulnerable than you’d ever seen it. There was a hint of your blood on his lips, his eyes still showing traces of gold around the edges, but his gaze was clear and focused entirely on you.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concern evident in his voice as his hand came up to stroke your cheek.

You nod, a slow smile spreading across your face as you lean to kiss him, tasting the metallic hint of your own blood on his lips without hesitation.

"More than alright," you assured him, your voice soft but steady. "That was...incredible."

Relief washed over his features, followed by something that looked suspiciously like wonder as he pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours.

"You are extraordinary," he murmured, his accent thicker than usual with emotion. "A thousand years, and I've never..."

He trailed off, seemingly unable to find words adequate to express what he was feeling. Instead, he simply held you, his fingers stroking through your hair as both your breathing synchronized in the quiet room.

"Thank you," he finally whispered, the simple words carrying the weight of centuries of loneliness and the gratitude of a man who had finally found acceptance in the arms of someone who saw him, truly saw him, and loved him anyway.

"You're welcome. And tomorrow at the beach, when you want to strangle me for putting you in that situation, do be sure to remember how extraordinary I am."

Klaus's serious expression broke into a surprised laugh, the sound rich and genuine as it rumbled through his chest. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the vulnerability of moments before giving way to amused affection as he gazed down at you.

"Using my own words against me already?" he teased, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. "Clever girl."

He pulled you closer against him, tucking your head beneath his chin as his arms encircled you possessively. Despite the lingering heat of the night, neither of you made any move to separate, the intimacy just shared creating a bond that transcended physical discomfort.

"I'll endeavor to remember your extraordinary nature," he promised dryly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "even when Kol is making inappropriate comments about your swimwear and I'm contemplating removing his liver."

You laugh softly against his chest, your fingers absently tracing the birds tattooed on his chest.

"Just his liver? You're getting soft in your old age," you quip, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with mischief dancing in your eyes. "The Klaus Mikaelson I know would threaten at least three vital organs and possibly limb removal."

Klaus smirked, his hand sliding down to cup your backside in a possessive squeeze.

"The night is still young, love," he reminded you, his voice taking on that dangerous edge that always sent a shiver down your spine. "Don't tempt me to demonstrate just how 'soft' I'm not."

His expression sobered slightly as his other hand came up to trace the spot on your neck where he'd fed, the marks still visible.

"Are you truly alright?" he asked more seriously, searching your face for any sign of discomfort or regret. "I didn't take too much?"

Your teasing smile softened into something more tender as you reached up to touch his face, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone with gentle affection.

"I'm perfect," you assured him, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "It was perfect. You were perfect."

Klaus seemed to absorb your words like a man who'd been thirsting for them his entire life, his eyes closing briefly as if to savor the moment.

"It was...intimate," he admitted quietly, opening his eyes to meet your gaze again. "More so than I expected. Sharing blood with you, it's different than feeding. Than anything I've experienced before."

There was wonder in his voice, a rare vulnerability that he showed to no one else. Your heart swelled with love for this complex, dangerous, damaged man who trusted you enough to reveal these parts of himself.

"Different good?" you asked, your voice soft in the quiet room.

Klaus nodded, his fingers threading through your hair as he drew your face up for another kiss, this one deeper, more thorough.

"Different extraordinary," he murmured against your lips, echoing your earlier description. "Like everything about you."

You melt into his kiss, your body molding against his despite your recent exertions. When you finally parted, both slightly breathless, you settled back against his chest with a contented sigh.

"Just think," you mused sleepily, your earlier exhaustion returning now that the adrenaline was fading, "tomorrow you get to see me in the swimsuit that took fourteen tries to select. After that, you might even forgive me for subjecting you to a family beach day."

Klaus chuckled, his arms tightening around you as he pulled the light sheet over your cooling bodies.

"I've already forgiven you," he admitted, his voice softening as he felt you drifting toward sleep. "Though I reserve the right to be thoroughly irritated with my siblings when they inevitably ruin what could have been a perfect day alone with you."

You hummed in acknowledgment, your eyes already closed as you curled closer to him.

"They won't ruin it," you murmured, your voice fading as sleep began to claim you. "They're family. Our family."

Klaus gazed down at you, his expression softening in a way it never did when others were present. The fearsome hybrid, the terror of New Orleans, looking at this human woman as if she were the most precious thing in his thousand years of existence.

"Sleep, love," he whispered, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. "Tomorrow will be...interesting, if nothing else."

As you drifted off in his arms, Klaus remained awake, watching over you with an expression that mingled wonder, possessiveness, and a fierce protectiveness that would have terrified anyone who might wish you harm. In the quiet darkness of the room, with you warm and trusting in his embrace, Klaus Mikaelson allowed himself to acknowledge what you had become to him, not just lover, not just companion, but home.

A concept he'd never truly understood until you.

Taglist: @ariesandwolves

[joelmillersbedroom]

yours in every way that matters | k.m

⎯⎯“I’ve watched every man you didn’t love try and touch the sun that lives behind your eyes. I’ve smiled through it. Waited. Because I knew one day, you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you.”

warnings: best friends to lovers, jealous Klaus,

You feel him before you see him.

Not in the dramatic way people often speak of Klaus Mikaelson—the way the air changes, the way shadows seem to stretch longer under his steps. No. You feel him because you’ve known him forever. Because your body knows the weight of his presence the way a tide knows the pull of the moon.

And right now, it’s pulling.

You’re at the bar, smiling at some guy whose name you’ve already forgotten. He said something about your necklace, the one Klaus gave you centuries ago in a quieter life. You’re not flirting, not really. Just being friendly. Just letting yourself have a night.

But you feel the shift like a quiet breath against the back of your neck. You turn.

Klaus is leaning against the far wall, drink in hand, head tilted slightly like he’s observing a painting he doesn’t quite care for. His lips are curved into the ghost of a smile. Polite. Thin. Controlled.

But his eyes. His eyes are watching.

Not the man beside you.

You.

His gaze trails the length of your bare shoulders, pausing at the charm resting at your throat—his charm—and lingers. It’s not possessive in the crude sense. It’s worse. It’s knowing. It’s the look of someone who’s memorized every inch of you in silence and has never once needed to ask for what he already carries in his chest.

You swallow.

The man next to you says something else, leans a little closer, and your laugh—automatic and distracted—rings too loud in your ears. When you glance back, Klaus is gone from the wall.

You turn—he’s closer.

Leaning beside you now, his shoulder brushing yours, the heat of him bleeding through his shirt like sunlight through thin cotton. His glass clinks softly against the bar top as he sets it down.

“You seemed deep in conversation,” Klaus says, voice like a low hum, smooth as velvet. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

You glance up. He’s not looking at you.

He’s looking at the man.

The other guy chuckles, a little uneasily. “Yeah, we were just talking about her necklace. Said it looked old. I was curious.”

Klaus smiles. “It is old.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that presses just behind the eyes.

“She wear it well, don’t you think?” Klaus says softly, but his hand now rests behind your chair—casual, loose, yet unmistakably there.

“She does,” the guy agrees, then shifts slightly. “Anyway, I should—uh—get back to my friends.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Only then does Klaus look at you.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say before you can stop yourself.

“I didn’t say you were,” he replies, lifting his drink again, that tight-lipped smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re doing the thing,” you mutter.

“What thing?”

“The watching thing. The saying-nothing-but-still-saying-everything thing.”

He hums, amused. “You know me well.”

“I should. You’ve followed me through three lifetimes and two wars.”

His smile fades, just barely.

“I don’t like when people forget what’s already claimed,” Klaus says, not harsh. Just true.

“I’m not a thing, Klaus.”

“No,” he says, gaze dropping to your lips. “You’re everything.”

Your breath catches.

He sets down his glass. Straightens. Takes a step closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking for declarations or apologies. I’ve waited longer for less. But don’t pretend you don’t feel it.”

Your mouth parts. But no sound comes.

He leans in—not touching, never touching—but so close you feel the warmth of him like a brand.

“You forget,” he whispers, “whose name your soul already answers to.”

Your heart is thudding now. Not out of fear, not even surprise—just that heavy, slow ache that comes when something long-denied brushes too close to truth.

His breath is warm against your cheek. You could turn your head. You could close the space between you. It would be easy—terrifyingly easy.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, you exhale. Slow. Steady. Careful, like your ribs are made of glass and he’s the storm that could shatter them.

“I never forgot,” you whisper.

Klaus doesn’t move. He stands so still, it feels like the rest of the world might be trembling just to compensate.

But in his eyes—quiet and burning and impossibly blue—there’s a shift. Something almost like pain. As if the idea that you could ever forget him had lodged somewhere deeper than he meant to let on.

You lean back just enough to see him fully, chin tilted, mouth soft. “I never forgot whose name my soul answers to, Klaus. You just never asked if I’d say it out loud.”

“And if I did?” he says, voice low.

“I might say it back.”

He lets out a slow breath—then moves.

Not to kiss you. Not yet. Just lifts a hand and gently, reverently, brushes a knuckle down the line of your jaw.

“You drive me mad,” he says, quiet. “You always have.”

You laugh—soft, disbelieving. “And you—you just stand there, knowing it. Watching. Smiling like some kind of king who already owns the war.”

“I don’t smile,” he murmurs, “because I’ve won. I smile because I’ve never lost you.”

Your breath hitches.

And for a moment, the noise of the bar fades—the people, the music, the centuries between you. There’s only the two of you, standing in a pocket of time thick with unsaid things.

You step closer, close enough that your shoulder presses against his chest now, steady and solid beneath the linen of his shirt. You feel his breath catch.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say again, barely a whisper.

“I know,” he replies.

“But if I had been?” you ask, tilting your head.

His gaze sharpens. “I would have let him speak.”

“Oh?”

He nods once. “And then I would’ve looked him in the eye and reminded him—with nothing but a smile—what it means to covet what belongs to a Mikaelson.”

You snort. “Possessive much?”

“Only with you.”

The silence stretches again, this time softer. Wrapped in the warmth of something long-held, long-guarded. And for once, neither of you are running from it.

He shifts his hand, and you don’t stop him when his fingers curl under your chin, lifting your face to his.

“You know,” he says, voice barely a breath, “I could kiss you right now.”

You nod. “You could.”

“But I won’t,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “Because when I do, I want it to be when you can’t help it anymore.”

“And what if that time is now?” you ask, throat tight.

He stills.

Then, with the ghost of a smile—

“I’d like to see you try and stop yourself.”

You pull away first.

Only just.

A shift of weight, a tilt of your head. Enough to breathe again, though not enough to clear the heat that lingers in the air between your mouths.

He lets you.

He always lets you.

But his eyes stay on yours, unflinching, like he's memorizing the moment—committing it to memory in case you leave it behind.

You reach for a glass of water on the bar, even though you’re not thirsty. Even though your hands feel too warm to hold anything at all. Even though Klaus hasn’t moved a single inch from where he’s watching you like a man who knows exactly what you taste like in every lifetime but has not touched you once in this one.

“So,” you say, casual, testing the air. “You’re not going to get angry? Not going to rip someone’s heart out in the alley out back?”

He hums low in his throat. “Would that impress you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “No.”

“Then no,” he says, coolly. “No hearts tonight.”

“But you are jealous,” you push.

It’s bold, maybe reckless. But he deserves the truth, and you deserve his.

Klaus doesn’t blink.

nstead, he takes one slow step closer again, and the space he fills this time is not physical. It’s heavier. Thicker. Almost unbearable.

“I’m not jealous,” he says, voice calm—too calm. “I’m possessive. There’s a difference.”

You laugh, quick and nervous. “Sure. That’s not worrying at all.”

“You misunderstand me,” he murmurs. “I don’t mean I own you. I mean I was made to find you in every lifetime. And the moment I did, something in me stopped looking. Something in me…stilled. You do not belong to me—but I belong to you.”

The laughter dies on your lips.

He steps closer again. Close enough that your knees nearly touch. That you can smell the faint, ancient cologne beneath his jacket. Amber, leather, night.

“I’ve waited,” he says. “I’ve let you dance around it. I’ve let you laugh and tease and pretend it didn’t hang in the air between us every single time you said my name.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts in—soft, relentless:

“I’ve watched every man you didn’t love try and touch the sun that lives behind your eyes. I’ve smiled through it. Waited. Because I knew one day, you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you.”

Your heart is thundering.

You want to run.

You want to stay forever.

You want to say something clever—anything at all—but you can’t breathe past the ache in your chest.

And Klaus, beautiful and ruinous, sees it all. Sees your unraveling and doesn’t move to stop it.

“You’re not ready to kiss me yet,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “But you will be. And when that moment comes, sweetheart…”

His hand brushes your wrist.

“You’ll taste centuries of devotion.”

༊*·˚

You need air.

That’s the excuse you give him, and yourself, when you slip off the barstool and gesture toward the door. He says nothing—just follows. Of course he does. Klaus doesn’t need to ask where you’re going. He already knows he’s part of the destination.

Outside, the air is crisp. Not cold. Just enough to bite the heat off your cheeks, to wake you a little.

The street is nearly empty. A flickering streetlamp above casts its pale golden glow, and in the distance, a drunk couple is laughing—loud and unbothered. You envy them, briefly. Nothing’s chasing them. They don’t burn like you do.

Your steps are slow.

You don’t say anything. You just walk. He’s beside you, hands in his coat pockets, as if he isn’t vibrating with restraint. As if he didn’t just look you in the eyes and say something that split your soul like an old tree.

You speak first, voice quiet.

“Klaus…”

“Mhm?”

His tone is soft. Not pushy. Not smug. Just waiting.

You stop near a railing that overlooks the city. Down below, lights glitter like someone spilled a thousand tiny stars.

You lean against the metal and let the night fold around you.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” you admit.

He stands beside you, shoulder just brushing yours. “You don’t have to do anything.”

You look over at him. “You say that. But I can feel it. All of it. In the way you look at me. The way you don’t look away.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just gives a small, crooked smile. “Would you rather I lied?”

You turn to face him fully now.

“No. Never. I just… don’t know how to carry something like this.”

He leans one hand on the railing, keeping his distance only by a thread.

“You don’t have to carry it. It’s mine. I’ll carry it for both of us, if I have to.”

God. That tone. Like a vow whispered in the ruins of a church. That devastating softness he hides behind centuries of violence.

Your voice cracks.

“But it hurts.”

His jaw tenses—just barely. “I know.”

“And if I take one step closer, I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.”

At that, he tilts his head. His gaze sharpens, but his voice remains calm—almost unbearably tender.

“Then come closer.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing worth it ever is.”

He turns to face you fully now. And when he speaks again, it’s quieter than before—reverent.

“You think I haven’t suffered in silence for years already? Do you think I don’t lie awake at night remembering the brush of your hand or the way you laughed when you didn’t know I was listening?”

Your eyes fill. “Klaus—”

“I know you’re scared,” he says. “But don’t insult me by thinking I’m not. I’m terrified. Because the second I touch you, really touch you—there’s no going back. No pretending. No forgetting. And I will never let go. Do you understand that?”

The wind brushes past.

You don’t speak.

You just look at him—and this time, he sees it. The shift. The breaking point.

he decision.

He doesn't move.

He waits for you.

And that’s when you do it.

You step forward.

Just enough that you feel the gravity of him, that quiet pull Klaus always has, like a tide that never learned to retreat.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. Not because you’re trying to be dramatic—but because anything louder might shatter it.

“I used to tell myself it was nothing. Just friendship. Just… you being you.”

His eyes search yours, careful, reverent.

“But I started avoiding mirrors.”

Klaus’s brow furrows.

You swallow hard. “Because every time I looked at myself, I wondered if you saw me that way. If maybe… maybe I wasn’t just yours in the way friends are. Maybe I was something else. Something you didn’t want to name.”

A breath escapes him—slow, aching.

You keep going.

“I hated that I started dressing differently when I knew you’d be around. Hated how I listened for your laugh in every room. And most of all…” You look down. Then back up. “I hated that you didn’t say anything. That you watched me fall in love with you one inch at a time and never reached for me."

There it is. Cracked open.

All the softness, all the ache.

Klaus doesn’t speak.

He just steps forward too—slow, deliberate—until your chests are nearly touching. Until the silence turns into something humming between your ribs.

And then, with that same devastating calm, he lifts a hand to your jaw.

“Darling,” he breathes, “I didn’t reach for you because I thought I’d ruin it. But now—”

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Now I’d rather ruin everything than spend one more day pretending I don’t already belong to you.”

And then he kisses you.

No rush. No fury.

Just a long, aching press of lips to lips, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before the world ends.

And in that moment, it does.

Not with chaos. Not with thunder.

But with the gentlest collapse.

༊*·˚

The kiss doesn’t end.

Not really.

It lingers, drawn out in the hush between two heartbeats, in the silence between inhale and exhale.

His lips are warm and steady against yours, but there’s a tremble in the way he holds your face—like even now, even here, he can’t quite believe you let him have this. That you stepped forward. That you’re still standing.

Above, the streetlamp flickers once, then steadies, casting a soft gold halo around the both of you. The air smells faintly of rain, of something waiting. But here, inside this small circle of light, time has folded itself quiet.

Klaus doesn’t press harder. He doesn’t deepen the kiss like some greedy thing.

No, he just… stays.

Like he’s trying to write a poem with his mouth.

Like he’s terrified the moment will disappear if he moves too fast.

Your hands rise slowly, one brushing against his chest, the other ghosting up toward the back of his neck. And he exhales—just a shaky sound in the hollow of your throat, as if the feel of your touch undoes him more than anything else.

Because this wasn’t just a kiss.

This was surrender.

His forehead rests against yours when you finally part, and neither of you says anything.

Because what could you say?

The quiet is so full.

So alive.

Like the whole world has its breath caught in its throat, waiting to see what happens next.

His thumb draws one final stroke across your cheek, gentle as a memory.

You’re the one who whispers first.

“…You’re shaking.”

He lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’ve no idea.”

And then he kisses your forehead. Slowly. Carefully. Like he’s sealing something ancient between you.

“I would’ve waited forever,” he murmurs. “But thank God I don’t have to.”

[joelmillersbedroom]

━━━━━ ✧˖° 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔

‎ ‎ ‎ [ 𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: unprotected sex, oral sex, face sitting, rough sex, spanking (just a little), dirty talk, dry humping, creampie, light dom/sub, protective klaus

warnings and triggers: violence, death, rough sex, mentions of past abuse

word count: 12.9k

plot with porn, alternate universe.

you’re a dancer at Klaus’ favorite strip club. 

he’s one of your best customers, always slipping hundreds into the band of your panties or bra, although he hasn’t asked for a private room with you yet. klaus mikaelson is a king around this city - half vampire, half werewolf, the first of his kind. the entire city lives in fear of the big bad wolf. 

but you can’t deny the curiosity you feel towards the man, the monster, that is klaus mikaelson. when he finally books a private room and asks specifically for you, your feelings for him change.

suddenly he doesn’t seem so bad, so scary - or maybe he still is, but every night you spend with him and with each dance, you realize you’re foolishly falling in love with a real-life monster.

The lights in the club are dim, and the bass from the music blasting makes it feel like the floor is vibrating, which makes it a little hard to stay steady on your feet. You’ve been working at the club for almost a year, but you’ve never quite gotten used to what it feels like to be on this stage.

All eyes on you, the heat from the lights above, music so loud that it literally hurts your ears, makes it hard to even hear the lyrics of the song playing, which can sometimes fuck up your dance cues.

On stage, you feel like you’re in a world of your own, and sometimes you don’t know if that’s good or bad. Dancing has always been your passion - although stripping was never your dream. From a young age, you were trained as a ballet dancer, with competitions and private training and practices every day after school; it was your whole life.

But things change and shit happens, and although you’re not where you want to be in life, you’re still doing what you love to do, which is dance, even if it’s not the way you imagined it.

That’s got to count for something, right?

On stage, it’s all about creating a fantasy for the people in the audience. Rich men, successful men, men with high status - they all frequent this club. It’s one of the nicest in the city, but you’ve heard from a few of the other dancers that the men here are no different than the men at the shitter, seedier clubs. It doesn’t matter what a man does for a living, you suppose, because if they’re throwing cash at a girl who’s half naked and desperate to pay her bills - it’s not like they’re a good person.

You’ve learned your lesson with men, and you learned it the hard way. Men will always be men - or whatever fucked up version of masculinity they follow that makes them believe they’re a man. Rude, crude, violent and mean.

But you’ve got bills to pay and money to make, so you do your best to give them a good show.

Especially because he’s in the audience.

Klaus.

At the thought of him, quite literally the man, the myth, the legend - a flurry of butterflies erupts in your stomach. It’s a sinking, almost nauseous feeling, but it’s definitely a feeling that’s a little more good than it is bad.

The thought scares you, that you feel this way about Klaus Mikaelson. That you could associate anything good with him. You’ve heard his name since you were a teenager, back when he first came to this city and, well…

Ruined everything.

You spin around the pole and do your regular routine, legs aching in the skyscraper heels you're wearing, tits almost spilling out of your tiny bra. Your head is pounding because the music is so loud, and by the time you’re on your knees collecting the bills thrown on stage like you’re some kind of performing animal in a zoo, you’re covered in sweat, feeling sticky and over-touched and very much like you need a drink.

You’re thinking about Klaus your entire break. It gets so fucking hot in the club, with all the people and the smoke and the movement you do. You chug some water, fix your makeup, stand in front of the fan in the back room to cool down as much as you can, but he never leaves your mind.

Because you know he’s waiting for you.

It’s been going on almost two months now, this thing you have with Klaus Mikaeslon. Although thing is a generous word for it. You work almost every night during the week, and Klaus visits the club almost every night. You’re not sure if it’s to see you in particular, but you’re fairly certain that no other dancer goes near him.

Because everybody hates him.

Klaus Mikaelson has the city in the palm of his hand. When he strolled into town years ago, what was once a bustling, wonderful place to live slowly turned sour until what was left of it was just plain rotten. Klaus brought violence, mayhem, and a harem of other dangerous supernatural creatures along with him when he moved into town, and destruction came along with them.

You’re not sure what brought him to this specific city, just that it changed life as you know it. Klaus brought death, destroyed lives, and while a lot of the things that happened didn’t come from his hand directly, he’s the cause of all of it.

Nobody wants to serve him a drink, let alone dance for him. It doesn’t matter how much he tips - the other girls want nothing to do with him. Everyone blames Klaus for all the problems in their life. Why they’re working a dead end exploitative job, why they can’t find a happy relationship, why they’re trapped in this town. It’s valid hatred, and you understand it, would be the first to preach about the way your life has changed since he moved into town.

But you think differently than the others. Because while they all see the bars of the cage the entire town is trapped in, in Klaus Mikaelson, you see your freedom. The tips he gives you, that you’ve been stashing away, are going to be your ticket out of this town. While the bartender and the bouncer need to be compelled to let him in and bring him drinks, you go to Klaus willingly.

Because even though Klaus carries violence everywhere he goes, even though he could crush this town and everyone in it with ease, even a monster like him isn’t desperate enough to compel every single person working at a strip club to give him a good time.

That’d be pathetic, and you don’t know a lot about Klaus, but you know that pathetic is the last thing you’d use to describe him.

This thing you have with him is nothing more than three dances whenever he’s at the bar. Three dances is as long as you’re allowed to dance for someone without them getting a private room - club rules. Klaus never asks for a private room, but that’s fine by you.

Usually, by the end of those three dances, you’re no less than eight hundred dollars cash richer.

It does something to you, knowing that this monster sits around the club waiting for you. Or, when your insecurity is talking, you think that maybe he just settles for you, not down quite bad enough to compel a girl to dance for him. Maybe you’re just the low hanging fruit who’s willing.

You push those thoughts away as you make your way through the haze of cigarette smoke and neon lights to the far end of the club. Klaus is at an open booth, tucked away from the others, and when you see him, you lose your breath. He’s got a calm demeanor that only someone truly powerful could have - leaning back, drink in hand, and when he sees you, his lips twitch into something between a smirk and a half-hearted smile.

“You’re late,” Klaus says, his voice low, teasing, because it’s not like you have a set time to see each other whenever you’re working, although it is a little later than you normally meet up.

But you blush, flattered by the teasing tone, but also a little scared. You might have this thing with Klaus, but he’s still an unpredictable supernatural being that can do more bad than good. You could really get hurt if he lost his temper around you.

And it’s not like anyone at the bar would be able to stop him.

It’s a terrifying thought, but you try to play it off. “My set ran late,” you explain, the stories you’ve heard about Klaus killing people for less than making him wait going through your mind.

But then he grins, and you know he’s just teasing, so you step between his open legs, place your hands on his shoulders. He’s handsome, annoyingly so, and you wonder how such an attractive man can be so dangerous. It just doesn’t seem right.

It’s hard to breathe around Klaus. Whether that’s from fear, or something else, you’re not sure. The air between you both has always been charged, thick with something unsaid. You’ve never felt anything like it before.

You’ve been trying to ignore this feeling for months, but you’re not stupid. You can see the way Klaus watches you, waits for you, the way he slips his cash into your thong or bra, with hands that are soft despite the violence they can hold, the way his gaze lingers just a moment too long even when the dance is done, or before it’s even started - like he wants to touch but doesn’t know how to do it without making a mistake. Without scaring you off.

It’s different from the way the other men at the club touch you. Different from the way they look at you, with lust in their eyes and their hands rough and selfish. There’s something soft about the way Klaus handles you, and maybe you’re just crazy for thinking so, and maybe it’s just a mask Klaus wears to hide his truly dark nature - but you’ve been dancing for him for months. Surely the mask would’ve slipped by now?

There’s something refreshing, you think, about the beast that is Klaus Mikaelson. He’s a bad person, and that’s all there is to it. There’s no faking, no lies. He is what he is.

“Don’t worry, love,” he says, reaching out and touching you. It took him three weeks to actually put his hands on you, and even then it was only for giving you your tip. He’s gotten more comfortable as time goes on, and right now he grips your hips, although gently.

You’ve gotten used to the feeling of random hands on your body, so much so that you don’t even notice when someone is touching you half the time, but you do notice when Klaus touches you. There’s no way you couldn’t. You feel it, deeper than just the touch it is, because his hands aren’t random, and the electricity that you try to ignore that he carries in each touch isn’t random either.

He moves his hands from your hips, slides them up to your waist, before letting go completely. He smirks. “I know you’re just giving me a chance to miss you,” he says, before reaching in his pocket for his wallet.

His touch leaves goosebumps, even when you’re burning hot.

“What did you think of my dance?” You ask, while Klaus grabs a chunky stack of cash out of his wallet. Unlike the other men at the club, who only hand you cash when they want something or want an excuse to touch you, who try to be graceful about it and look for the right moment, there’s something almost clumsy about the way Klaus handles the money. Practically throws it at you, before you’ve even done anything to earn it yet.

He stuffs them into the band of your panties on your hip, trails his hand up to your bra where he puts some more, and then looks up at you from his seat and motions for you to turn around.

“Spin around, sweetheart, let me see you from behind,” he orders, and you do as he says, ignoring the arousal you feel at his demand. You refuse to believe, refuse to even entertain, the idea that a man like Klaus Mikaelson could ever turn you on. “I thought you were brilliant, as always. You’re like a goddess up there,” he says as you turn around for him.

It’s a nice compliment, even if it does come from the terror of the town. Being on the stage, being a stripper - it feels demeaning a lot of times. Like you’re a piece of meat. But Klaus calling you a goddess, well, it makes you feel like you’re on a pedestal to be admired instead of owned.

And you needed to hear that tonight.

────

“I heard him call her by a nickname. I walked past them the other night, and he was smiling and laughing. They joke with each other. God, she makes me sick,” you hear as you get off the stage, walking into the back room to put your cash in your locker. You just had an amazing set, and your body is sore and you’re sweaty but you feel good.

Nights like these are rare. Feeling good is rare, to be honest. You were hoping to drag the feeling out a little longer, but no such luck.

Can’t say you’re surprised.

You’re trying not to let it bother you, that the girls you work with are so hard on you, seem to really dislike you, but you can’t really blame them. People caught on pretty quickly, that you’re the only dancer in the club willing to dance with Klaus, and since they hate him so much the hatred spills over onto you.

You think that some of their fear does too.

“I can hear you, you know,” you tell the girls, and they just shrug, one of them scurrying off because she’s too nervous to face you, the bolder one coming closer while you open your locker.

“I don’t care,” she says, although spits is a more accurate description. “How can you dance for him? He’s ruined our town. Our lives. Did you forget that, Y/N, or did he compel you? We’re all worried about you,” she says, as if she really gives a fuck about you or your safety.

You’d roll your eyes if you didn’t feel the same way, deep down. Because she’s right, and you know she is, but you can’t control the pull you have to this awful man.

Still, you’re defensive.

“I’ll do what I have to do to get the fuck out of this town,” you finally snap, not looking the other woman in the face. You’re mad, but you’re not brave, and confrontation has never been your thing. “I have a plan, unlike you, and if dancing for Klaus Mikaelson is going to get me there, I’ll do it. It sure beats being on his bad side,” you say, slamming your locker shut.

It’s impossible to leave town without money, but it’s also impossible to make money in a town like this. Under the thumb of someone like Klaus, controlled by his army of hybrids so nobody dares leave the borders of the city - it’s security so nobody gets out of town and spills the truth of what happens here. Klaus and his hybrids make it impossible to get ahead.

But you’re getting there. Slowly but surely. You really believe, or want to believe, that you’re going to be okay.

Because it’ll be hard to leave with money, but without it - it’ll be truly impossible.

“Whatever,” your fellow dancer says, acting as if you didn’t snap on her. “Just don’t forget why you’re dancing in Pleasers instead of ballet slippers. It’s because of him.”

You walk past her on your way out, funny enough, you think sarcastically, to go see Klaus. You always know when he arrives because the entire club is on edge, and the looks you get from the girls and the managers make it pretty obvious, what they think about you and what you’re doing with him.

When you get to Klaus, you’re upset, and you don’t waste time with pleasantries. You’re worried, that the little chats you two have, the humanity you’re starting to see in Klaus Mikaelson, is ruining your judgment of him. He’s killed half the town, has control of every aspect of this city, and you can’t forget that.

While you dance for him, on him, feel the touch of his hands and the drag of his cash against your skin, you keep reminding yourself of that. Like a mantra, on repeat. He’s a bad man, he’s a bad man, he’s a bad man. It gets worse when you grind against his lap and feel a rush of arousal, knowing that your nipples are hard against the fabric your bra and Klaus can most definitely see.

He's a bad man, he’s a bad man, he’s a bad man. But then it’s his last dance, and he’s just slipped a hundred dollar bill into the back of your thong, and his hands are running up and down the smooth skin of your thigh, and all you feel is pure, animalistic desire.

“Pretty little thing you are,” Klaus remarks, looking at you with an expression no murdering psychopathic werewolf vampire hybrid should be allowed to wear. “Absolutely gorgeous. Going to have to get one of my hybrids to rob another bank if you take any more cash from me,” he says, but you don’t laugh. You don’t know if he’s kidding or not.

Klaus hands you an extra tip when the dance is over, and he opens his mouth to say something when one of your managers walks over. Barry. Slimy and annoying and misogynistic and disgusting. You don’t see him a lot, since his business partner usually runs things, but when he is around you know it’s probably going to be a shitty shift.

“Y/N,” he says, and you freeze. What happened to using your stage name only? What happened to trying to keep a low profile, to not have any stalkers or the fucking villain of the city knowing your real name? Barry is such a fucking dumbass.

Still, you bite your tongue, ready to reply, when his hand lands on your shoulder. You’re still between Klaus’ legs, standing while he sits, and you can see the look on his face when Barry touches you. It’s strange, coming from the same guy that watches you dance for a hundred other men each night on stage, the same man that watches those men touch you and give you money just like he does.

But there’s fire in his eyes. Anger. And for the first time ever, you feel genuinely scared around Klaus.

You step towards Barry, and you know that move probably pisses Klaus off even more, even though you’re not really sure why he’s mad.

“Sorry, Mr. Mikaelson,” Barry says, totally unapologetic. Idiotic, that he doesn’t know he’s looking the grim reaper right in the face. “Someone’s requesting, Y/N. Private dance,” and Klaus just nods, but that look never leaves his eye.

You bid Klaus goodbye, thank him for his money, and follow Barry towards the private rooms. But you almost trip, only graceful on stage in these stupid fucking shoes, and Barry grabs your arm to steady you, drags you to the back rooms so fast it’s hard to even keep up.

────

A few days go by, and Barry doesn’t show up to his next shift.

Another few days go by, without anyone having heard from him.

The next day, there’s a news report for the neighboring town over, since this city doesn’t bother with its own news anymore. The body of a gentleman’s club owner was found in the lake. Body being the key word, because he was missing a head.

Barry.

You call in sick for work for the next three days, and you spend most of those days puking and shaking in your bed.

When you return to work, you’re given a locker far away from the others, and the other dancers, your manager and the bartenders all avoid you like you have the plague.

Just as well. You like your own space anyway.

────

“Why are you working here?” Klaus asks, his hand gripping your ass. You feel him slide his finger under the band of your thong, and then there’s the sharp feeling of cash poking into your skin that you know all too well.

You’re not sure how to answer that. You wonder if you should be honest, spit in his face (metaphorically, of course), tell him this job is your only chance at making enough money to escape from this hell hole of a city he created. That the other jobs you’re qualified for won’t pay enough to even make your rent.

But you know better, and most of all, you know men. Klaus thinks he’s complimenting you, by hinting that you’re too good for a place like this. Too good to shake your ass, to show off your breasts, to let some of the worst men in the city put their hands on you.

You’re also smart enough to know that even though it’s been three months since Klaus started coming in, since you started dancing for him - it doesn’t mean you’re friends. Doesn’t mean he won’t snap your neck if you look at him wrong, or have one of his hybrids follow you home if he can’t even be bothered to kill you himself.

Klaus doesn’t want anyone leaving the city, in fear that he’ll lose control, you suspect. Regardless of the special shared looks between you two, the electric feeling when you touch, you know he wouldn’t take kindly to you admitting you’re stripping to save up cash to find a way out of his dominion, because even if it’ll be hard to leave with money, the journey without it would be so much worse.

You wonder what to reply with, because you can tell he’s waiting for a response, even as you bend down and flick your hair, the smell of your perfume strong since you’re already breaking a sweat.

It’s a stripper trick, perfume under your hair, on your hairline. You notice that when you smell good, you get more tips.

Men are so easy.

You settle for something vague to answer Klaus, not wanting to divulge too much for your own safety.

“I like to dance,” you say, watching the way Klaus watches your movements. “I was a ballerina.” His eyes are on your waist, your lower back when you bend over, the way his gaze travels down your leg to your shoes. You prop your foot, in your ridiculous heels, onto the space next to him, and he runs his hand from your knee to your ankle.

It’s sensual, the feeling of his slightly rough fingers against your soft skin. Under the lights, the body glitter you’re wearing makes it look like your skin is made of sparkles, and the admiration in his gaze makes you weak in the knees. You’re literally shaking, but Klaus steadies you with a hand around your ankle, playing with the anklet you’ve got on. “Nice feet for a dancer,” he teases, catching a glimpse of the polish on your toes.

In a move more intimate than anything he’s done in the three months you’ve been dancing for him, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, right by your knee, his eyes never leaving yours.

You’re not breathing. You’re not moving. The music is blasting and it’s actually one of your favorite songs to dance to, but all you can think about is the fact that this creature - the one that’s the cause of nightmares for the people of this town, the name you used to associate with panic and anxiety, just pressed a soft kiss to your leg.

Klaus lets go of your ankle, gently drops your foot to the floor, and leans back in his seat. Legs spread, even his sitting stance powerful, confident.

Sexy.

You don’t know what to do. Luckily for you, Klaus tells you.

“Show me your best, tiny dancer,” he says, tipping his chin towards you. It’s a cheesy nickname, funny coming from someone like him, but your body heats at his use of it anyway.

“Let me see you move.”

────

“Am I the reason those girls are giving you nasty looks?” Klaus asks, and you pause whatever shimmy move you were doing while straddling his lap. It takes a second for you to understand what he’s really asking.

You follow his gaze to the stage, where there’s three other dancers standing by the edge of it, looking at you like you’re the devil himself.

Or, you realize, there’s a better chance that they’re glaring at the devil whose lap you’re straddling.

You shrug.

Because Klaus is right - he is the reason those girls are giving you nasty looks. You didn’t think he could possibly ruin anything else, but when he started coming to the club, you realized that you were so, so wrong. Because by thinking that, that you were untouchable from the drama Klaus created, you created more.

He has to know that. Hasn’t lived a thousand years by being stupid. Klaus must realize that by engaging in whatever thing you two have going on, it’s making your life at work worse, but you doubt he’d care anyway. You know it’s just a dance to him, something to kill the time when he’s not out destroying anything, but deep down -

You know it’s more. More of what, you’re not sure, but there’s something there that goes beyond just dancing. You’ve spent time with Klaus almost every night for the past four months. Keeping a thousand year old hybrid’s attention for that long has got to count for something, so you decide, fuck it.

Klaus has killed for you, and the thought gives you shivers. You can be a big girl and put yourself out there, because the honest truth?

Life really couldn’t get any worse.

“You are,” you reply, hands gripping his shoulders. He doesn’t feel like you thought he would, being a vampire and all. You imagined a hard body, made of stone, cold to the touch. Klaus feels strong and solid but warm, like a real man. The thought turns you on more than it should. You shouldn’t be getting turned on by Klaus at all.

This is a job. But never claimed to be the smartest.

“Nobody likes you,” you admit, and it just kind of comes out.

Quickly, you try to recover. “I just mean that, you know, when you came into town,” where the fuck are you supposed to go from here to save face? The last thing you want to do is upset him, make life even worse for yourself, but it still comes out. “They don’t like me because of you.”

You hold your breath, ready for Klaus to throw you off his lap. Snap your neck. Bite you with one of those deadly werewolf bites people keep popping up with around the town. There’s a waiting list, of people begging for some of Klaus’ magic, all healing blood.

Maybe you’re next.

But nothing violent ever comes. Instead, Klaus laughs.

Throws his head back, like you just told the joke of the century. You don’t need to look around the packed club to know that everyone is looking at you now, and your body heats up in embarrassment. So long, shivers of arousal.

Klaus stops laughing and looks at you, intense, and you realize it’s one of the first times you’ve made eye contact with him. Serious eye contact, beyond just looking at each other when your tits are on his face or when you thank him for the cash.

You look away first.

“You’re not like them,” Klaus says, but he says it almost like a question. You know he’s talking about the other dancers, and you agree - you feel different from them, always have. Have never quite fit in with the crowd, especially with other girls your age. You’ve always been a little standoffish - awkward your mother used to say.

You imagine what she’d have to say about you right now.

“I know,” you say back, eyes focused on the necklaces around Klaus’ neck. You’re too frozen, too nervous, to say anything else. To meet his gaze again. Something about what’s happening feels crazy intimate, which sounds insane because you shake your ass in his face most nights, but this simple conversation is breaking down walls of emotions you haven’t addressed for years.

“You’re not scared of me,” he continues, and you shake your head because he’s wrong.

“I am,” you reply.

Klaus is silent for a moment, studying your face, looking around the room for reasons you don’t understand. Then he lifts your chin, forces you to meet his eyes.

“If I get a room,” he asks, and at that, you feel your heart beating faster. It only took four months. “Can we talk?”

That’s the scariest thing he’s asked for since you’ve known him. Talk. You’re not sure you’d be a good conversationalist.

But you nod anyway, secretly wonder if he compelled you because you agreed so easily, or maybe it’s just because you’re curious. Wonder what this man could possibly want with you, what he could possibly want to say to you or hear from you.

You lead him to the private room and hold out your hand for the payment. Klaus sits down on the couch when you close the door, and he looks at you with an expression like he can’t believe you don’t trust that he’ll pay after the dance.

You know he’s good for the money, but it’s just club protocol. But something about his face, offended, makes you want to giggle.

So the legend that is Klaus Mikaleson gets his feelings hurt. Good to know.

“Jen wants it in the box before we dance,” you explain, referring to your other manager. Klaus clicks his tongue and takes his wallet out, hands over a stack of cash that you don’t even bother counting. Your mind is too caught up on the fact that the news reported another bank robbery in the neighboring town, and you wonder if that’s where the cash in your hand is from.

Wonder if Klaus is expanding his territory.

But those thoughts are all wiped away when Klaus speaks as you turn your back to him, place the money in a little box with a digital code so your manager can grab it when you’re done in the room. There’s a switch, and you turn the light on, signaling that the room is in use.

“Jen. Seems like Barry is no longer working here?” Klaus asks, his voice is dripping with humor, and even though you dont give a fuck about Barry, like, at all - it just reminds you who you’re sharing a room with. Makes you a little sick to your stomach, and you grip the counter you’re standing at to gain your composure, to take a deep breath.

Then you turn to face Klaus.

It’s now or never. It’s time to talk to him, because that’s what he seems to want. As you get closer to him, as the electricity between you grows stronger with each step, the way he looks at you, with warm eyes that don’t belong to monsters, you have to remind yourself of your mantra. He’s a bad man, he's a bad man, he’s a bad man.

But you sit beside him on the sofa anyway.

“Why did you do it?” You ask, referring to Barry, but you both know that you already know the answer. Klaus reaches out, more confident in the private room away from the crowds, you realize. But most men are. You suppose that there’s more similarities between a monster like Klaus and the average man, and that’s a terrifying thought - but one you’re not very surprised by.

Klaus grips your thigh and moves you closer to him and your breath hitches. His touch does things to you. Makes the tiny hairs on your arm stand up, makes arousal pool deep in your belly in a way it doesn’t, hasn’t, when any other man touches you.

“He grabbed you,” Klaus says calmly, like he’s telling you about his day, and not the reasons he beheaded the manager at your job. “Frankly, he’s annoying. Thought that before I saw him with you, but then I watched the way he looked at you, treated you,” he pauses, hand creeping up your thigh.

You wonder how far Klaus is going to go. With what he’s revealing by what he’s saying, and because of how close his hand is to the inside of your thigh, going higher and higher to your pussy that’s only covered by a thin layer of lace.

“But most importantly,” Klaus says, with a little shrug of his shoulders like he’s embarrassed to admit this part and is trying to play it off. “He tried to interrupt my time with you.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you say nothing. You wish you cared more about Barry’s death, but you just don’t. It’s been a long time since you cared about anything, and maybe you’re just hardened from this fucked up world you’ve been living in, but it’s not like the world would miss someone like Barry.

“Why now?” You ask, wondering why now was finally the time Klaus pulled the trigger to get a room with you. “Why wait months to get a private room with me?” You really don’t want to sound insecure, but it’s been months of just wondering.

Wondering why Klaus comes to the club only to see you - wondering if you’re his first choice or just the only choice, wondering if he feels the chemistry between you two that’s so thick you could probably slice it with a knife.

Wonders if he thinks about you when he’s not around you - because you can’t stop thinking about him.

“I wanted you to be comfortable with me,” he answers honestly, and you actually laugh. It’s funny, that the terrifying force in this city wants you to be comfortable, but his plan worked. You are comfortable with him. Comfortable with someone who some people in this city view as the grim reaper himself.

“You caught my eye,” he continues, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. It’s a little ridiculous, that you’ve been almost naked in front of him every night, yet an arm around your shoulders makes you feel more vulnerable.

But maybe that’s because it’s also a step closer to snapping your neck.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a thousand years, and I wanted to get closer to you,” he admits.

Nothing could have prepared you for that.

Not for what that confession means, not for what the arm around your shoulders feels like after the words leave his mouth. There’s something safe about it, something warm - because if the boogeyman is on your side, there’s no possible way you could be hurt by him.

“There’s something different about you,” he says, just stroking over the skin of your leg. He’s so much bigger than you, and you’re against his side, and you’re feeling a lot like prey being hunted by a predator. Except this predator has already got you, and you’ve spent so much time hiding and running and just trying to survive that being able to admit defeat actually feels good.

This predator is the strongest thing on earth. He could kill you right now if he wanted to, but instead he’s complimenting you.

How can you even begin to wrap your head around that information?

“I sense it, Y/N. What a beautiful name, by the way. I guess we have Barry to thank for one thing, telling me who you really are,” as he talks, you swear you’re shaking. You don’t know how to react in this moment, have spent so much time not reacting to anything for fear of feeling anything negative, that you’re not even sure if this is a negative or positive situation.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, because that’s obviously what this is. Klaus wants something from you, because he’s a man, isn’t he? A hybrid but a man, and they never just give, whether it’s a compliment or a dollar, without wanting something in return.

But Klaus shakes his head.

“I think I’m in a better position to be asking that question, love. I have a lot to give. What do you want from me?”

────

Klaus pays for a private room three nights a week, but he stops his other visits, doesn’t watch you do your regular set anymore.

At first, you were worried, wondered where he was, because you’re beyond playing dumb now.

You like him.

Where is the line between good and evil? Klaus is bad, in every way, but he’s never been bad to you. In fact, he’s treated you better than anyone has treated you in a long time. Maybe ever. You’ve never known harm at his hands.

It’s been a month of late night meetings. An hour together in the private rooms, three times a week, where you just…talk, mostly.

Klaus asked what he could do for you, and you told him the truth.

You want out of this town. You want out of this job. You want out of this life, struggling to pay bills, scared to walk alone in the city at night for fear of one of his uncontrollable hybrids coming to kill you.

Slowly, Klaus begins to understand who you are. Where you’re coming from, even if he does tense up when you mention that your end goal is to leave what he believes to be his paradise.

You tell him that your only goal in life was to be a professional dancer. That before he came into town, you were accepted into a performing arts school for ballet. How you were so excited, ready to leave this town behind because even before Klaus came, you wanted out.

Never got along with your parents, had been hurt at the hands of men that you thought loved you. It was time for you to live your life - until the borders around the city were guarded by Klaus’ hybrids, and any chance of leaving slowly slipped through your fingers.

Dancing was your out back then, and it’s turning out to be your out now.

“Where are your parents?” Klaus asked, and you were silent for a moment, looking down at your lap. He waited, patiently, for you to answer.

“One of your hybrids killed them,” you admit, not wanting to get into details.

Klaus brushes some hair away from your face, and with no sympathy in his voice, he softly says, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t say anything further.

You’re not sorry, but you’d never admit that to anyone. It’s hard to even admit it to yourself. They were horrible people, but they were still your parents. It’s better not to think about them at all.

You’ll never be able to forgive Klaus Mikaeslon for the horrors he’s created, the things he’s done, but you can’t deny the way you feel around him. Excited, whether that be from nerves or something better. It’s just nice to feel something at all.

So you talk during these private sessions, although he doesn’t share much. And when things get to be too much, too vulnerable and too open and too personal for the both of you, you turn on the music and dance for him.

Although, as the sessions go on, it’s not so much dancing as it is foreplay - or something like that.

You still haven’t kissed, but you’ve done almost everything else. Have rubbed yourself, to orgasm, against the roughness of his jeans. Practically humped his leg. Your panties are thin and it was easy to get there, especially with the way he gripped your hips, moved you back and forth like he was thrusting inside of you.

You still get shivers when you think about his voice while you got there, “That’s it,” he’d said, accent thick and voice so dominant it nearly snatched the whine right out of your mouth. “There you go. What a good girl. Make yourself cum like this. It’ll be the real thing before you know it, love.” Klaus has the filthiest mouth - what it can say, and what it can do.

You’re not even sure how it happens. Just that sex isn’t allowed in the back rooms so you do everything but. You don’t know how you go from talking to cumming on his leg, how you go from sharing mundane stuff about yourself to sitting on his face, but it just happens.

Like magnets. You can’t stay away.

He unclipped your bra once, while you were mid story, pulled you from the couch onto his lap and sucked your nipples into his mouth until you were begging him for something. More. Anything. Even if it was just to get him off, you needed to do it. Couldn’t just sit around desperate for him to touch you.

So he laid back on the couch, told you to climb up his body and settle on his face like the queen you were. “King of this city, you called me?” He teased, nuzzling the inside of your thigh with his face. The slight stubble on his skin rubbing against your innermost leg was delicious. “Guess my face is fit for a queen. Sit down, sweetheart. You deserve to feel good.”

He’s a thousand years old - how many women has he orally serviced? A lot, you imagine, because you’ve never felt anything quite like that. Nothing has ever felt so good, but he’s had a lot of practice.

The memory makes your pussy weep with want.

It’s still hard to wrap your head around the fact that someone who has the potential for so much hurt, touches you so softly. How someone who’s caused so much, can bring so much pleasure.

But it’s those extremes that make it so hot.

It’s so wrong, that you’re doing these things with Klaus Mikaelson. But it feels so right.

“What do you want from me?” You ask again tonight, sitting on his lap while he keeps your thighs open, plays with your pussy right there on his lap. It’s erotic almost, how gentle he’s being, like he’s just exploring you. There’s no build up, no ulterior notice as far as you know.

You’re just getting to know each other.

Klaus ignores your question completely, knuckle brushing over your clit, swollen with want. He ignores the gasp you let you.

“You know why we always meet here, don’t you?” He says instead of answering you. You furrow your brows, grip his shoulder, shake your head. Klaus answers.

“Because I don’t want anyone knowing who you are.” He means his hybrids. His army. His family.

His answer stings for a minute, for the rest of the night actually, even when Klaus makes you cum from his fingers and sucks them into his mouth to get the taste of you off of them. He tips you enough cash that your wallet literally can’t close.

But what did you expect? You’re a stripper, and he’s Klaus, and he probably does this with a bunch of girls, your insecure brain screams out.

Of course he wouldn’t introduce you to anyone important to him. What did you think this was?

He just enjoys your company because you let him touch you. That’s it.

But then you get home, to your shitty apartment, and you turn on the news. You count your cash on your bed, cold and hungry, too afraid to go out tonight and grab something to eat since you didn’t make it grocery shopping earlier these last few days.

But that’s when you realize what he meant.

Three men murdered, the news says, but you don’t hear the little details. You don’t really care, to be honest. All you hear is, Killed because of their involvement with Klaus Mikaelson, and now you get it. There’s been people rising up against him, wanting to take the city back. Which is a good thing, you know, but you’re stupidly happy about your realization.

Klaus was trying to keep you safe.

────

“No boyfriend tonight?”

A regular at the club, one whose name you don’t remember, grabs your arm as you get off the stage. Usually, there’s backup from the other girls or even a manager or security, but nobody likes you or trusts you enough to help you out.

Fuck them all.

You pull out of the man’s grasp and begin walking to the bar, hoping for a drink, but he won’t leave you alone. “I notice you’ve been hogging the private rooms. Nobody can get a dance from you,” he says, and once you’re at the bar, you sit at the barstool, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

Klaus won’t admit it if you ask, not that you would, but you know he’s the reason you always get a private room whenever you want. He compels the managers, or whoever he needs to.

You wish you had that talent.

“I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m just busy,” you tell the man, flagging the bartender down, who looks like he plans on ignoring you, just like the rest of the dancers and everyone else.

The man scoffs. You try to remember his name. Martin, maybe? You meet a lot of men. And it’s not like this one is anyone special.

“You think you’re too good for me now,” he says, which means you must’ve met him or danced privately for him before. The thought makes you disgusted with yourself.

“Ever since you became the whore of that creature, you’re suddenly too good for the rest of us. Sorry we don’t have buckets of money to hand you like he does. It’s only because he’s stolen from us and our families. Does he pay to fuck you too? I’m sure I can afford that. Ever since you got with him, you’ve even been a shitty dancer,” and he keeps ranting.

You’ve had enough.

A lot of what he said is true, But that creature comment, the dancing comment? The fact that he’d even think he ever has a chance of fucking you?

Fuck no. You just react, and before you realize what you’re doing, you toss a drink in his face.

Which is when shit hits the fan. He charges at you, throws you off the chair, is about to yank you up by the hair when he’s suddenly on the ground.

You’re scared to open your eyes.

“Up you get, love,” you hear, in a voice that’s familiar. You’d know that accent anywhere - it’s been in your ear almost every night for half a year.

Klaus.

A bar full of people claiming to be better than him, claiming to be worried about you - and not a single one of them tried to help you when you were almost attacked just now.

But the villain in their lives, the monster that has them all losing sleep - he came to your rescue.

What does that say about the character of everyone else?

You don’t care about playing cool anymore. Klaus bends at the knees, looks at you with a worried expression, and offers his hand. You take it, and once you’re standing you throw yourself into his arms.

What a fool you are, hugging this beast of a man, but you don’t care. You were scared just now. More scared than you’ve ever been around Klaus.

“Why are you here so early?” You ask, pulling away just slightly to look at Klaus’ face. Everyone at the club is cowering in the far corners of the building, and you know why.

The fuck that tried to attack you is dead. You heard the snap. Klaus snapped his neck and he kicks him aside so you have more room to stand, like he’s nothing more than a piece of dirt under his shoe.

There’s something symbolic about that, you think. You’ve never had someone stand up for you like Klaus, and you wonder what your life would be like if you had someone standing up for you like this in your past when you needed it.

Klaus doesn’t answer. He’s looking at your arm, where there will no doubt be a bruise from where Martin grabbed you. He’s red in the face, looks so mad you’re worried he’s going to burn down the bar, but the thought doesn’t scare you.

No, it brings you peace. You’re done with this place. This club. The people here.

Fuck. Them. All.

“You should go home,” Klaus says, and you nod your head, but then he pulls away from you. Walks around the club, threatening every single person in the room.

“If someone lays a hand on this woman again - if someone so much as looks at her wrong on her way out of here, I will kill you and every person you love. I’ll kill you and every person you’ve ever met,” his voice is cold, and you know he’s serious.

A good girl would feel bad, that violence is being threatened by the people here. But maybe you’re not good. Maybe it just took someone like Klaus to get you to see that. People can have all sorts of layers, all sorts of labels - but nobody is truly bad or good.

People are people, and they do bad things. Some do good things. But all that really matters, you think, is what they do to you.

And Klaus Mikaelson, hybrid savage, has been nothing but good to you.

He walks back to you and tells you to collect your things, that he’ll figure out a way to get you home. You’re not worried about anyone finding out you’re with him, what that could mean for you.

No, all you’re thinking about is how you can show Klaus just how grateful you are that he saved you.

In more ways than just the way he saved you tonight.

────

“I hope you’re not mad,” Klaus says, following you into the back room. It’s empty, because nobody with half a mind would follow Klaus after his threat. 

The peace is marvelous, even though you’re shaken up by what just happened. 

You open your locker, grab your bag out of it and make sure you still have your cash from your earlier set. When Martin pushed you, (rest in hell, Martin), the cash you had on you completely fell out. You don’t doubt that some of the greedy girls you work with probably already scooped it up. 

Truly disgusting. You can’t wait to get out of here and never return. What you’re going to do, you’re not sure, but you’re a survivor. You’ll figure it out. 

You always have. 

“Mad?” You question Klaus, zipping up your bag when you confirm all your belongings are together. You face him, and his expression reads like he can’t believe you’re pretending to be confused. He just killed a man in front of you. 

Which was an exaggerated reaction, in any case. Klaus didn’t have to snap his neck. He could’ve just beat him up, or thrown him out of the club, now that you think about it. 

But you still don’t feel bad. Like Barry, the world won’t miss a guy like Martin. 

“I’m not mad at all,” you promise, because you’re not. You’ve changed, and that much is obvious. Whether it be from Klaus, from this town, from something else entirely - you don’t know. Maybe you’ve always just been bad, deep down, and that’s why things turned out the way they did. Maybe that’s what your parents saw in you all along, why they treated you the way they did. 

Why everyone in your life has always treated you poorly. 

When Klaus stays silent, you slam your locker. “Martin had it coming. Follow me?”

Klaus is speechless, but he obeys, which is crazy in itself. The man that can’t be tamed, following you down the hall to the private rooms. You both enter, and when the door closes and you lock it behind you, you toss your bag on the ground. 

“What are you doing?” Klaus questions, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks unsure. He hasn’t carefully crafted this moment, isn’t in control of it, and you wonder how that feels for someone like him. He’s spent the last few years, no, his whole life, trying to be in charge of every single situation. Making an entire city his prisoners, just so he can come out on top. 

The thought turns you on. You’re done pretending - because there’s nothing that gives you as big of a rush as having the big, bad hybrid wrapped around your little finger. It’s obvious now, that whatever little crush you have on Klaus, he reciprocates. And he helped you tonight, stood up for you, was on your side. 

Besides, death happens all the time in this city these days. So what if Martin is dead. He can join Barry in hell. No one has ever stood up for you before, and you’re going to ride the high, the feeling of someone caring about you, for as long as possible. 

“Thank you for protecting me tonight,” you tell Klaus, walking towards him. He’s already on the couch, and you waste no time plopping yourself down on one of his legs, your rightful seat on his lap. He wraps an arm around you, rests his hand on your hip. “Nobody’s ever done that for me before.”

Maybe it’s pathetic to admit, that no one has ever cared for you as much as Klaus has, when he’s really only paid to watch you dance and talk and cum. But it’s the truth, and you think you owe him that much for what he did for you tonight. 

What he’s been doing for you, since he arrived at the club. Whether he realizes it or not. 

“I don’t like hearing that,” he says, which is not the reply you expected. You look at him, feel his fingers stroking gently over the skin of your hip like he can’t not touch you. “I don’t like knowing you’ve never had anyone to protect you before.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. Instead, you drop from his lap to your knees in front of him. You’re quick as you reach for his belt, unbuckle it, go to unzip his pants - but Klaus tries to stop you. 

“What are you doing?” He asks again, as if it’s not obvious. But you know what he means. This isn’t a normal reaction to what just happened, but what about this situation is normal? Klaus is immortal, part fucking wolf, and you’re a stripper who’s about to put his cock in your mouth.

“Thanking you, Klaus,” you say softly, a strange confidence overtaking you. Maybe that’s all you needed to feel better about yourself. To be more sure of yourself. Maybe all you needed was someone to show they cared, even just a smidge. Even just an inch.

“Y/N,” he warns, even as you take his hard cock in your hand. He’s already turned on, and you realize it’s from what just happened in the main room of the club. Klaus gets turned on from violence, from hurting other people - and apparently you get turned on that violence and hurting people gets him going. 

Klaus has a beautiful cock. It’s big, thick, the perfect size in comparison to his body. It’s veiny and pink, and you can’t help it, you lick your lips like you can’t wait to get a taste. 

You can’t. You’re desperate for it, have thought about his cock and what it’d feel like in your mouth since you met him, if you’re being honest with yourself. Have wondered what it’d be like to get intimate with someone as powerful as him. Wondered if it’d make you feel submissive to be in the presence of a man like Klaus, or if you’d feel more powerful by association. 

With his cock in your mouth, you realize you feel powerful. Making Klaus Mikaelson shudder, controlling his pleasure with your tongue and the suck of your lips - the power is intoxicating. 

But it’s fleeting, because just as soon as your power started, Klaus puts a hand in your hair. He guides you along the length of his cock, and you let him, eager to please him. Drool runs down your chin, and Klaus bucks his hips up and begins to talk dirty. 

“You’ve been thinking of this, haven’t you? Fuck,” he growls, and you moan against his length. It sends shudders through his body, you realize, because you feel his dick twitch in your mouth. “My little dancer. So eager to please me. Fuck, sweetheart. Your mouth was made for this.”

It’d be degrading if it wasn’t so hot. But everything Klaus is saying is true. There’s a certain allure to his darkness, and while you suck him off, or - while he uses your mouth - you begin to make the realization that the other dancers didn’t really hate Klaus. 

They were jealous of you. They probably wanted him, but just couldn’t work up the courage to go over to him like you did. Maybe you’re stronger than you realize, you think. 

Or maybe just more stupid. 

Suddenly, Klaus pulls you off of his cock. “Up, love,” he orders, and you do as he says, wiping the drool from your mouth with the back of your hand. When you’re standing, he rips your panties off first and then your bra, like an animal, smirks when he sees your naked body. 

Your bra and panties lay on the ground by your feet, and Klaus looks at them smugly before palming your breast. “Been waiting ages to do that,” he admits, presumably about ripping your clothes off of you. Then he switches his attention to your body, and he hums, something in his eyes that almost makes it look like he can’t believe this is real. 

“You’re glorious,” he murmurs, pinching one of your nipples. With the hand that’s not cupping your breast, he rubs it up and down your waist, feeling your skin - almost like he’s trying to make sure you’re real. That this moment is real. 

You know the feeling. 

“Every curve, every inch of your perfect skin,” Klaus stands then, pulling your body to his. In between you both, so close like this, you feel his hard cock poking you. It’s so erotic, so fucking hot, and you know if he were to feel between your legs that you’d be soaking. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N. Made to be admired.”

There’s a pause while he looks at your mouth, like he wants to kiss you, and you think it’s finally going to happen - all of this, yet you’ve never kissed yet. And you want it more than anything, maybe even more than you want his cock inside of you. 

But it doesn’t happen. Instead, Klaus pulls away, gently pushing you down onto the couch. “Hands and knees, sweetheart,” he says, as if that’s not obvious, but you obey anyway. 

Of course you do, and he knows you will too. 

You hear Klaus behind you, taking the rest of his clothes off. The sound of his belt hitting the floor, his shirt being shrugged off, shoes kicked off. But when he gets behind you, your back to his chest, his arms bracketing both sides of you, all you can focus on is the feel of his necklaces against your skin. They’re cold, and they make you arch your back. 

Klaus chuckles, his dick poking at your wet entrance. “Such a good girl, arching without instruction,” and then he pauses, pulls away a little. Maybe you look nervous, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but he asks tentatively, “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

Your body heats in embarrassment. Can he really see how little experience you have when it comes to sex? But you shake your head and softly say, “No.”

“Just a few men,” you clarify, and you feel Klaus press a kiss to your back. He lines his dick back up with your entrance, pushing in slowly. 

“I hope they die,” he says randomly, and it catches you so off guard that you forget to breathe when he pushes himself into you. It’s a stretch for sure, but only for a second. Because you’re so turned on, your body opens for him, and it feels so good that all you can do is whine. 

Klaus has turned you to putty in his hands, on his cock, and it’s the first time you can remember ever being able to let go of all the thoughts that have you spiraling on the daily. For the first time in a long time, you’re able to just focus on the present moment - which is, currently, squeezing Klaus’ dick with your tight little pussy. 

“Fuck,” you whimper. He’s got one arm on one side of you holding himself up, and the other gripping your shoulder, pulling you up against his body. The angle makes his dick hit such a good spot inside of you that your eyes almost roll back into your head. 

Forget the oral sex from someone with almost a thousand years of practice, you think, his dick is fucking magic.

“Klaus,” you moan, fingers gripping the arm of the couch. You dig your nails into the fabric, but then Klaus reaches forwards and smacks your hands away so you’re holding onto nothing. You’re worried you’re going to fly away in pleasure, only able to focus on the feeling of his cock going in and out of your tight, wet heat. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s -

“Focus on me,” Klaus orders, instructing you to keep your hands in front of you. You hold them together while he holds you both up, knees on the couch like you’re a pair of animals rutting against each other. It’s feral. “Focus on my cock inside of you, Y/N. I know you’ve been waiting for it. Tell me how it feels.”

How can you even begin to describe the sensation? 

“Good, it’s,” but then he hits that spot again and you moan, losing track of all your words. Klaus pulls out and thrusts back in again, and in a move that surprises you so much you actually gasp, he smacks you on the ass. 

“That’s not a full sentence, doll. Try again.”

Bastard. Monster. Fucking ass. 

But you try again anyway. 

“It feels good, Klaus, so good. You’re so big and I’ve wanted this for so long and, and,” you can’t say anything else. All the build up that has led to this moment is causing you to break down, and when he moves his hand from your shoulder to the front of your body, past your tits and to your pussy, presses down on your clit when he cups your cunt in his hand, you lose it. 

You’re going to cum, and the pleasure is so overwhelming, you feel like you’re going to cry too. 

Klaus must notice this, or he feels the same, because his thrusts get sloppier and then he lets you go, so you’re back to being bent over on your knees, his solid body using you to make himself bust. “Touch yourself for me,” he orders, more out of breath than when he snapped someone’s neck, and you wonder if that’s because he’s working himself out - or if he’s holding back some of his strength. 

“God, these fucking shoes. I always wondered if you’d keep them on while you were getting fucked,” and just like that, Klaus’ stripper fantasy is revealed. You’re flattered. 

You reach a hand under your body and rub your clit, hand cramping, arm at an awkward angle, but it’s worth it. You feel so good, and it’s not just sexual. It’s everything. So much all at once. 

It’s Klaus, and with that thought in mind you cum, feeling your pussy pulse arouse his cock. 

He doesn’t cum at the same time as you, but he does let out a growl so deep you worry it’s a full moon. “Fucking hell, Y/N,” he moans, gripping your hips so tight they’ll leave bruises. “I could fuck you forever,” and you hope he does. But then his thrusts get faster, and you know he’s about to cum. 

Klaus buries his face in your hair, breathing you in, pressing kisses to the back of your shoulders and the back of your neck. “Tell me you won’t forget me when you’re gone,” he says, before letting out another moan. “Fuck, I’m cumming.”

It’s so sudden, both his release and his comment, that you don’t say anything at all. You just feel the heaviness of his body on your back, the way he fills you up with his cock and his seed, leaking out of you as he pulls out, and the feel of something rough cleaning you off a second later. 

He’s using your ripped up panties to wipe you off. 

You don’t plan on bringing up what he said as you get dressed. Maybe he said it in a moment of pleasure, but the truth is - you can’t get it off your mind. If he means what you think he means, that you’ll be leaving town soon, then why do you feel so disappointed at the thought of leaving him?

You put on a pair of pants and a sweatshirt from your bag, no longer a sexy vixen, and you know Klaus has never seen you like this. You hope it doesn’t change his view on you, but there’s literally nothing else you can wear. 

This was all you brought. 

“You never answered me,” Klaus says as you put on your shoes. You’re so happy to take the heels off, and your feet scream in relief when you slip on your boots. They’re flat, they’re comfortable, and you feel more like yourself than you did just a second ago. 

You’re not sure if that’s good or bad. There was something kind of nice about the armor that was your stripper outfit. You could pretend to be someone you’re not, almost like a mask, even if it sounds stupid because you were almost naked in the outfit. 

“How could I forget you, Klaus?” You say, but you mean it in more ways than just in regards to the connection you share. How could you ever forget the man that burst into town all those years ago, who disrupted and destroyed so much for so many people? 

But you think he means promise you’ll remember me as something more than a monster, and if that’s the case, you want to tell him that you will. 

Of course you will. 

“Where am I going?” You ask for clarification, because you know what he means - it’s something you’ve talked about before. You just never knew Klaus was really listening. 

You want him to say what you think he’s going to say. 

Klaus walks towards you, necklaces tangled around his neck. The buttons of his henley are lopsided and his jeans are wrinkled from when they were on the floor while he was fucking you. He looks utterly distressed, and you realize it’s because of the conversation you’re having. 

He doesn’t want you to leave, and that scares you as much as it warms your heart.  

When he reaches you, he grabs your hands in his. Whatever you two have - it’s complicated, and you can tell that it’s taking everything in Klaus to do the right thing right now. 

“You’re going to leave town. You’re going to that performing arts school you’ve put off for a few years,” he smirks at that, and then you realize he’s making a dark joke. Like you’ve had any choice in putting off school. 

“Klaus, I,” but you don’t know what to say. You should be screaming yes. Should be running out the door to go home and grab your money from the safe under your bed, should be offering to suck Klaus off again just to guarantee your freedom. This is what you’ve been wishing for and wanting forever. 

This is your golden ticket. 

Yet you find yourself saying, “I can’t.” 

Klaus looks at you like you’re crazy, and maybe you are. But you think you see a little relief in his eyes too. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, because it’s not like you can stay for Klaus. There’s no future with this. No future for this. For you both together. 

This is it. It’s the beginning and the end of something, and the thought fills you with so much emotion you don’t know what to do. You’re not sure what the emotion is, think that it could very well be love, but you’ve never known love. It’s a stranger. All you know is that you feel. 

You remind yourself that at the very least, Klaus Mikaelson is the reason you can feel again. 

“I hoped you’d say that,” Klaus laughs, and then he looks at you, and suddenly you blank out. 

You can hear it, it’s registering in your brain, but you’re not totally conscious of it. It’s almost like someone’s talking to you from another room, like you’re half asleep. All you hear is his voice, telling you, “You’re going to leave town. You’re going to that performing arts school you’ve put off.” He holds your hands so tight, you’re worried they’ll be bruised when he pulls away. 

He’s trying to compel you, you realize, in the back of your mind. He tells you he’s already got you registered, did research on your name and your background because he can do things like that, that there’s someone waiting at your apartment to take you across the city border, and your money is safe. You’ll be okay. 

Money won’t be an issue anymore. 

You go to do as he says, but just as you head to the door, he comes to you. Turns you around and grabs your head, looks you over and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Thank you, Y/N, for the dances,” he says. It’s a strange goodbye. “Remember me as someone good.”

You don’t tell him that his request is unnecessary. That there’s no reason to compel you to think of him like that. 

Because you’ll always remember him as someone good. 

Good to you.

────

9 Months Later:

It’s the end of your first show, and you’re on top of the world. 

You’ve been practicing for months, and you’re proud of yourself for how far you’ve come. When you first arrived, you had a lot of practice to catch up on, as was expected. It was overwhelming at first, turning back into a ballerina, but your instructor told you that she can’t believe you took such a long break from dancing. 

She always compliments you, tells you that whatever practice you were doing at home kept you in shape. That you must’ve been born a talented dancer, if this is how you dance with a lapse in years of professional training. 

She’s sweet.

If only she knew. 

The show, recital, was a success. You’re leaving the auditorium, ready to shower back in your campus apartment and change your clothes to meet up with some friends. Your new life is so normal, so fun, it’s hard to believe what your past used to be. 

You never really think about it. You’re too busy to think about it most days, with all the dancing and new friends and normal life shit you’ve become adjusted to. You never thought you would get to this place, literally and figuratively, and you know you only have one person to thank. 

It’s hard sometimes, reasoning with yourself if your thoughts go back to Klaus Mikaelson. He was the cause of some of the worst years of your life, but he was also your savior. Where, how, do you come to terms with that? Where does blame start, and when does forgiveness begin? 

Is a good deed still a good deed if the only reason the deed was needed was because of something bad they did? 

Believe it or not, you’re not a philosophy major. Just inquisitive, with a lot more time to think now that you’re not in survival mode all the time. Maybe you just want an excuse to think about Klaus when he crosses your mind, but the truth is, long thoughts and morals aside -

It doesn’t matter what he did, because you forgive him. People do bad things all the time and never make it right, but Klaus - he did right by you.

That’s got to count for something.

You’re heading up the stairs that lead to your apartment when you…see him? 

Is it -

No, it couldn’t be. Why would he be here? 

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. 

But it’s not. In front of your apartment door, holding a bouquet of red roses, is Klaus Mikaelson in the flesh. 

You wonder if you’re just experiencing psychosis from lack of sleep - it’s different from what you used to experience back then. Your lack of sleep now is from studying and hanging out with friends, late night dance practices. Not hunger and anxiety and insomnia.

“Y/N,” Klaus says, and it's weird. This is weird, but if he’s talking that means it’s real.

What is he doing here? 

And why does your heart speed up like it did back when you first saw him at the club? 

“What are you doing here?” You ask, but your tone isn’t mean. You’re happy to see him. There’s no explanation. It’s chemical - you just are.

You’ve avoided the news about your former city like the plague. It’s easy, in all honesty, because you still don’t have a phone. It doesn’t matter to you, because the past is the past. You don’t want to know, and you’re scared, that if you think about it too hard, the past might suck you back in.

You were given a golden ticket and you’d be stupid to look back. 

But, strangely enough, the part of your past you don’t mind thinking about is standing in front of you. He looks proud, and he smiles with something like shyness behind it. 

You feel silly, in stage makeup and another sweatshirt. You still can’t wrap your head around it, who Klaus is and what he’s done and what he’s done for you. Maybe you never will. 

He hands you the roses and you thank him. It’s silent, while he looks you over, and you him. Handsome as always, because he doesn’t age, looking far too expensive to be standing in this apartment complex. 

Money isn’t an issue anymore because someone anonymous (cough, Klaus) paid for the entirety of your tuition at once, and also gifted you enough cash that you deposited into an account that could feed you for years - but you’re frugal with your money. Could live somewhere nicer, but you just want to be careful. 

You never know what could happen. Good or bad. Best to stay safe. 

“I’ve never missed a performance, and I don’t intend to start now,” is all Klaus says, and that does something to you. 

He’s never missed a performance, you think. Never at the club, even when you thought he wasn’t there. Which is how he protected you that night, against Martin. Klaus has always been watching, protecting -

And if that’s the case, it makes sense that for your first public performance tonight, he was there. 

Nobody has ever been there for you like that. 

You’re so much different now. You’re not so insecure, not so nervous - you don’t worry so much. You can actually joke around, laugh a little bit, take things as they come instead of letting trauma run your life. 

So you’re not the shy, damaged girl you were back when you left Klaus at the club that night. Which gives you the confidence to say this. 

“You never kissed me,” you blurt out, and Klaus laughs. Steps closer to you, so close that you can smell his cologne. Woodsy, warm, maybe a little mint? Your body heats up at his closeness. 

“Maybe that’s for the best, love,” Klaus says, with a tinge of regret in his voice. You know he’s right, but you can’t help but slip down the trail of memory lane with him. Standing this close to him, stage makeup on again, his stupid necklaces on display. 

The only physical difference from back then are the clothes you’re wearing and where you are. But there’s so much else that’s different, it’s almost like Klaus is visiting from another world.

“What did you think of my dance?” It’s the same thing you used to ask him every night at the club. Nostalgia is a dirty liar, because there’s something that makes you miss that. 

Miss him. 

You have to look away. 

“You’re a goddess. Now. Then,” Klaus reaches out, pushes some of your hair behind your ear. “Always. But I have to say, the heels were a little hotter than the slippers.” You grin.

Sharing history with this monster. Smiling with this beast. Only Klaus doesn’t feel so much like those descriptions anymore. 

At least, he’s not the monster of your story. You know a handful of people that could fill that role. 

Klaus Mikaelson is your savior. 

“Good to see your compulsion is still working,” he says, and you wonder if he means to say it out loud. You quirk a brow, but it’s now or never. 

This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. 

“I’ve been taking vervain for years,” you admit shyly, opening the door to your apartment. His compulsion never worked on you. 

“Do you want to come inside?” 

[joelmillersbedroom]

sinner | k.m

⎯⎯ “From herself? From love? You dress cruelty in the robes of righteousness and expect her to kneel. I see it for what it is — venom in a chalice.”

warnings: Hurt/comfort, protective!Klaus, religious trauma, toxic family dynamics, verbal/emotional abuse, confrontation, unwavering devotion, emotional vulnerability

The house does not merely wait. It watches. It stares back at you with the stillness of something that remembers.

The cream siding has dulled to the color of bone left too long in the sun. The porch swing sways ever so slightly, though there is no wind. The hairline crack in the window frame is still there—splintered and thin as a spider’s leg—marking the very spot where, as a child, you pressed your face to the glass to watch the storms roll in. You can almost hear the rain against the pane, almost feel the hum of lightning beneath your ribs.

It still smells faintly of honeysuckle—your mother’s planting, stubborn and wild. Sweetness tangled with dust. A ghost of summers that will never return. The air is heavy with that treacherous breed of nostalgia that gnaws at the hollows inside you.

You haven’t crossed this threshold in months. But you’ve been avoiding it far longer than that—sidestepping its shadow the way one avoids a grave.

Klaus lingers just behind you, a silent and immovable thing. His nearness is an anchor, a weight at your back, the quiet promise that he will not let you drift away even if you want to. He doesn’t prod. Doesn’t hurry you. Patience clings to him like a second skin—patience born from knowing you are about to step into something that will not leave you untouched.

You feel his gaze on the back of your head. It is steady. Searching. A question without a voice.

“Are you ready, love?” he murmurs.

You nod. But the truth sits cold and certain in your bones: You aren’t. You never will be.

༊*·˚

Inside, the air is a time capsule. Lemon polish. The faint, stubborn ghost of your mother’s perfume—floral and powdery, lingering like a hand that refuses to let go.

Your shoes find the hardwood with the same steady rhythm you remember from all those nights slipping in after curfew. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was once your herald; it always summoned them. It still does.

They are waiting.

Your mother’s gaze sweeps over you with the cold precision of someone counting valuables after a theft. Her mouth bends—not toward a smile, but toward something leaner, sharper, designed to cut. “You used to have respect for yourself,” she says. The softness in her voice is treacherous; it draws blood without raising its volume.

The words strike beneath your ribs, sinking into that tender grave where old shames are buried shallow.

Your father does not look at you at once. He lets her sentence hang in the air like a suspended noose before adding his own. “You’ve turned your back on God.”

The words are familiar. A well-honed blade. One they have wielded for years, always with the same precision, always finding the same wound.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. Even now, you cannot shape a defense.

Then your mother’s eyes shift—past you, to the shadow just behind. To Klaus.

“And this is him?” she asks. “The man you’re giving yourself to?”

You bristle at the phrasing—giving yourself to—as if you were a parcel to be signed for, a trinket to be handed from one owner to the next.

“He’s dangerous,” your father says, at last giving Klaus the full measure of his stare. “You’ve let yourself be taken by darkness.”

The silence that follows tastes like iron.

༊*·˚

The air thickens until it feels almost liquid in your lungs. Part of you aches to vanish into the quiet — to fold your shoulders inward, to shrink into the child they once knew, the one who could disappear if she made herself small enough. But Klaus stands behind you, solid as the earth, his presence pressing against your spine like a reminder. You do not bow anymore.

When he moves, it is not hurried. One slow step forward — deliberate, unhurried. The air changes. The walls seem to lean toward him, the floorboards holding their breath.

“I will only say this once,” he says. His voice is quiet, but it carries like a slow strike of flint. “You will not speak to her like that again.”

Your father stiffens, jaw locking. “This is our daughter—”

“No.” The word is a blade, severing the claim before it can take form. “She is not yours to diminish. Not yours to wound beneath the shroud of faith.”

Your mother leans forward, eyes hard, mouth sharp. “We’re trying to save her.”

Klaus tilts his head, a faint curve touching his lips — the kind of smile that is never safe. “From what?” he asks, voice steady, almost gentle in its dissection. “From herself? From love? You dress cruelty in the robes of righteousness and expect her to kneel. I see it for what it is — venom in a chalice.”

Another step. The air tightens.

“She has borne the weight of your judgment far too long. If the God you name made her, then He made her exactly as she is. And if you call her a sinner…” His voice lowers until it’s almost intimate, meant for you as much as for them. “…then I will gladly be damned beside her.”

Your father draws breath, but Klaus does not give him space to speak.

“I stand here because I love her,” he says, the word love striking between you like steel on stone. “And I will not watch you carve her down to nothing under the banner of your god.”

It is a word you’ve heard from him before, but never like this — never shaped into armor, never sharpened into a weapon.

“She is more whole, more luminous, more unshakably good than your narrow scripture could ever comprehend,” he finishes, his voice a low and final thing. “And you will not dim her light to make your shadows feel holy.”

༊*·˚

They have no answer for him. Not because the words don’t exist, but because he has stolen the weight from their tongues, stripped the authority from their throats. It is the first time in your life you have seen them falter — not from uncertainty, but from the sudden realization that their grip on you is gone.

The silence they leave behind is strange. It rings in your ears like the aftermath of a storm. For years, their words were iron gates you could never slip past, a fortress built from scripture and disapproval. Now, before Klaus, those walls crumble like sand under a tide too strong to resist. Their voices — the ones that shaped your every hesitation — sound suddenly small. Distant. Mortal.

Klaus turns to you, and at once the hard steel in his gaze softens into something warmer. His eyes hold yours as if he is taking measure of you — not to assess your worth, but to remind you that you are already whole. His hand finds the small of your back, the pressure gentle but certain, warm and steady like a promise pressed into your skin.

“Come, love,” he murmurs, low enough for you alone. “We’re leaving.”

You nod — not because you are unsure, but because your throat feels too tight to shape the word yes. When you move, he moves with you, his presence folding around you like a shield you never knew you were allowed to carry.

The door opens, and the air outside greets you differently. It tastes cleaner, sharper, touched with the faint scent of rain on stone. It feels like the first breath you’ve drawn in years that hasn’t been weighed down by expectation.

The house stands behind you, its windows staring blankly, holding all the ghosts you’ve decided not to feed anymore. And as you walk away with Klaus at your side — his hand still resting against you as if you belong nowhere else — the truth settles in your bones.

Maybe their God didn’t save you. But Klaus did. And in a quiet, defiant corner of your heart, you know that is the holiest thing you have ever known.

Thank you so much for trusting me with this request anon🤍 Hope you enjoy!!

[joelmillersbedroom]

not well enough | k.m

⎯⎯ “I don’t want you wrapped in silk, love,” he whispered. “I want you alive.”

warnings: Hurt/comfort, intense intimacy, protective!Klaus, stubborn!Reader, mutual stubbornness, devotion like wildfire

It was quiet, the way twilight always was in Klaus’s home—dim and gold-touched, shadows spilled across canvases, rain stitching delicate lines against the windowpane. He was painting—slow strokes of deep vermilion across stretched linen. A glass of red wine rested beside the easel, half-drunk. Chopin murmured from the record player. Peace, rare and earned, had settled into the corners of the house.

And then—

He stilled.

Completely.

Like a wolf catching scent mid-step.

His hand froze on the brush. Head tilting.

There it was. Faint, but unmistakable. Blood. Not old. Not distant. Fresh. And not just any blood.

Yours.

The wine glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the hardwood.

He was already moving.

The front door creaked open at that exact moment, a gust of cold wind following you in, raindrops scattered along your shoulders. You stepped inside with the kind of weariness that tried to hide itself—your jaw set, your posture too careful. Limping, barely. You thought he wouldn’t notice.

You were wrong.

His voice, usually velvet-dark and slow, came sharp now, slicing through the room.

“Shut the door.”

You froze. Blinking at him. Smiling like nothing was wrong.

“I’m fine, Klaus.”

His eyes flicked down—taking in the way your jacket was tugged oddly around your side, your sleeve pushed too far down your wrist like it was hiding something. His nostrils flared.

“I said it’s nothing,” you tried again, stepping further into the room. “I handled it.”

But his eyes had gone darker. Not golden. Not red. Just dark.

His voice dropped to a low, trembling octave. Controlled only by the threadbare edge of his own restraint.

“I could smell your blood,” he said, slow and guttural, “before the door even shut behind you.”

You opened your mouth, closed it. He was already storming forward.

“Klaus—”

He was in front of you in an instant, tugging at your jacket with no ceremony, no patience. You flinched slightly—not in fear, just from pain—and that broke something in him. His fingers flattened under the fabric at your waist, brushing the warmth there.

Sticky.

Wet.

He pulled the hem up, exposing torn skin beneath dried blood and swelling.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, staring at it like it had insulted him. No, like it had threatened you.

“I said I handled it,” you snapped, trying to jerk the jacket back down.

“Not well enough.”

His voice cut the air like a blade.

Your eyes flashed. “I didn’t need help. I don’t—”

“Don’t,” he growled. One hand caught your wrist—not tight, not rough. But final. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

He looked at you then. Truly looked. You were pale. Wet from the rain. Hair tangled at your temples, one cheek slightly scraped. Bruised knuckles.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” he asked, low. “You think I wouldn’t know you were hurt?”

You swallowed.

“I can take care of myself.”

“You’re trembling,” he said, his hand lifting to your arm. “And you’re still trying to protect me?”

You opened your mouth again—but the defiance faltered now. Your lip quivered, just once.

He saw it.

Saw it, and stepped closer.

“I’m not angry at you,” he whispered. “I’m furious that someone dared lay a hand on you.”

Silence. Heavy, charged.

Your voice came small. “It wasn’t that bad.”

He didn’t speak.

He just touched the corner of your hair, tucked it gently behind your ear.

Then: “Come here. Sit. You’re not walking another step.”

You hesitated.

“Klaus—”

“I’m not asking.”

His jaw ticked. His hand was already guiding you toward the sofa, breath steady but eyes fire-lit. Whatever tenderness came next—it would not be weak. It would be ruthless. Devotion like war. Protection like prayer.

༊*·˚

You sat, stiff-backed, on the edge of his couch—the fire low in the hearth, your jacket peeled off and draped across the arm. He knelt in front of you, kneeling in a way that didn’t look subservient but coiled, like a storm crouching before lightning. A clean cloth in one hand. A bowl of warm water in the other.

And eyes that burned.

Your side still ached, a dull and persistent reminder under your ribs, but you bore it the way you always did—chin high, shoulders locked, pride woven like armor over raw skin.

“Klaus, stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” His voice was low, guttural, thick with restraint.

“Like I’m dying.”

He didn’t answer. He dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out slowly. Too slowly. His eyes were on the wound again, flickering over the swelling, the torn skin, the bruise blooming across your side like a galaxy.

You hissed as the warm cloth touched your skin.

He paused instantly.

“Sorry,” he murmured, soft. And yet the tension in his jaw didn’t budge. He was trying to be gentle, but his entire body thrummed with rage.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he said without looking up, “when your blood’s on the floor, sweetheart.”

You scoffed, the word grating. “Don’t be dramatic.”

He dropped the cloth into the bowl. Slowly. Deliberately. Then looked up at you.

“Who did it?”

You blinked.

“No one. I told you—it’s over. I handled it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You shifted away from his stare, but he tracked you like a lion.

“Klaus—”

“Who hurt you?”

Your silence was answer enough.

His breath flared out through his nose. His voice dropped into something cold, clipped, controlled only because he knew if he let it go free, it would tear cities down.

“You’re going to tell me. Whether now or later. Because I’ll find out either way.”

You stood. Abrupt. Agitated. Blood still staining your shirt, but your spine stiff with pride.

“Why does it matter?” you snapped. “I’m here. I’m fine. I didn’t die. And I don’t need a bodyguard every time I leave the damn house!”

He stood too. Slow. Towering.

“No,” he said, voice quiet and deadly, “what you need is to stop pretending you’re made of steel when you’re bleeding in front of me.”

“I’m not some fragile thing you need to bubble-wrap, Klaus!”

His expression didn’t change. But the fire behind his eyes sparked.

“I know you’re not fragile.”

Your chest heaved.

“I can fight my own battles.”

He took a step forward. Not looming. Just... near. Like gravity itself couldn’t stay away.

“You can fight them,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “but you don’t have to bleed through them alone.”

That stilled you.

Your breath caught. Your arms dropped a fraction.

He stepped closer still.

“I don’t want you wrapped in silk, love,” he whispered. “I want you alive.”

Your throat bobbed. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He reached for your hand, and this time you didn’t pull away.

“I’ve lived a thousand years,” he said, his voice thick now, velvet over iron, “and I’ve never once been able to stomach the sight of someone hurting you.”

Your eyes burned. Damn it.

He looked down at your hand in his—bruised across the knuckles, trembling slightly. Then back up at you.

“Let me protect you,” he said. Just above a whisper. “Just this once. Please.”

The fire cracked softly behind you both. The rain whispered at the windows. Your pride was a sword dulling in your hand. You opened your mouth. Closed it.

And finally nodded.

Barely.

He exhaled, long and slow, like the hurricane inside him had found the eye. Just for a moment.

Then he carries her.

No protest this time—not when the fire behind his rage has quieted into something quieter but no less intense. She lets him, her fingers curled into his shirt, her body too tired to argue anymore.

He sets her on the bed like she’s something holy.

Kneels beside her again. Always kneeling tonight, though it doesn’t make him small—it makes him terrifying. Reverent. Like a god laying down weapons at the feet of someone he’d burn the world for.

Her shirt is already ruined, blood seeping through the side. His eyes flick to the soaked fabric, then to her face.

“Can I?” he asks. His voice is gentle. He could command armies—but with her, it’s always a question.

She nods, almost imperceptibly.

He peels the shirt up slowly, exposing her ribs, mottled and bruised, blood smeared over skin that should never have known violence. A cut curves down the line of her waist. Purple and red and raw.

His hands still.

His jaw tightens.

And then he breathes in—deep, controlled—like he’s swallowing his fury down into the ocean floor.

“You should’ve come to me,” he says softly. “I would’ve handled it.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I would’ve burned cities to be there.”

She looks away.

He reaches into his pocket. Pulls a silver blade across his palm. Blood wells instantly.

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” His voice is absolute.

He offers his hand to her. His blood gleams, dark and rich.

“Let me fix it,” he says. “Or I’ll rip the world open trying.”

She hesitates—but his hand doesn’t waver.

Then, slowly, she takes it.

Brings his wrist to her lips. Drinks.

His free hand rises to her hair, brushing it back, cradling the crown of her head like she’s glass. He watches her, eyes locked, reverent. Like she’s the first and only thing he’s ever willingly bled for.

Her wounds knit slowly. The gash above her brow fades. The color returns to her skin. Her breath steadies.

She exhales into his wrist, her forehead against his arm.

It’s not just relief—it’s being seen.

He pulls back only when her body relaxes fully, when the lines of pain between her brows soften, when the tremble leaves her fingers.

And then he reaches for the bandages.

Because she’s healing, but she’s not healed.

He cleans the leftover blood, wiping it with warm cloth and soft curses whispered under his breath—not at her, never at her, but at the universe, at the coward who touched her, at fate for ever letting it happen.

He wraps her arm where the bruise hasn’t fully faded. Tapes gauze against the scrape on her shoulder. Presses a kiss to her temple, where dried blood still clings to her lashes.

“Even when you bleed,” he murmurs, “you act like you don’t need saving.”

She meets his gaze, soft and tired and exposed.

“But I do,” he finishes. “I need to save you.”

A silence follows. Sacred.

“Every drop of your blood is sacred to me,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t ask me to pretend otherwise.”

She leans into him then, finally, forehead resting against his collarbone.

“I wasn’t trying to shut you out,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“I just… wanted to handle it.”

“You did.” He cups her jaw, thumb stroking gently beneath her eye. “You survived it. But you don’t have to carry the after alone.”

She breathes in. Breathes him in.

He pulls the blanket over her, tucking it behind her shoulder like she’s not made of bruises and bone, but moonlight and breath.

“You can be strong,” he says softly, “and still let someone hold you.”

Her fingers find his under the blanket.

He laces them with hers.

“…You survived it. But you don’t have to carry the after alone,” he murmured, thumb still tracing the line of her cheekbone like he was learning her face all over again.

Her breath hitched—not from pain this time, but from something far heavier. “I don’t know how to let you,” she admitted, quiet as rain. “I’ve never known how.”

He leaned closer, so close his forehead almost brushed hers, his voice low enough to belong only to her. “Then I’ll teach you.”

Her lips parted to argue, but no words came.

“Let me be the one who worries,” he went on, softer now, his tone curling around her like a vow. “Let me be the one who bleeds if it means you don’t have to.” His gaze dropped briefly to the healing marks at her side. “I’ve fought a thousand wars, love, but the thought of you fighting one without me—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening, breath trembling.

Her fingers found his shirtfront, curling there, gripping like she needed something to hold her to the earth.

“I don’t want to be the reason you lose control,” she whispered.

“You’re the reason I find it,” he countered instantly, fiercely. “Do you not see? You—” He caught himself again, huffed out a soft, incredulous laugh that carried no humor. “You’re my restraint. My reason. The only thing I would burn the world for and call it mercy.”

Her throat bobbed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“You love it,” she said, and though it was meant to be deflection, the words landed heavy between them.

“I do,” he said, without hesitation.

For a long, quiet stretch, the room was only the crackle of the fire and the soft hiss of rain. He stayed there with her in the low golden glow, one hand cradling her jaw, the other resting lightly against her ribs as if to remind himself she was whole, that she was still here.

When he finally moved, it was only to draw her fully into his lap, her knees pressing to either side of his hips. She tensed, but only for a moment. His arms wrapped around her—not in possession, not in demand, but in the unyielding shelter of someone who would stand between her and every storm.

“You’re staying here tonight,” he said, into her hair. It wasn’t a question.

She almost argued. Almost. But she just let herself breathe him in instead, the cedar and rain and faint scent of paint clinging to him.

“You’ll watch me all night,” she muttered, and he smiled faintly against her temple.

“Wild guess,” he murmured, “but you’ll survive my vigilance.”

She huffed a tired, quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

He pulled back enough to look at her, the corner of his mouth lifting, though the fire in his eyes had never gone out. “And you,” he said, brushing his knuckles along her jaw, “are mine.”

It wasn’t a cage. It was a covenant.

She let herself melt against him then, stubbornness curling in on itself until it was only exhaustion and the faint, reckless relief of letting him bear the weight. His hand stayed at her back, slow and steady, as if his touch could tell her bones to stop bracing for impact.

And when her eyes drifted shut, he whispered into the quiet, the words almost lost to the rain—

“I’ll keep you safe. Even from yourself.”

the wifi finally worked! Thank you anon <3 Sorry for the long wait, hope you enjoy it🤍

[joelmillersbedroom]

Face First

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Klaus Mikaelson x f!reader} A few late-night texts leads to a very unexpected house call. You’re on your period. Klaus doesn’t care.

♡♡ For my beautiful feral Klaus lovers ♡♡

1.7k words - Warnings: smutt, oral sex only, period sex, fingering, sexting, mild anal play, unsolicited house visits && {of course} Klaus being Klaus ...

You weren’t trying to start anything. Not really.

You were just bored. Horny in that aimless, restless way that came from too much scrolling and not enough serotonin. The sheets were soft. The night was quiet. You were freshly showered, wrapped in an oversized t-shirt, legs bare, your period cramps finally dulled to a distant throb. For whatever reason, your brain had decided Niklaus fucking Mikaelson was the problem and the solution all at once.

So you opened your messages and did something incredibly stupid. You pulled your shirt up and snapped a photo. Nothing too explicit. Just bare thighs, legs spread, the hem hitched high enough to hint at more. Just enough to drive him insane. You hit send, a little thrill of adrenaline spiking through you.

And then you waited. The response was almost instant. ~ Nik: thinking of me? ~

You laughed. You had been doing nothing of the sort. ~ You: i was bored ~

~ Nik: is that an invitation?  ~

~ You: could be, what's in it for me? ~

You could hear the smirk in his voice as you read his next message. ~ Nik: anything. Name it, and I'll give it to you ~

A shiver rolled down your spine. A promise like that was a dangerous thing, coming from someone like him. ~ You: send me a picture ~

There was a long pause, and for a moment, you thought you might have gone too far. He was a possessive man. He didn't share, and he didn't like when people saw him vulnerable. You had pushed. Maybe you had pushed too much.

The ping of a new message made you jump. Your heart thudded in your chest, a rush of adrenaline and arousal spiking through you. The image was mostly a tease. Just the barest glimpse of the hard line of him beneath the soft fabric of his pajama pants, the outline of him thick and straining, the fabric tented and pulled tight. It was hot as fuck.

 He sent a second message. ~ Nik: don't say i never gave you anything ~

You took another photo. A little bolder, this time. The shirt pushed up a bit further, your breasts on display for him.

~ Nik: touch yourself for me ~

~ You: you can't tell me what to do ~

He knew you were teasing. There was a part of you that loved when he got bossy, that loved the way he would grab you, force you down, pin you beneath him and take what he wanted. You could almost feel the ghost of his lips on your throat, the weight of him heavy between your thighs, the delicious ache of him filling you.

~ Nik: I'm coming over ~

You blinked at the screen. ~ You: No you're not ~

No response. ~ You: Nik i’m serious ~

Nothing. ~ You: do not show up here right now, I'm on my period... I'm not even joking, don't come over here ~

The bubbles stayed on delivered. Either he killed his read receipts, or he was already enroute. You sighed, dragged a blanket and your phone out to the living-room sofa, and snuggled deeper into the couch cushions. If he showed up, you would just not invite him in.

A knock at the door.

 Shit.

You threw back the blanket, shoving your feet into the nearest pair of shoes. You grabbed your robe, throwing it over your shoulders. You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the chill, and threw the door open.

Klaus stood in the threshold, eyebrow raised, an amused smirk curling his lips. You leaned against the doorframe, feigning boredom... never mind the way your pulse kicked at the sight of him.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked, gaze roaming over you. He seemed... amused.

“Why?” you asked sweetly. “So you can ignore me again? Or maybe chat up another random blonde at Rousseau’s like you did last week?”

"That was a misunderstanding, love," he said, his tone low and smooth, the way he spoke when he wanted to talk his way out of trouble. 

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.  "Oh, really?"

"Let me make it up to you," he murmured. "You know how persuasive my tongue can be."

Your mouth went dry, but you kept your composure. "I'm on my period."

"Is that an excuse," he said, voice dropping low, "or a challenge?"

Klaus braced one palm flat against the doorframe, the other against the opposite side, boxing you in without crossing the invisible line. The threshold itself seemed to sizzle between you, the thin membrane of old magic keeping the monster at bay.

"Let me in," he said again, quieter this time. "Let me fix what I fucked up."

"You can’t fix it with sex."

"No," he agreed. "But I can start with my mouth. And darling..." His eyes dipped to your thighs, pupils blown wide. "If you think a little blood between your thighs makes me want you less, you’ve forgotten what I am."

Your breath caught, your cheeks on fire.

“Invite me in,” he murmured, nearly begging, finger-tips tapping the wood, knuckles whitening with restraint, every muscle coiled to leap the second permission fell.

One heartbeat. Two.

 “Fine,” you breathed. “Come in. Lock the door behind you.”

The word come barely left your lips before the barrier snapped open. Klaus surged forward, slamming the door behind him and pulling you into his arms. His lips captured yours, biting at your bottom lip like he wanted to taste the need right off your mouth, then he tugged you towards your bedroom.

You fell back onto the mattress, legs sprawled. Your nightie rode up on its own, and you didn’t bother fixing it.

"Sweet fucking hell," he groaned, staring at the slick and dark-red sheen between your thighs.

He dropped to his knees, his gaze locked with yours, dark eyes full of reverence and desire. The moment his tongue touched you, a wave of relief rolled through your body, chasing away the lingering ache of cramps you'd been battling all day. You exhaled shakily, the tension in your muscles easing immediately under his touch.

The first lap of his tongue made you gasp, the second made your eyes roll back, and the third was nothing but a high-pitched moan as he latched his lips around your clit and sucked. You were so sensitive, and the way his tongue moved against you was too much and not enough, the wet, obscene noises of his lips working against you only making it better.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he muttered, voice rough and wet with need. His thumb teased at your entrance, and you bucked, hissing. He pressed his forearm across your hips, pinning you in place. “You’ve no idea what it does to me. How sweet you taste.”

You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in those curls and tugging hard. That only made him groan louder. He loved it and it spurred him on. Klaus was relentless. Tongue flattening and circling, then flicking just right, until your legs shook and your hips jolted with every stroke.

“Nik,” you cried, voice catching. “Please.”

He pulled back, lips slick with blood, eyes gleaming. “Please what, love? If you want something, you’ll need to ask properly.”

When all you could do was whimper, he smirked and pressed a kiss to your mound. Then slid two fingers inside your soaked cunt in one smooth, practiced motion. You jolted, hips lifting, the pleasure white-hot and searing, the pace he set making your toes curl.

“Ah. That, then.” He chuckled.

The pressure built fast. Too fast. Klaus didn’t slow. If anything, he got rougher, more focused. His mouth stayed messy and hot against you. His fingers never relented.

He looked up at you through his lashes, face slick, and smirked. “Come on, then. Show me how pretty you are when you break.”

You didn’t stand a chance. Your back arched as the orgasm hit, sharp and electric, tearing through you. Your thighs clamped around his head but he didn’t stop. Just groaned into your cunt, licking you through it like nothing else mattered.

“Nik, too much.”

He didn’t budge. Didn’t stop. He just kissed your clit again, harder this time, and slid a third finger in with a filthy sound. His other hand gripped your ass, spreading you open. His thumb circled the tight ring there with slow, steady pressure.

“Relax,” he said, and eased it in.

A moan fell from your lips. It didn't hurt. But the pressure was overwhelming, the feeling of being stretched and filled making you writhe. You whimpered, tugging his curls even harder. He moaned, deep and guttural, fingers driving into you with purpose. The second orgasm hit fast and brutal. You squirted around his hand, slick soaking everything, a strangled sob ripping from your throat.

“Fuck,” he snarled. “That’s it. Look at the mess you’re making.”

You trembled violently, body twitching through the aftershocks, unable to do anything but pant and take it. The sheets were a mess of red, and when you managed to open your eyes, his face was still buried between your thighs, his eyes black, the veins dark and stark beneath them. He groaned, licking a final slow stripe up your cunt.

You tried to scoot back, but his arm tightened.

"Too much, Nik." You whined, pushing his bloody face away. "Stoppp," you slurred, the syllables coming out all wrong.

He chuckled, and pulled away, his mouth and chin gleamed a dark crimson. But he didn’t wipe it; he looked proud of the mess. Then he crawled up your body, dragging hot kisses along your skin, up your stomach, your chest, your throat. Painting faint red smears everywhere his lips touched.

“You are so fucking smug,” you rasped, half out of your mind.

“Hard not to be, after tasting ambrosia.” He licked his lips, his mouth still stained and wet.

"Ew, go brush your teeth," you grumbled, and shoved him.

"I didn't hear a thank-you," he said, rolling his eyes. But he slid off the bed and sauntered towards the bathroom.

You smiled, rolling onto your side, watching him through the open doorway. He washed his face, then rinsed his mouth. He didn't bother closing the door, or turning the light off. He knew you were watching. Knew you liked seeing him. You didn't bother hiding it.

He returned with a warm, damp cloth, and cleaned you up, gentle and slow. You were nearly asleep by the time he was done, and he tossed the towel aside, climbed into bed beside you, and wrapped you in his arms.

"Does this mean I get another chance at taking you out?" he murmured, stroking your hair.

"Depends."

"On?"

"Whether or not I wake up alone."

He snorted, pressing a kiss to your temple. "That won't be a problem, love. Not a chance in hell."

[joelmillersbedroom]

Where klaus is fully clothed and Reader in wearing an oversized sweater and panties & fell asleep straddling klaus & is hugging him tightly, they have a sex dream & basically dry humps him until they both finish? Klaus is barely restraining himself?

Sleepy Seduction

Summary: Klaus is trying to watch a movie Y/N’s begged him to watch but she’s already asleep and even when unconscious she remains the most wanton creature he knows. The loveliest too.

Y/N had fallen asleep well over an hour ago, arms still draped round him as her face pressed to his shoulder.

Klaus had his eyes set on the movie she'd been begging him to watch for months. Even if she wasn't awake to see it, he knew how much it mean to her. He pressed a gentle kiss to her head, his own eyes a little heavy. His body was ready to give into sleep but it seemed her mind was still running for him.

Klaus thought she was just shifting a little, snuggling closer. But that familiar little whimper left her that made his body wake in an instant.

"Sweetheart..." He drawled, looking down at her in an attempt to see if she was secretly conscious but found no sign. Klaus grunted quietly in frustration and leaned his head back against the couch pillows, holding her close so she wouldn't slip in her sleep.

Her body seemed to be fixed to his anyways, like a magnet.

Klaus pet her hair lovingly and closed his eyes for a second at the little moan that slipped past her lips, her breaths heavy against his shoulder. "Christ..." He sighed and shifted, holding her up enough to tug his henley off before settling her back against his chest, letting her nuzzle into his bare skin.

Both hands caressed her back and hair, trying to soothe back into a deep enough sleep so she'd stop dreaming but it wasn't long before her hips were starting to rock gently against him. A gruff sound left his mouth as he felt himself stiffen against her. The blood rushed south and his jaw locked tight in concentration.

"Y/N..." He muttered, squeezing her harm a little. "Wake up, love." His voice was almost pleading as he told himself to keep his hips still beneath her. A louder cry left her and he could feel the heat of her pussy leaking through her panties. Klaus looked down at her, brows furrowed to restrain himself.

Why couldn't she have worn the sweatpants he bought her? Now he could feel exactly how she swelled and pulsed on his cock.

"Y/N" He breathed, but his voice was too quiet to even attempt to wake her.

Another sound left him as she rutted a little quicker against him making his hand shoot down to rest of her ass, wanting nothing more than to guide her but knowing it was wrong. "Sweetheart...c'mon." He tried, his teeth grinding as his cock twitched against her folds.

Her panties were so soaked he could feel every millimetre of her. "Y/N." He spoke up, his throat a little croaked. "Wake up, love."

But her body remained pressed against him, head heavy against his chest as though he were a supporting pillow. And those hips kept rolling, sliding her pussy over him until those familiar sounds left her, bouncing off the walls and making his hips buck up against his will.

"Klaus..." She whined, voice but a slur of sleep.

"Yeah..." He breathed, kissing the side of her head with a groan. "S'okay love." He mumbled as she clearly got closer to her limit.

"Mmh-" She moaned, "Klaus-" This time her voice was but a choke and he bit down on his tongue.

"Cum, love. Just cum for me." He nodded against her hair before lowing his lips to kiss her neck encouragingly.

His cock ached for her as she trembled against him, his sweatpants soon soaked and stained as she came all over them. Carefully he slid his arms under her thighs and laid her down in the couch, his hand gently caressing her knee as he slipped his hand beneath his waistband.

"Love you..." He whispered as he wrapped his fingers round himself, stroking firmly and trying not to stare at her too much. It only took a few pets before he'd added to her mess, a heavy sigh leaving him as he fixed his state of a joggers.

"I've got you." Klaus murmured, lifting her up and carrying her to his room. She groaned faintly, twisting in his hold and he huffed a laugh. "Now you decide to stir awake hm?" He smiled with a head shake as he settled her down, both sleepy eyes looking back at him confused.

"Klaus..." She mumbled tiredly.

"Shh.." He hushed gently. "It's alright, love. You sleepy baby?" Klaus hummed softly, smiling when she nodded and dropped her head back down against her pillows. He made sure to clean her up before pulling her close beneath the covers, a faint slither of excitement to tell her what she'd been up to in her sleep.

He could just picture the blush on her cheeks.

[joelmillersbedroom]

Inspired by your last story.

Klaus getting the permission to use his girl whenever. Even when she sleeps.

Warning: Kinda obvious but Klaus has sex with the reader whilst she is sleeping! It is consented to beforehand but still be aware!!!

Restless

Summary: Klaus is always needy in the morning but Y/N needs her sleep. She’s happy for him to do what he needs so that she can to.

They'd been over it so many times. Too many mornings had she been woken by a needy hybrid and every time she'd told him to not wake her.

"But I need you, sweetheart." Klaus would grumble whilst his teeth nipped at the skin of her neck.

"You can have me." Y/N would yawn, "Just don't wake me up."

The first few times she'd told him it he didn't think she was serious but when she'd told him later in the day when he knew she was truly awake and thinking fully, he caved.

"I don't mind you know." She murmured, her lips just grazing his as her hips rocked above his, her pussy milking his spent cock as he lay a panting mess beneath her. "It's kinda hot...knowing you want me so bad that you gotta have me even when I'm sleepin..." Y/N would purr, her nails stroking little lines down his chest. "Waking up knowing you've been inside me, feeling you still in there." And he was losing it just at the thought.

So the next morning, he couldn't help himself.

He'd woken already pressed against her, his body clinging onto her tightly and his cock already solid against her ass. Klaus let out a small groan as he held onto her and nudged his hips up to feel her warmth. She was always extra warm and soft in the mornings.

Klaus tugged the covers back a little to feel the heat of her skin, his head lowering to press little kisses along the length of her arm. "So sweet..." He mumbled to himself as his tongue licked over the thin skin of her wrist. Soon enough I'll be drinking from her in her sleep too.

Both hands rolled her to him, having her sleep-covered face for him to admire. "Gods." He breathed. With a slight tremble, he lifted his hand, his thumb gently toying with her bottom lip. A slight movement had his thumb in her mouth, her jaw relaxed as he gently stroked her tongue. "You're an angel."

As if on instinct Y/N's body shifted slightly towards him, causing a groan from the hybrid when his thumb sunk further into her mouth. Carefully he pulled it out, watching her lips smack together a couple times before she nuzzled the pillow again. "I've got you, love." Klaus whispered as he pulled her onto him, relishing in the feel of her weight on him. Her body pressed to his helplessly, their chests squished together whilst his hands slid up her thighs which limply fell apart around him. "My beautiful love." He murmured against the top of her head whilst he breathed in Y/N's faint scent. She still smelled of the lavender she sprayed to help her sleep the night before.

The subtlest of sounds left Y/N's soft lips when her panties were dragged down the length of her legs leaving her exposed and ready. Klaus kissed the side of her face gently, his eyes glancing down to see her still sound asleep. A soft sigh left him as he dipped his fingers down between her ass cheeks, stroking her already slick folds with a small groan of satisfaction. "How on earth are you still sleeping?" He muttered amused as he found her clit, applying a little pressure and circling it how she liked. His eyes narrowed on her face, the way her brows narrowed just the tiniest bit. "See...you want it even now, don't you love?"

She gave no answer but a little noise of approval when the head of his cock nudged her entrance. Klaus's teeth pressed into his tongue as he adjusted his hold on her, having to position her himself as he angled his hips. "There we go..." He mumbled as her heat enveloped him perfectly. "So fucking hot, pet."

Her sweet face nuzzled against the side of his neck, little moans leaving her and making his hips rut up. Carefully Klaus slid his hands up her back, holding her tight to him so that he could roll them over and be on top of her. Y/N's head fell to the side with a tired mumble and Klaus groaned, leaning his head down to try to nudge her head back up to face him. "Look at me, love." He mumbled gruffly but he knew she wouldn't, not yet. Klaus huffed a little when she kept asleep, his cock driving into her with a little more force to drive a reaction from her.

Within seconds the familiar frustration built up in him, encouraging his hands to grip her tighter, pin her down whilst he thrust into her until her body was jolting off the bed.

"Mmh-" Y/N whined and Klaus pushed down the growl his wolf had bubbling in his chest. "Nik..." She murmured and Klaus sucked a breath in, his fingers rubbing her swollen clit until those pretty eyes of hers were open and looking up to him with desperation.

"Fuck. There you are." He groaned, his hip finally stuttering and his cock twitching inside her. One eye-contact filled moan tipped him over the edge, his cum spilling out from her whilst her legs shook repeatedly.

Klaus's body collapsed against hers, his mouth kissing along her neck and shoulder whilst he pumped in and out of her a couple more times.

"Mmh." Y/N breathed, her arms lifting and her hands resting on his back. "You're all hot n sweaty." She mumbled and he hummed lowly. "Feel better?" Her sleepy voice asked and Klaus suppressed a laugh.

"Definitely." He grinned against her skin. "But I prefer when I can watch you squirm and beg."

"Sadist." She grumbled and he chuckled.

[joelmillersbedroom]

the woman | k.m

⎯⎯"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?"

warnings: jealous reader, his body count

You were in a terrible mood.

A mood so terrible that if Klaus so much as breathed the wrong way, you might throw a whole bookshelf at his head.

And he knew it. Oh, he knew it.

Klaus had been watching you with barely concealed amusement for the last hour as you sat stiffly beside him, arms crossed, lips pursed into a sour little thing that only deepened every time you glanced across the room.

Because she was still there. Still there.

The woman—some elegant, annoyingly beautiful vampire—was speaking with Elijah, but you hadn’t missed the way she had looked at Klaus earlier. The way she had leaned in just a little too close, touched his arm a little too easily, smiled a little too sweetly.

And Klaus, smug bastard that he was, had done nothing to reassure you.

He was enjoying this. Reveling in it. The way your jaw tightened, the way your fingers curled into your dress every time he shifted as if he might go over and speak to her. The way you had barely spoken to him since.

You wanted to kill him.

No, first you wanted to interrogate him. Then you would kill him.

So, when he finally turned to you, full of that insufferable, knowing smirk, and drawled, "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?"

Klaus actually startled. He had not been expecting that.

He blinked at you, expression caught somewhere between amusement and intrigue. "Come again?"

"You heard me," you said, narrowing your eyes. "How many? And don’t you dare lie to me. You’re a thousand years old, Klaus. You’ve had—what? Dozens? Hundreds?" Your voice pitched slightly, your stomach twisting at the thought. "Thousands?"

Klaus let out a low chuckle, leaning back as if the entire conversation delighted him. "My, my, such interest in my past dalliances. Shall I write you a list? Organize them by century?"

"Don’t test me," you hissed, poking a sharp finger into his chest. "Who was the first?"

"The first?" He raised a brow. "Darling, I was human then. It hardly counts."

"It counts. Who was she?"

Klaus tilted his head, studying you, before smirking. "You really want to know?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Yes."

He leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur, "She was a farmer’s daughter. Had a laugh like chimes. Sweet thing." He paused, lips twitching. "Though, between you and me, I doubt she’d be much competition."

You gasped, shoving him. "Klaus!"

He laughed, outright laughed at your outrage, utterly enchanted by your jealousy. "Oh, come now, love. Surely you don’t expect me to recount every name—"

"I do!" You gritted your teeth. "And I want details."

"Details," he repeated, amused beyond belief.

"Yes! Like—like that one." You pointed across the room at the woman who had been talking to Elijah. "Who is she? Have you slept with her?"

Klaus barely glanced at her. "I haven’t the faintest idea."

"Liar!"

He laughed again, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you flush against him, despite your continued outrage. "Sweetheart, you wound me. Do you really think so little of my devotion?"

"I think you have an obscene amount of ex-lovers and you don’t even remember half their names!" you huffed, still fuming. "Do you even recall the names of the women you have been with?"

Klaus hummed, pressing his lips to your temple in a gesture that was entirely too fond considering you were still contemplating murder. "I recall the only one that matters."

You froze. Just for a second. Just long enough for the meaning to sink in.

Damn him.

You tried, tried not to let it affect you, but Klaus saw the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers twitched against his chest. And oh, his smirk was unbearable now.

"That’s not fair," you muttered, cheeks hot.

"Oh, but love, you were the one so eager for reminiscence." He ran a hand up your back, soothing, teasing. "Shall I continue? Tell you about the Venetian noblewoman who tried to poison me? Or perhaps the pirate’s wife I rather enjoyed scandalizing—"

You slapped a hand over his mouth, scowling. "Shut. Up."

Klaus laughed against your palm, eyes glowing with mirth as he pried your fingers away just enough to murmur, "I think I rather enjoy this side of you, sweetheart."

You huffed, but Klaus merely grinned, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your palm before capturing your chin between his fingers and tilting your face up to his.

"For the record," he murmured, voice softer now, rougher, "there is no one in this world, in any century, who has held my heart the way you do."

Your breath caught, and oh, you hated him for how easily he turned the tables, for how your jealousy melted into something warm and insufferably fond.

Still, you squinted. "You definitely don’t remember half their names, though."

Klaus smirked. "No, love. But I’ll always remember yours."

thank youuu anon for this request <3 I hope you enjoy it! 🤭 tbh I would react the same way

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

[joelmillersbedroom]

[joelmillersbedroom]

unraveled | k.m

⎯⎯"I have waited centuries," he murmurs, voice roughened by a hint of feral want. "I can wait a little longer."

warnings: smut, 18+, aftercare

part I part II

The air between you is thick—charged, electric, pulsing with something unholy. It wraps around you both, an invisible tether pulling you further, deeper, until the only thing that exists is the searing press of his body against yours.

Klaus is everywhere—his lips at your throat, his breath hot against your skin, his hands gripping your thighs with a force just shy of bruising. He is devouring you, undoing you thread by thread, and you can do nothing but let him.

Because this is what you wanted. All day, you had teased and tested, whispered wicked things just to see if he would snap. And now—God—he has.

He presses you harder against the wall, the weight of him anchoring you in place as his lips descend, trailing fire along your collarbone, the sharp line of your jaw. His breath is uneven, ragged, desperate.

“I should make you beg,” he mutters, voice thick, dark, brimming with something feral. “Make you suffer as I have.”

A shiver licks down your spine. “Then why don’t you?”

His grip tightens. His fingers flex against your hips, against the fabric barely separating his skin from yours. He could ripit, you know. Tear it from you like it offends him. And maybe it does.

“You are infuriating,” he growls, dragging his teeth along the sensitive spot just beneath your ear.

You shudder, tilting your head, inviting him closer, deeper. “And yet,” you murmur, voice a breathy whisper, “you loveit.”

Klaus laughs—a dark, wrecked sound that vibrates through his chest, through you.

“Infuriating,” he repeats, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against your throat. “Impossible.” Another kiss. “Mine.”

The word is a brand. A claim.

And God help you, but you want to be ruined by it.

His hands move before you can respond, gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head, holding you there as he drinks you in.

He watches you like a man possessed—like he is memorizing every ragged breath, every flushed inch of your skin, every flicker of hunger in your eyes.

And then, voice low, dangerous, he gives you a choice.

“Tell me, love,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours but never quite giving in. “Do you surrender?”

Your breath hitches. Your heart pounds.

And with a slow, wicked smile, you whisper—

“Make me.”

Something snaps.

And this time, he does not hold back.

༊*·˚

The shift is almost imperceptible—a breath caught between anticipation and surrender. Klaus lingers, his lips brushing against yours without truly claiming them, a phantom touch designed to unravel you thread by thread. His breath fans warm over your mouth, his fingers tightening around your wrists, holding you there, holding you still, as if he means to savor the moment before the fall.

“You are cruel,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, with hunger barely restrained. “All this time spent pushing, teasing—” His thumb grazes the inside of your wrist, a slow, deliberate stroke against the delicate thrum of your pulse. “And yet, now that I have you here, you tremble.”

You do. Not from fear, never from fear, but from the unbearable weight of this moment, from the knowledge that you have spent all day setting the fire and now, at last, it is spreading.

Still, you tilt your chin higher, meeting his gaze with a flicker of defiance. “Perhaps I like the anticipation.”

A smirk, a low hum of approval. “Do you, now?”

His lips find your jaw, barely grazing the skin before retreating. Then again, lower this time, the ghost of a kiss beneath your ear, then lower still—just the faintest brush along your throat, a path of phantom touches, of promises unspoken. Your breath hitches, your body straining toward his despite itself, despite the treacherous thrill of waiting, waiting, waiting—

He chuckles, dark and knowing, pleased by your reaction. “I wonder,” he muses, words pressed into your skin, “how long you can endure this game you so cleverly started.”

His grip loosens—not a release, but an invitation. A dare.

And you? You take it.

You twist your hands free, not to escape, but to tangle your fingers into his curls, to tug just hard enough that he exhales sharply, his control cracking at the edges. His eyes meet yours, something dangerous glinting within them, something that says he was right—you are trembling, anticipation coursing through you like wildfire.

And then—

His fingers skim the line of your spine, featherlight, a whisper of touch that leaves heat in its wake. Down, then up again, slow and torturous, until his palm finally settles at the small of your back, pressing you flush against him.

The sharp intake of your breath is met with a satisfied smirk.

“Ah,” Klaus murmurs, eyes half-lidded, voice an intimate, velvet thing. “There you are.”

His nose brushes yours, and for a moment, the world stills—nothing but breath, heat, the steady, insistent drum of your heartbeat.

It is slow. It is teasing. It is unbearable.

And when, at last, he kisses you, it is not desperate, nor rushed. It is a slow unraveling, a steady descent into something inevitable. A lesson in patience. A reminder that he is in no hurry—because the night is long, and so is his hunger for you.

༊*·˚

His kiss is a slow, lingering thing—a contradiction to the wildfire simmering beneath his skin. He takes his time, tasting you, unraveling you, ensuring that every brush of his lips against yours leaves a mark far deeper than anything hurried or desperate ever could.

The pressure of his hands changes, shifting from a grip meant to hold to one meant to explore. His fingers trace the curve of your back, pressing, memorizing, learning every delicate rise and dip. He moves with unhurried intent, savoring the way your breath shudders against his mouth, the way your fingers curl tighter into his hair as if to keep him there, as if letting go might break the spell.

A slow, languid sweep of his lips along your jaw, tracing the delicate curve before descending—softer now, more deliberate—over the frantic pulse fluttering at your throat. He lingers there, breath hot, teasing, a whisper of warmth against your skin.

"You tremble so sweetly," he murmurs, his voice like smoke and embers, dark and molten, rich with satisfaction. His lips part just slightly, the ghost of a touch, a promise left unfulfilled. "Tell me, love—" the words rumble low, reverberating through you, "—is it anticipation, or something far more sinful?"

You don't answer—not with words. Instead, you arch, barely perceptible, but he notices. Of course he does. A slow smirk curves against your throat before his lips part, pressing a single, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse.

Then another.

And another.

His hands shift lower, his touch reverent, slow. He is mapping you, as though he has all the time in the world. As if he intends to commit every shiver, every sigh, every delicious, drawn-out moment to memory.

"Tell me," he breathes, nosing along the hollow of your throat, trailing the words like a secret. "Did you think I would break so easily?"

Your lips part, a reply forming, but he steals it before you can speak—his mouth catching yours once more, his teeth grazing your bottom lip in a slow, teasing bite.

A sound escapes you, a soft, breathless thing, and his grip tightens. His control is iron-clad, but it is thinning, worn down by every twitch of your fingers against his scalp, every shallow breath, every flicker of heat that passes between you.

But still, he does not rush.

"I have waited centuries," he murmurs, voice roughened by a hint of feral want. "I can wait a little longer."

And then, with a smirk that makes your pulse flutter, he sinks to his knees.

"What—?"

You startle, confused, but then his hands find the hem of your dress and tug, and you gasp.

The fabric drags higher, exposing the bare expanse of your legs, the delicate lace that stretches across your hips. And then, with a low, sinful laugh, he presses his mouth to your skin, and all thoughts of protest die.

He is deliberate, agonizingly so. He starts at the top, lips grazing the hollow of your hip, and then slowly, deliberately, works his way down. Every inch of skin is marked, claimed, and when, at last, he reaches the lace, he pauses.

A shuddering breath, a momentary break in the haze, and then his eyes lift, finding yours. They burn, brimming with desire, with something dark and untamed and utterly primal.

"Do you surrender?"

There is a challenge in the words, a dare.

A choice.

You swallow, the air between you heavy, electric. You could say yes. You could end this, strip away the last lingering thread of his control. You could.

But—

"Not yet."

Klaus grins, a slow, wicked thing. "Not yet."

Then, with a final, lingering kiss against your inner thigh, he drags his tongue higher, over the lace, and you whimper.

He presses against you, mouth open, a slow, deliberate drag that makes your knees weak.

"Klaus—"

His teeth catch the lace, tugging, pulling the fabric aside. You are slick, wet, desperate for his touch, and he laughs—a low, breathless sound that makes your entire body burn.

"Patience, love," he breathes, the warmth of his words fanning over you, making your hips jerk. "Patience."

"Please—"

You aren't sure what you're asking for. Release. Relief. Him. But it doesn't matter—the second the word escapes, Klaus' eyes flash, and the last threads of his self-control snap.

"Fuck," he breathes, and then, without warning, his mouth is on you.

The first touch of his tongue is electric. A jolt that makes you gasp, that makes your fingers fist tighter into his hair. He groans at the sensation, the sound reverberating through you, a delicious vibration that has your entire body shaking.

And still, he does not rush.

This time, the kiss is unhurried, a slow drag of his tongue over the seam of you, tasting, teasing. His hands press higher, fingers digging into your hips, the curve of your ass, holding you steady as he licks into you.

You whimper, hips arching, grinding shamelessly against his mouth. He lets you, the grip on your hips tightening, encouraging. And then, with a low hum of approval, his lips close around your clit, and suck.

Your head tips back, a choked moan escaping, a desperate, needy sound that makes him laugh.

"I can feel how much you want me," he rasps, breath ghosting over the slick mess of you. "Your body, so desperate for my touch."

"Klaus, I—"

He sucks again, tongue swirling, and your words die in a low, broken whine.

"So beautiful, like this," he continues, voice thick with awe, with desire. "And so very, very mine."

The words send a bolt of heat straight through you. The possessiveness, the sheer depth of his want, is almost too much.

Almost.

He presses closer, tongue circling, teasing. You can't help it—your grip on his hair tightens, urging him closer, deeper, and Klaus growls.

"You are impatient."

"Please—"

His teeth drag along the lace, his grip flexing, and then—

A sharp tug, and the fabric gives way, the thin scrap falling to the floor in ruins.

You gasp, hips arching, and Klaus swears.

"So fucking perfect."

He doesn't hesitate, doesn't give you time to prepare. He is ravenous, devouring, his mouth moving against you in a way that has your vision going dark, has your knees buckling, has every thought in your head shattering.

His touch is relentless, unwavering, and it takes only a few seconds before you are gasping, crying out, teetering on the edge.

"Klaus, I'm—"

"I know." His voice is a ragged, wrecked thing, and you can't help but look down.

The sight that greets you nearly undoes you.

His pupils are blown wide, his mouth slick, lips parted. There is a flush high on his cheeks, and his hair is wild, tousled from your grip. He is a beautiful disaster, and the sight of him like this, the knowledge that you did this, has pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you.

"So sweet," he murmurs, the words a filthy caress. "So wet. So ready for me."

A broken cry escapes you, a plea, a demand. "Klaus—"

"Let go, love. Let go."

His mouth closes around you, and your world goes white.

Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, a devastating thing that has your body shaking, your nails digging into his scalp.

Klaus groans, working you through it, tasting, teasing, until your fingers tug at his hair, urging him back.

With a final, lingering kiss, he obliges, standing and drawing you into his arms, his mouth finding yours, the taste of you still slick against his tongue.

You shudder, the pleasure too much, too overwhelming. You are sensitive, overstimulated, and yet—

Your body reacts to his touch. Your hips press closer, and a soft, broken noise escapes, half-whimper, half-demand.

"So greedy," Klaus murmurs, the words a sinful caress against your skin. "So perfect."

He is everywhere, his body caging yours, his hands gripping, roaming, claiming. His touch is searing, desperate, and when, at last, he pulls away, his gaze finds yours.

For a moment, there is nothing but breath, heat, the frantic hammer of two racing heartbeats.

"My turn."

You barely register the words before he is lifting you, pinning you against the wall, the air between you crackling with a thousand different desires.

You can feel him, hard, straining against his slacks. Your legs tighten around his hips, and Klaus groans.

"I want to fuck you," he says, voice low, wrecked, and God, but the words make your body ache.

"Please," you breathe, a plea, a demand.

His teeth drag along your throat, sharp and insistent. "Ask me."

"Klaus, I—"

"Ask."

His grip shifts, his hands settling beneath your thighs, spreading you wide. You can feel the cool air against your skin, and the sensation makes you tremble.

"Klaus, I want—"

A soft, breathless laugh. "Say it."

He is torturing you, his grip firm, unrelenting. You could reach between the two of you, free him from his slacks, slide onto him, and—

He shifts, the length of him dragging, torturous, over the seam of you. A strangled cry escapes, and your fingers clench, fisting tighter into his shirt.

"Klaus, please, I need—"

"What do you need?"

You arch, the pressure almost unbearable. You need more. You need relief.

"Fuck me," you breathe. "Please."

There is a pause, a single, suspended moment, and then—

He releases his grip, and the ground disappears.

You barely register the change, the shift, the blur of color and motion as he crosses the room, pinning you against the nearest surface, a table, a desk, something hard and sturdy and oh, God, right fucking there.

His mouth meets yours, hot, urgent, and when he grinds into you, the fabric is gone.

You shudder, the sensation overwhelming, and the next thing you know, his mouth is on yours, swallowing your cries.

He tastes like you, and his kiss is desperate, frantic, wild. It is a frenzy, a whirlwind, a firestorm.

You gasp, hips rising, meeting him halfway, and he groans.

"I've got you, love," he rasps, nipping at your lip. "I've got you."

He is pressing into you, and the stretch, the heat, is exquisite. He moves with a steady, aching drag, and when, at last, his hips are flush with yours, you exhale, breathless, dizzy.

He pauses, and for a moment, you both just breathe.

Then, eyes blazing, he pulls back, and thrusts.

The movement is harsh, jarring, a sharp, delicious drag that leaves you gasping.

"God, you feel incredible," Klaus groans, his fingers tightening, his hips rocking.

You whimper, the friction nearly undoing you, and his gaze darkens.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his words a ragged, reverent thing. "So tight. So ready for me."

You can feel every inch of him, hot, thick, the pressure almost unbearable. And the rhythm, fuck, it is torturous. It is slow, deliberate, his movements measured, controlled, but the effect is devastating.

You are trembling, your body already sensitive, the heat coiling, twisting. You don't know how he has done this, how he has dragged you so close, so fast, but the next thing you know, your hands are gripping his shoulders, nails digging in, urging him deeper, faster.

"Look at you," he rasps, eyes locked on your face, watching the flush rise in your cheeks, the flicker of ecstasy cross your features. "So needy."

"Klaus, I can't—it's too—"

"Come for me, love. Let go."

It isn't a request. It is a command, a demand.

And the second it registers, the world falls away.

"Klaus, I—"

"That's it, love," he says, voice roughened by want, by hunger. "That's it."

Your back arches, your nails scraping down his back, and Klaus hisses.

"Yes," he growls, thrusting, deeper, harder, faster. "Take me, love. Take everything."

Your head tips back, and for a moment, there is nothing but breath, heat, the frantic pounding of two racing hearts.

"God, you're so close, aren't you? So close, and yet, I need more. I need—"

He shifts, and the angle changes. He drives into you, harder, faster, and the world explodes.

Pleasure rips through you, white-hot, devastating, and your mouth opens, but no sound escapes. You are shaking, shuddering, and the only thing anchoring you is the pressure of his hands on your thighs, his hips pressed flush against yours, the feeling of him, hot, thick, buried deep inside you.

He works you through it, his mouth marking your throat, the curve of your collarbone, his rhythm relentless, unwavering. You can feel him, the strain in his muscles, the tension, and you know—he is close.

"You're so perfect," he rasps, voice strained, hoarse, desperate. "So good. God, the things you do to me, the way you make me feel—"

Your hips arch, grinding into him, and his words cut off, a strangled curse escaping instead.

"I've waited so long," he says, his grip shifting, sliding under your ass, lifting you higher, the angle shifting.

"Wanted you for so long."

"Klaus—"

"Look at me," he orders, his words ragged, fierce. "I want to see you."

Your eyes open, and the sight that greets you makes your heart stutter.

His pupils are blown wide, his irises a thin, shimmering ring, dark, hungry, primal.

His chest heaves, his expression one of wild, unfettered desire.

"I've waited centuries for you," he murmurs, his hips moving, slow, deep, a lazy drag that sends sparks up your spine. "But I'll wait a thousand more."

"Don't." The word slips out, and his brow furrows.

"What—?"

"Don't wait."

A shudder, a sharp, indrawn breath.

"Don't make me," you breathe, arching, grinding. "Don't hold back."

"But—"

"Fuck me, Klaus."

His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching, and you know—he is hanging by a thread.

"I want you," you continue, fingers tangling in his curls, gripping tighter, making him hiss

All of you. I want you to claim me. Ruin me. I want—"

His hips snap, and a moan escapes, low, ragged, needy.

"God," Klaus growls, his grip flexing, his control cracking, breaking. "The things I want to do to you."

"Show me."

The air between you crackles, a thousand different desires sparking, snapping.

And then, with a low growl, Klaus lets go.

His mouth meets yours, and his rhythm turns punishing, unwavering, a frenzied thing that leaves you gasping.

Your fingers rake down his back, his neck, and when, at last, you fist your hand in his hair, his breath catches.

"Yes," he rasps, and fuck, but his voice is a thing of pure, unadulter

"Come for me," you whisper, tugging at his curls, your other hand scraping, dragging, leaving red welts against his skin. "Come for me, Klaus."

A low, broken groan, and his hips snap. He is losing control, his movements sharp, staccato, his breathing uneven, ragged.

"Come for me, love," he echoes, and the world tilts.

He is everywhere, the heat, the weight, the pressure, and you can feel the edge drawing closer, the fire roaring higher, brighter.

"Klaus—"

He knows.

"Yes," he breathes, and then, eyes burning, brimming with a wild, feral thing, he murmurs—

"Come."

And you do.

You fall, the world exploding, shattering, your vision going white. Your entire body shakes, trembles, and a moment later, Klaus follows.

His thrusts grow frantic, desperate, his rhythm faltering. You can feel his body, tense, straining, the corded muscles tightening, flexing.

And then, with a ragged, breathless sound, he comes.

You can feel it, the warmth of him, the way he shakes, shudders, his entire body trembling, undone.

His eyes find yours, and there is nothing but breath, heat, the frantic pounding of two racing hearts.

"You," Klaus whispers, lips brushing yours, his grip flexing, tightening, as if afraid to let you go.

"Always you."

༊*·˚

The world is quiet in the aftermath, the air thick with the lingering warmth of him, of you, of everything that unraveled between you. There is no space between your bodies, only the steady rise and fall of his breath against your skin, the way his fingers trace slow, absent-minded patterns along your back.

Klaus doesn’t speak at first. He only holds you—his grip firm, protective, as though even now, with the storm passed, he is afraid you might slip through his fingers. His lips ghost over your temple, the barest press of warmth, before trailing down, skimming your cheek, your jaw, the curve of your shoulder.

"You’re shaking," he murmurs, his voice softer now, rasping with something quieter, something reverent. He pulls the blanket over you both, tucking you further into his chest, his hand smoothing over your spine, soothing, grounding. "Are you cold?"

You shake your head against him, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers thread into your hair, nails grazing your scalp in a way that makes you sigh, makes you melt further into the safe haven of his embrace.

A deep hum rumbles from his chest, and then, almost teasingly, "Worn you out, have I?"

You huff a quiet laugh, too drowsy to play along, too content to let anything pull you from this moment. Instead, you nuzzle closer, feeling the way his arm tightens around you instinctively, the way his breath stirs your hair as he exhales, slow, deep, utterly satisfied.

There is something different in the way he holds you now—less hunger, more tenderness. The same hands that once gripped you like a man starved now cradle you as if you are something fragile, precious. And in the quiet, as he traces slow, lazy circles along your skin, you realize:

This is not just possession. It is devotion.

He shifts, just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there. "Alright, love?"

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. "Always," you murmur, the words soft, certain.

A slow, contented sigh. Another kiss—this one pressed to your shoulder, his lips curving slightly against your skin. "Good," he breathes, tucking you impossibly closer, his voice dipping into something even softer, even fonder.

"Sleep now. I’m not going anywhere."

this is the first smut I have ever written. I hope it's okay!!! tried my best <3

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

I love when you guys comment and leave notes in my inbox <<3

[joelmillersbedroom]

thief | k.m

⎯⎯“You live in my veins,” he murmurs, one hand ghosting down to where she’s already soaked. “Every time I walk into a room you’ve touched, I feel it. Every time I breathe in, I wonder if it’s your scent, or just the memory of it.”

warnings: smut, 18+, he is a pantie sniffer, he is a freak

The door shuts softly behind her—just a whisper of sound—and Klaus is left alone in the hush of her room. The air still holds her warmth, that elusive scent that clings to her clothes, her sheets, the skin of his own hands. He swears he can feel her presence in the dust motes floating in the sunlight.

He doesn’t mean to linger. Not truly. Not like this.

But there’s something magnetic about the chaos she leaves behind—shoes kicked off under the edge of the bed, a sweater slung across the chair, the delicate lace of her panties folded over the corner of a drawer she forgot to close.

A breath catches in his throat.

They’re pale, soft, touched by lavender detergent and something unmistakably her. Still warm, maybe. Still clinging to the ghost of her.

He steps closer.

Fingers hover, hesitating. Not because of shame—he has none. Not with her. But because the moment feels too fragile. Too precious. As if the wrong movement might shatter it.

He picks them up, reverently. Like relics.

The lace is nearly sheer between his fingers, featherlight, and he brings them to his face without thinking—only instinct, only hunger, only the kind of madness that comes with obsession too long denied.

He inhales.

God.

The growl that rumbles from his chest is low, nearly inaudible, but raw with need. A sound not meant for any ears but hers.

The scent of her drives straight through him, devastating and familiar. He sways slightly where he stands, eyes fluttering closed, breath catching on the back of a groan. His grip tightens. He presses the fabric closer, nuzzling it against his mouth, then lower, burying his face in it like a sinner at the altar.

He’s not proud. He doesn’t need to be.

She’s in everything now. In his mouth, in his lungs, in his bloodstream. Every soft breath of her through the cotton and lace sinks deeper into his bones.

His free hand falls to the waistband of his trousers.

Fingers slip beneath the fabric. A sharp hiss escapes through his teeth.

He strokes himself slow, lazy, lost in the sensation, the scent, the image of her wearing them—legs bare, smile sleepy, body warm from sleep. Or better—panting, flushed, straddling him, nails in his chest and whispering his name in that hushed, ruined voice she only ever uses when she's close.

His rhythm stutters.

He chokes her name into the fabric and grips tighter.

And he doesn’t hear the door creak open behind him.

༊*·˚

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet.

She pushes the door open with a soft creak, stepping back into her room with the intent of grabbing her forgotten phone or maybe that book she meant to take with her. But the sight that greets her stills her completely, freezing her mid-step.

Klaus.

Back turned to her. Shoulders tense, hips shifting with a slow, unmistakable rhythm. His head bowed. One hand buried between the folds of her panties and his face—God, his face—pressed against the lace like it’s something holy.

And his other hand…

She blinks.

Oh.

There’s a slow rush of blood to her cheeks. To her neck. Between her thighs. A quick pulse of heat that steals the air from her lungs before she can decide whether this is appalling or fascinating.

She should say something. She should stop this.

But she doesn’t.

Not yet.

She lingers in the doorway, heartbeat thudding in her ears, breath caught in her chest, watching him come apart on the scent of her. It’s so unlike him—so utterly him—this raw, indulgent need made reverent. Like even in his filthiest moment, he worships.

It’s only when his name leaves her mouth, dry and laced with something dangerous, that he startles.

“Klaus…” she murmurs, voice slicing through the stillness. “What exactly are you doing with those?”

He jerks like she’s slapped him—shoulders tightening, hand withdrawing, mouth parting around a curse that never makes it out.

For a beat, he says nothing. Just stands there, caught. Disheveled. Undone in a way she’s never seen.

“I—I didn’t hear you come in,” he mutters, dropping the panties like they’ve burned him, though the damage is already done. His cheeks are flushed, lips damp, hair slightly mussed from where his hand had been threading through it just moments ago.

He tries to school himself. Straightens. Clears his throat.

But his eyes won’t meet hers.

And that’s how she knows she’s won.

“Oh,” she says, drawing out the word like honey, stepping into the room with deliberate slowness. “So the mighty Klaus Mikaelson can be flustered. Interesting.”

He growls low in his throat, but there’s no venom in it. Just frustration. With himself. With her. With the impossible, damning ache still straining against the front of his pants.

“You weren’t meant to see that,” he grits out, voice raw.

“And yet I did,” she hums, arms crossing lazily over her chest, like she isn’t the least bit bothered. Like she isn’t completely, deliciously aware of how much power she holds in this moment.

She tilts her head. Smiles slow.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to get caught.”

“I’m not,” he snaps, then curses again—quieter this time. He runs a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged thing. “Bloody hell…”

She laughs then, soft and dangerous, and steps into his space. Close enough to see the shame and heat battling in his eyes. Close enough to smell herself still clinging to the air between them.

“Next time,” she whispers, fingers brushing over his chest, “just ask for a pair. I might let you watch me take them off.”

He chokes on air. Physically chokes.

༊*·˚

He doesn’t remember pulling her down onto the bed, only the sound she made when he flipped her onto her back—a sound that burned through his spine like gunpowder meeting flame.

And now he’s above her. On his knees, breathing hard, staring down like she’s something divine and terrifying.

His shirt is gone. Hers too. The discarded panties lie somewhere on the floor, forgotten, but Klaus still smells her everywhere—still feels the ghost of her soaked into the fabric, into his bloodstream.

“You don’t understand,” he says again, voice rasped and low, reverent as a prayer and raw as a wound. “You think this is just about lust.”

She tries to speak, but he cuts her off with his mouth on her ribs, dragging open-mouthed kisses up her torso, his hands cradling her hips like she might vanish if he isn’t careful.

“It isn’t,” he breathes against the swell of her breast. “It’s madness.”

His tongue flicks against her nipple, and she gasps, hips rising into him—but he doesn’t give her what she wants. Not yet. He drags it out, tracing slow circles with his tongue, fingers spreading her thighs apart until she’s trembling beneath him.

“You live in my veins,” he murmurs, one hand ghosting down to where she’s already soaked. “Every time I walk into a room you’ve touched, I feel it. Every time I breathe in, I wonder if it’s your scent, or just the memory of it.”

She moans when he dips down and licks her—one slow, luxurious stripe that makes her back arch off the sheets. He doesn’t stop. Not even close.

Klaus latches on like a starving man. Obsessive. Desperate. He devours her with tongue and lips and fingers, like he can’t bear the space between them. She tries to pull him up, tries to beg for more, but he won’t be rushed. Not yet.

“This is mine,” he growls, voice muffled against her. “Every inch of you—mine.”

She falls apart on his mouth once, then again when he adds his fingers—curling inside, working her open, wringing moans from her like sacred music.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth and chin are slick with her, and his eyes are blown wide and wild.

“You still think I was ashamed?” he asks, reaching for her, lining himself up.

She shakes her head, breathless. “No. Not anymore.”

“Good.”

He thrusts into her in one long, aching slide. Her mouth drops open but no sound comes out—only a gasp, and then his name, over and over again like a litany.

“Klaus—Klaus—”

He buries his face in her neck, her shoulder, her hair. Anything that smells like her. He ruts into her with slow, deliberate strokes, hips rolling, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. One hand pins her wrists above her head, the other never stops touching her, worshiping her skin, her hips, the curve of her waist, like he has to memorize her with every pass.

She’s everywhere. All at once.

And he is ruined by her.

When she comes again, clenching around him, he follows, mouth open in a soundless groan, her name broken and reverent on his tongue.

They don’t separate. Can’t.

Because Klaus doesn’t stop needing.

He stays buried inside her, forehead against hers, panting, murmuring things only she hears. Obsessions. Promises. Prayers.

༊*·˚

The room is silent but for their breathing—shaky, uneven, and shared like it's all they have left to give one another. Klaus hasn't moved. He’s still inside her, buried to the hilt, arms wrapped tight around her body like if he lets go, she’ll slip out of existence.

She shifts beneath him, gently, and he groans like it's pain and pleasure in one breath.

“I can’t…” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips grazing her cheek, “I can’t pull away from you. Not yet.”

She doesn’t ask him to. Instead, she runs her fingers through his curls, the same ones she’d pulled hours—minutes?—ago. He leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed like a beast sedated by affection.

“You really meant it,” she says softly. “About the scent. The… wanting.”

Klaus lifts his head. His eyes, still dark and glassy, find hers. “I crave you,” he says. Not lustfully now, not wickedly—but honestly. It’s a confession more than anything else. “In ways that make me feel like I’ve been cursed.”

She laughs softly, breath hitching. “Is that what I am to you? A curse?”

“No.” He shakes his head, kissing her temple. “A need. A fire. A sickness. A religion.”

His thumb brushes her lower lip, still swollen from his kisses. “It doesn’t go away when you leave a room. It doesn’t fade when I try to sleep. You’ve… invaded everything.”

She blinks up at him, and something in her chest flutters dangerously.

“I’m not ashamed of what you saw,” Klaus adds, quieter. “Only that I couldn’t help myself. But I would do it again. I will.”

Her brows lift, teasing. “You planning on stealing more underwear?”

His mouth twitches at the corner—just the ghost of a smirk. “I don’t need to steal what you’d give me freely.”

She leans up and kisses him, slow and indulgent, and the silence that follows is warm this time. Filled with the soft shift of limbs, the slide of skin on skin as they curl into one another. He kisses her shoulder. Her neck. Her collarbone. Not to seduce—but to worship. To remember.

His voice hums low near her ear. “You smell like home. You taste like sin.”

And her fingers, still tangled in his hair, give a gentle tug.

“Then stay, sinner.”

And he does.

everybody say thank you anon!!! 🤍

[joelmillersbedroom]

reverence, rewritten | k.m

⎯⎯ Niklaus is not hiding her out of shame. He is hiding her out of worship.

warnings: kinda possessive, Elijah pov.

Niklaus had always been a creature of patterns—destructive ones, typically.

Vanishing for hours to paint in violent solitude. Appearing in parlors with blood on his collar and a smile like ruin. Drowning himself in the wine of women who meant nothing to him, burning cities and loyalties alike when the emptiness caught up to him again.

But this... This was different.

Lately, there was a rhythm to him that Elijah had never seen before. A quieting. His wrath came slower, with hesitation at the edge of it. He declined the usual hunts. No bodies turned up in the river. He even let an insult slide at last week’s council gathering—something that would have cost a man his jaw not three months ago.

At first, Elijah assumed Klaus was simply plotting. That this stillness was the storm’s inhale before the tempest returned. But then came the absences.

Klaus would disappear for hours—just as he always had—but not to feed, not to destroy. And not a single soul knew where he went. Not Rebekah. Not even Kol, who took it upon himself to eavesdrop out of sheer boredom.

He stopped inviting people into his wing of the estate. Locked the door behind him without menace, without snide commentary. Just... quietly. Like a man closing a book.

And so, one evening, Elijah followed him.

It was raining—thin, silver rain that spidered across the windows and turned the gardens to watercolor. Klaus had left with no announcement, but Elijah had heard the softest creak of a door around midnight, and that was enough.

He walked without sound. He had learned stealth centuries ago, but he still felt like an intruder—not out of fear, but out of something quieter. Something reverent.

Because what he found at the end of the east wing hall was not the war god he knew.

It was Klaus—on the floor.

Not sprawled out, not brooding, not pacing like a caged animal.

He was seated cross-legged on an old rug, candlelight flickering across his face. And she—she—was curled against him, her legs draped over his lap, her cheek resting against his shoulder like she’d done it a hundred times before.

And Klaus... He was brushing her hair back with both hands. Slow. Careful. Like he was afraid to startle her with even breath.

Elijah couldn’t move. Couldn’t announce himself.

He watched his brother commit a miracle with nothing but silence and two hands gently brushing a woman’s hair behind her ear.

She laughed—soft, low, private.

And Klaus smiled. Not that feral grin he used as armor. Not the smug smirk that preceded bloodshed.

But something small. Unsteady.

Like he’d forgotten for a moment who he was supposed to be.

And Elijah—who had seen this brother burn the world down a dozen times over—felt his chest ache with something like disbelief. Or awe.

"Niklaus has many obsessions," he thought, standing just beyond the candlelight. "But this isn’t that. This is devotion in disguise."

He stepped back before he was seen. He didn’t want to interrupt the quiet.

Because in all their immortal years together, Elijah had never seen Klaus Mikaelson ask for peace.

But tonight—without saying a word—he had chosen it.

And she was the reason why.

༊*·˚

It happens again.

Not by design. Elijah doesn’t seek it out. But the rain returns a few nights later, and with it, so does that strange gravity—the pull that has haunted him since the first glimpse of that room, of her, of him—transformed by nothing but love’s proximity.

This time, the door is already slightly ajar.

No enchantment. No protection spell. Just a door left open, like an offering.

Elijah hesitates.

It feels wrong to intrude, but worse to pretend he doesn’t want to understand. Because something is changing in his brother. Something that silence cannot name.

So he stays in the shadows.

Inside, the world is quiet. The fire is low. The rain tics gently at the windows like a second heartbeat.

And there they are—again.

Klaus is on the floor, back resting against the velvet of an old chair, legs stretched out around her. She’s bundled in a blanket, tucked against his chest like she belongs nowhere else. His arms encircle her completely, like a sanctuary. A shelter. Not a cage.

She’s reading aloud at first—softly, sleepily—from a worn book Elijah vaguely recognizes. French poetry, maybe. The edges are frayed with love. But at some point her words fall away, lips parted in the beginnings of sleep.

And Klaus... He takes the book from her hands. Turns the page gently. Begins reading where she left off.

His voice is low. Intimate. Not just speaking the words but offering them. Like a gift.

A love poem, Elijah realizes.

And not one Klaus wrote. But one he’s chosen. Which is somehow worse. Which is somehow better.

The girl—his girl—breathes deeper, sighs into him, and her head slips to his chest.

She is asleep.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t seem to notice the weight of time or the fire dwindling beside them. He just holds her there, arms wrapped around her body with the kind of patience Elijah never imagined Niklaus possessed.

The kind of patience reserved for temples. For prayer.

And then—

She laughs. Just once. A ghost of a sound, still half-dreaming.

And Klaus smiles like the world hasn’t been ending inside him for centuries.

That’s when it strikes Elijah hardest.

He’s seen his brother bring kingdoms to ruin. Cities leveled. Blood spilled for the pettiest of provocations.

But never this. Never peace.

Not like this.

Not with his chin resting against her hair. Not while one hand draws soft circles over the blanket at her hip. Not while he stares at the window as if the storm outside could never touch what he’s built in here.

There is no war in him. Not now. Not with her.

Only reverence.

And Elijah, standing silent in the doorway, begins to understand something he never thought possible.

Niklaus is not hiding her out of shame. He is hiding her out of worship.

Because gods do not parade what they pray to.

They protect it. Quietly. Desperately.

༊*·˚

The night is long. Rain slicks the streets outside. The city hums with its usual quiet menace, but in the Mikaelson compound, there is only firelight and the weight of something unspoken.

Elijah finds him where he always is now—in that room no one enters but her.

Klaus doesn’t look up when the door opens. He doesn’t need to.

“She’s asleep,” he murmurs, gaze locked on the flames. His fingers curl around the glass in his hand, but there’s no tension there. Just the stillness of someone entirely occupied by a different world.

Elijah steps inside anyway.

The air is thick with heat and lavender and something even heavier—truth, maybe. Or guilt.

“She always sleeps better when it rains,” Klaus adds softly. “Says it sounds like something ancient trying to come home.”

He doesn’t turn around. He knows who it is. Of course he does.

Elijah clears his throat. Keeps his voice low, careful, like he’s stepping through a cathedral. “You touch her,” he begins, “like she’s made of ash. Like she might vanish if you breathe wrong.”

Klaus is quiet. Too long.

And then—

“Because she’s the only thing I’ve ever held that didn’t bleed.”

It steals the breath from Elijah’s lungs.

He stares at the back of his brother’s head, the shape of him so familiar and suddenly so unknown.

“She’s not like the others, is she?”

Klaus chuckles at that—dry, humorless. “No, brother. She is nothing like the others. She never begged me to stay. Never feared what I was. Never tried to twist herself into a shape that might fit beside a monster.”

Elijah steps closer, voice gentler now. “Does she know what you are?”

Klaus finally turns. His face is all shadows and softness, eyes lit not by hunger or rage but something quieter. Sadder.

“She knows who I am.”

A beat of silence.

“And that’s worse, isn’t it?” Elijah says. “Because you’ve never let anyone see you. Not truly.”

Klaus takes a breath like it hurts. Like every word is pulling at something stitched shut long ago.

“She didn’t tame me.”

“No?” Elijah tilts his head.

Klaus smiles, small and broken and full of something raw. “No. She just looked at me like I didn’t need to be a monster anymore.”

And that’s the moment Elijah realizes: this isn’t just love. It’s absolution.

It’s everything his brother has carved himself open trying to earn—and never found in blood or war or power.

But somehow, she gave it to him. Not by force. Just by being there.

Just by seeing him.

༊*·˚

It happens without warning.

No announcement. No grand reveal. Just a quiet evening in the courtyard. The scent of burning wood, a fire flickering in the old hearth, wine passed between hands too used to power to speak much of it. A gathering like any other—until it isn’t.

The doors open. Klaus steps through.

And she’s with him.

Not in the way Elijah has come to expect. Not hanging off his arm, not paraded like a prize or a possession. She’s simply there—at his side.

Not ahead. Not behind. Beside.

And that, Elijah thinks, is what stops him cold.

Klaus carries himself differently tonight. Not cocky, not simmering with all that restless fury. He looks calm. Like a man who knows exactly who he is and doesn’t feel the need to say it out loud.

She walks with him, her hand resting lightly on his coat. It’s not a claim. Not a warning. There’s no performance in it. Just touch. Just closeness. Just choice.

For so long, Klaus has held onto things like they were slipping from him—clutched too tight, loved too violently. But this is different. This time, he’s not afraid of losing. He’s just there with her.

And she? She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t shrink.

When someone new arrives—a face Elijah doesn’t recognize, eyes too old, too sharp—she moves without thinking, just slightly, just enough to place herself between Klaus and the stranger. Protective, not performative. As natural as breathing.

Klaus doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t push her back. Instead, he leans in and says something low. She answers with a laugh, soft and real, then rests her hand briefly over his.

It’s easy, Elijah realizes. Effortless. Intimate in a way that no one in this room has ever been with Klaus. Not without blood. Not without fire.

And she doesn’t flinch. Not once. Not when someone calls him the Hybrid. Not when she catches whispers of stories that should make anyone run.

She looks at Klaus like she already knows the worst of him. And she’s still here.

Later, Rebekah catches the look on Elijah’s face and raises an eyebrow over her drink.

“She isn’t a secret anymore,” Elijah says quietly. “She’s his center.”

Rebekah smirks. “He let her in?”

Elijah nods once. “No,” he says. “He brought her.”

And when the guests begin to trickle out, when the fire has burned down to orange coals and the laughter has dulled into silence, Elijah finds him again. Alone now—almost.

She’s nearby, her fingers grazing the spine of a book left on the table. Like she lives here. Like she belongs.

“You brought her,” Elijah says.

Klaus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pretend not to know what he means.

“No more hiding,” he says simply.

“She knows what that means?”

“She does.”

Elijah tilts his head, searching his brother’s face. “And she’s not afraid?”

Klaus looks past him then—at her—and the look in his eyes is something Elijah hasn’t seen since they were boys. Something soft. Something full.

“No,” Klaus says, voice barely above a breath. “She’s not the girl who tamed me, Elijah.”

“She’s the woman who saw me—and chose me anyway.”

hope you like it anon <<33 actually really liked writing it from Elijah's pov!

[joelmillersbedroom]

I wanna kiss those lips.

[joelmillersbedroom]

Oh this hit all my red flags, I've torn down 3 already just walking Malaya to the park