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loxbbg · 15 days ago

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studio light | k.m

⎯⎯ “This is what you do to me,” he said softly. “You touch everything I thought I’d buried. You make me want to be known.”

warnings: fluff, why can't all men be like him tf?

Klaus had never let anyone into this room.

Not Elijah, with his careful silences. Not Rebekah, with her stubborn need to understand. Not even Camille, whose gentleness once softened the bite in his voice.

But you—barefoot on the paint-stained drop cloth, a stray curl falling loose from the haphazard knot at the nape of your neck, a paintbrush tucked behind one ear like it belonged there— You were a different ache entirely.

You tilted your head, studying the unfinished canvas propped against the wall like it might whisper a secret if you stared hard enough. It was wild and warm, swaths of crimson and ochre blooming over a chaotic heart. A sunrise, maybe. Or something on fire.

“It’s… beautiful,” you breathed, voice soft as linen drying in summer light.

He didn’t answer at first. He only watched you—watched the way you looked at his work like it meant something. Like he meant something.

And it terrified him.

Like a man brushing up against divinity by mistake, Klaus stood there, hands still wet with a red that looked too much like blood, breath caught in the delicate place between want and restraint.

“It’s not finished,” he muttered. Then, after a pause that almost hurt, softer, “Nothing ever really is.”

You turned to him, one brow raised, lips curving into that half-smile that had undone him a thousand times without trying. “Are we talking about paintings or people?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he moved past you, quiet as thunder on the horizon, and dipped two fingers into the deepest red on the palette. Then—without hesitation—dragged a wide, reckless streak across the canvas. A gash of feeling. Another. Another. Each movement stripped him bare, loosening something old and cruel from his shoulders, like paint was confession and salvation all at once.

“You know,” he said after a beat, voice low and close to breaking, “Painting was the first thing I ever loved that didn’t try to leave me.”

You stepped toward him before you could stop yourself.

“No,” you whispered. “That’s not true.”

His jaw tensed. His eyes snapped to yours.

“I’m still here.”

You didn’t look away. You never looked away.

His hands, still streaked with color, came to your face—one cradling your cheek, the other curling behind your neck, slow and reverent like he’d spent centuries memorizing the shape of you in his dreams.

His thumb brushed just beneath your eye. A little too soft. A little too trembling.

As though if he touched you too hard, you’d vanish. As though he was still trying to believe you were real.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever painted in my mind,” he murmured, voice rasping at the edges. “Even before I knew your name. I think I dreamed you in color before I ever had a word for the shade.”

And you—helpless, breathless, yours— You knew he wasn’t speaking metaphor anymore.

You were the riot in his palette. You were the warmth he hadn’t earned. You were the unfinished thing he’d never stop trying to get right.

And his hands—God, those hands—slid down your sides like prayer, like sin, like surrender, pulling you into the gravity of him.

༊*·˚

He didn’t speak as he reached for your wrist.

Just a curl of his fingers around yours—light, guiding, deliberate—as though he were leading you into a chapel. And in a way, he was. The studio, the paint, the light puddling like honey across the floor… this was his altar. His prayer. And now, you were part of it.

“Come here,” he murmured.

The easel loomed in front of you, canvas splashed with chaos. Bold strokes of crimson and ash-blue, an unfinished thing brimming with storm. You’d seen war waged with less emotion.

He stood behind you, all quiet heat and barely-restrained gravity. One arm wrapped loosely around your waist, pulling you into him. The other reached forward, his paint-streaked hand covering your own.

“Here,” he whispered, his voice just below your ear. “Feel what it’s like to move with no rules.”

Your breath caught as his fingers moved with yours, dipping the brush into a pool of gold and dragging it slowly across the canvas. The bristles stuttered against the texture, leaving behind a trembling trail of light.

“You don’t have to think,” Klaus said. “You only have to feel.”

And God, you did.

You felt everything—his breath warming your neck, the press of his chest against your back, the way his hand never left yours. His other hand had moved to your waist now, holding you still as though afraid you might slip from him if he wasn’t careful.

Color stained your skin. Your knuckles. Your pulse.

He guided you again, this time with his chin brushing your shoulder, his breath a hush against your collarbone. The brush dropped at some point—forgotten, slipping to the floor with a soft clatter. And when you turned, paint on your fingertips and heartbeat unraveling, Klaus was already looking at you like he’d been waiting for years.

“This is what you do to me,” he said softly. “You touch everything I thought I’d buried. You make me want to be known.”

And then—slow, almost reverent—he lifted your paint-slicked hand to his lips.

He kissed each stained finger, one by one, like worship. Like oath.

And when he kissed your mouth, it wasn’t rushed. It was certain.

Like he’d been tasting you in the air for centuries. Like every painting he’d ever made had been a prelude to this.

His hands cupped your face with that same careful ache from before—fingers curling behind your ears, thumbs pressing just beneath your jaw, tilting your head like you were something he’d never get enough of.

And when he kissed you again, deeper now—paint smearing across your cheek from his wrist, your hands sliding up his shirt, his breath stolen clean from his lungs—

You forgot what unfinished ever felt like.

༊*·˚

It was never planned.

The way the kiss stumbled forward—deepened, shifted—and turned into something messier, sweeter. The way his hands curled beneath your thighs to lift you just slightly, just enough, as your feet tangled in the drop cloth and the two of you tumbled gently to the floor, all breath and color and heartbeat.

Klaus landed first, paint-smudged elbow hitting the cloth with a muted grunt, and you landed half on top of him, laughing into the hollow beneath his jaw.

He looked up at you like you were both ridiculous and divine. “I believe we’ve just committed war crimes against that canvas,” he muttered.

“Worth it,” you said, breathless.

His hand settled at your waist, thumb lazily brushing a streak of yellow across your skin. “You’re a walking palette now.”

You glanced at your arm—green smudged near your elbow, red dotting your shoulder, gold shimmer staining the top of your thigh like some careless celestial had touched you in passing.

“And you look like someone wrestled a sunset,” you said, grinning. “And lost.”

He arched a brow, lips quirking into that rare, boyish smile that only ever came when he forgot to guard himself.

“Darling,” he said, voice low and amused, “If I lost to anything, it was you.”

Your breath hitched in the middle of a laugh.

And then silence folded over the moment��not heavy, but sacred. His fingers traced lazy circles at your waist, wandering occasionally up your back, slow and absent-minded like he was memorizing you without trying. You felt his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Strong. Steady.

“I think I like it here,” you murmured.

“Where? My studio floor? Covered in paint and shame?”

You laughed again, nose brushing his collarbone.

“Here,” you whispered. “With you.”

His hand stilled for a second—then pulled you closer, like he couldn’t help it.

“I’ve painted so many things,” he said quietly. “Landscapes, storms, monsters, saints. But nothing’s ever felt like this. Like you.”

Your eyes fluttered open, and he was already looking at you.

“You’re not a painting,” he continued, “but you’ve ruined me like one.”

You didn’t need poetry to answer. Just lips against his jaw. Just a soft, amused, “You’re so dramatic.”

He smiled into your hair. “And yet here you are, tangled up in it.”

“And covered in it,” you said, lifting your palm to show him—paint smudged, fingers still trembling faintly from where they’d clutched his shirt.

He took your wrist gently, brought your hand to his mouth again, and kissed the inside of your wrist. Then the curve of your thumb. Then lower.

“You’re art,” he said simply, mouth brushing against your pulse.

“Cheesy,” you mumbled. But you didn’t move.

“You like it.”

And you did. You liked the way he kissed like someone remembering something. You liked the gold beneath your fingernails. You liked the way the whole studio smelled like turpentine and breathlessness and him.

You liked that he let you in.

the amount of times I have let out a shriek of excitement while writing this is insane

(so many posts coming this week so be aware! also I have exams tomorrow and June 2nd and June 11th, so I won't be as active the following weeks.)

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loxbbg · 15 days ago

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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.