r-memberme

[r-memberme]

do you use chatgpt when writing ? just curious, i ran one of ur works thru an ai detector and it picked up on it…

Hi! I appreciate you reaching out, but I want to address this respectfully and firmly — no, I don’t use AI like ChatGPT to write my fics.

I’ve spoken about this before, but to clarify again: I genuinely don’t condone the use of AI for writing creative works like fanfiction. It takes away from the heart and craft of storytelling, which for many of us is a deeply personal, emotional, and human process. These stories are written with intention, time, care, and soul — not by machines. (My other post is a couple of months old)

Also, AI detectors are not reliable and often flag completely normal phrasing. I've personally tested my own fics through several detectors out of curiosity, and phrases like “also,” “in time,” and even some formatting quirks have triggered false positives. The tech is simply not accurate enough to make conclusive judgments.

It’s disheartening to see how AI is starting to affect creative spaces and undermine the hard work of writers who spend hours shaping every word. I take great pride in the pieces I write and in building something honest with my own voice.

Thanks for understanding — and please, let’s keep celebrating the human side of creativity. 🤍

[r-memberme]

kneel for you | k.p

⎯⎯Slow. Reverent. Like they’re sacred texts and he’s never been much for prayer, but damn if this isn’t the closest he’s ever come.

warnings: fucking freaks, insane people, blood, death, destruction, the whole nine yards man, yearning

They met during a blood moon.

Not metaphorically. Not romantically. No, literally—under the red stain of a sky gone mad, in a town that had stopped breathing two hours earlier. The streets were silent save for the distant echo of a car alarm still screaming its confusion. Smoke curled from the bones of buildings. The air was electric with the leftover taste of magic—sharp and crackling, still trying to settle.

Kai stepped over the body of a hunter twitching in the dirt, steam rising from the rune burnt into his chest. He didn’t know who had cast it, but it was elegant work. Cruel and clean. Efficient.

It led him here.

A ruined church. Doors thrown open like a scream, stained glass shattered and bleeding color onto the stone floor. Candles still burned, flickering with no source—no flame, just raw magic twisting inside the wax like it had a mind of its own.

And her.

Barefoot. Kneeling in front of a cracked altar, her fingers smeared with ash and blood, whispering to the floor like it was listening. She moved like she belonged in ruins—like destruction was her sanctuary, not her crime.

Kai stopped breathing.

She didn’t notice him at first. Or maybe she did and didn’t care. Her hair was a mess of dark, wind-tangled strands. Her mouth was red—not lipstick, blood—and her hands moved in the air with purpose, with rhythm, with rage. There were sigils drawn on the floorboards in something thick and sticky. Her voice was a spell and a sermon all at once.

He took a step closer, boots crunching over broken glass.

“Are you hexing the altar?” he asked, voice calm but amused, like he was complimenting her outfit.

She looked up slowly.

Eyes glowing with leftover power. Head tilted, lips curling into something between a smirk and a threat. “Why, you wanna help?”

And that was it.

That was the exact moment Kai Parker—the psychopath, the heretic, the outcast even monsters feared—fell like a fucking rock.

She stood, wiping her hands on her dress like blood was nothing. “You’re not running,” she said, half a statement, half a test.

Kai smiled. “Why would I run from art?”

They circled each other like wolves, like magnets, like a promise waiting to be broken. She glanced at his hands, the flicker of power crackling just beneath his skin. He looked at the sigils she'd carved into the altar, the way they shimmered with layered hexes. Not beginner work. Not safe work. This was someone who liked to make magic bleed.

“I was going to collapse the roof,” she said, casually. “Seal the place with iron and memory. Trap whatever’s left of their faith in the dust.”

Kai laughed, bright and boyish and completely unhinged. “You know, most people summon angels in churches.”

She took a step closer. “Most people are boring.”

God, he wanted to taste her. The chaos of her. The wild, sharp glory of someone who didn’t blink at death, who didn’t beg for forgiveness. Who didn’t care about rules—only results.

He held out his hand. “Let’s trap God together, yeah?”

And she didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second.

She took it.

And the sigils flared to life.

༊*·˚

They don’t go on dates.

They go on hunts.

Witch-blood still drying on her knuckles, Kai’s arm slung lazily around her shoulders like she’s something he owns—something he worships—and behind them, the air smells like ozone and regret. They leave scenes instead of footprints. Graves instead of apologies.

She leans in, all smirk and spell-burned fingers, and whispers, “He begged for mercy.”

Kai grins. “You didn’t give it, did you?”

She shows him the charred ring she plucked off the man’s hand. “Guess.”

He takes it from her, kisses the bloodstained metal, and pockets it like it’s a love note.

They don’t do small talk. They do crime scenes.

Their kisses are bruises and teeth, desperation dressed up like devotion. He presses her against cold stone walls and laughs into her mouth while the world burns behind them—laughs like it's the funniest joke fate ever told, and she laughs too, teeth flashing, hands in his hair like she’s trying to pull the sanity out of him strand by strand.

She’s got blood on her collarbone—thick and crusted, still warm in the center—and spells etched into her skin like tattoos she didn’t bother to wash off. And Kai?

He kisses both.

Slow. Reverent. Like they’re sacred texts and he’s never been much for prayer, but damn if this isn’t the closest he’s ever come.

“You’re out of your mind,” she says one night, breathless, as he licks a hex mark off her throat.

He pulls back just long enough to say, “And you’re exactly the reason for it,” before biting her lip again.

When they walk through town, people cross the street. Doors close. Lights flicker out. They don’t whisper sweet nothings—they whisper death threats and giggle like it's foreplay. She once cursed a man for looking at her wrong. Kai didn’t even ask what the guy did—he just blew up his car and handed her a milkshake like it was a congratulations.

She carves runes into skin like signatures—sharp, clean, permanent. He draws sigils in the air, just to watch her grin when they explode in violet fire and scream-shaped echoes.

They leave scorch marks in hotel rooms, handprints in blood on motel mirrors, circles of salt around every bed they break.

They are not safe.

They are not sane.

They are chaos and cruelty and kisses that taste like gasoline—and they are each other’s favorite weapon.

༊*·˚

No one understands it.

Not the covens, not the survivors, not the whispering wreckage of the world they leave behind.

Not the witches who banish them, the vampires who fear them, or the demons who dare not speak their names too loudly in case they show up grinning.

She’s a ticking time bomb with a silk voice and venom in her touch. He’s a psychotic with charm carved into his grin and damnation stitched into his veins. Together, they’re a prophecy rewritten in graffiti and blood.

And still—

She lets him sleep with his head in her lap, humming spells low into the night while her fingers trace idle patterns through his hair. And Kai, all chaos and bite and swagger, lies there perfectly still, watching her like she’s something breakable. Like she’s already been broken, and he’ll kill the next god who tries to touch a single splinter of her.

He doesn’t worship gods. He worships her.

Every spell she speaks. Every curse she casts. Every smirk she gives him over a shoulder slicked with someone else’s blood.

She’s not just his girl.

She’s his religion.

And she knows. Oh, she knows.

She sees it in the way he breathes her in like oxygen, the way his voice softens when he says her name—like it was the first word that ever meant something. When he smiles at her, it’s not because she’s pretty—please, pretty is too soft a word. It’s because she’s jagged and cursed and just as ruined as he is. Because she burns the world with the same gleeful cruelty, and maybe—maybe—she’d burn it with him.

They don’t ask for forgiveness.

They don’t offer it either.

They don’t pretend to be good, or kind, or healed. They laugh at redemption arcs and leave therapy pamphlets in flames. They’re not trying to be better. They’re just trying to be together.

And when she gets hurt—

The sky splits.

The wind howls. The ground cracks open. Kai doesn’t scream—he erupts. His magic flares with all the grace of a bomb. The world pays for touching what’s his.

And when he’s bleeding—

She doesn’t panic. She doesn’t cry.

She gets quiet.

She gathers pieces of the night in her hands, threads spells with shaking fingers, and drags the moon down herself just to make it stop. She tears through villages, through barriers, through fate itself, until she can lay his head in her lap again and whisper, “You’re alright now. I’ve got you.”

Because no matter how loud the world is—

It always reduces to two.

Just them.

And that’s more than enough to end everything.

༊*·˚

They keep a notebook.

Not because they’re sentimental—Kai laughs at sentiment the way most people laugh at bad punchlines. And she? She thinks love is better shown in hexes than haikus.

But still, there it is: an old leather-bound thing, scuffed and scorched, sealed with protection spells and warded with so much layered magic it hums when you hold it. Stolen from a dead warlock’s library. Baptized in blood. It smells like smoke and ink and something distinctly theirs.

Inside?

Not poetry. Not really.

Just spells. Plans. Coordinates. Names to cross out and towns to level. Blueprints of ruin, pages marked with fire damage from the time he got a little too excited reading one of her curses aloud.

But hidden between the ash and arcane:

"You looked like a god tonight. I wanted to kiss the destruction off your hands."

"If anyone touches you, I’ll tear their soul into confetti."

"I saw you hex a man with one word and laugh like it was a love song. Marry me."

They never sign their names.

They don’t have to.

Each line is written like a blood pact—delicate and deranged, sacred and savage. Little bombs disguised as confessions. Each word is a matchstick. Every sentence, a loaded gun.

There’s one page, charred at the edges, scrawled in Kai’s fast, messy hand:

"Sometimes I think the only real thing in this whole rotting world is you. Everything else is just scenery waiting to be set on fire."

Another, written by her:

"I’d gut the stars to see you smile. I’d hex the sun if it meant more time in your shadow."

The notebook lives in Kai’s jacket, right over his heart. He says it’s for easy access.

But really, it’s because when she’s not near, he flips it open just to smell the pages. Just to see her handwriting. Just to remember that even in the middle of carnage, she loved him enough to write it down.

And when they’re together, huddled in some godforsaken place, firelight catching on her eyes and his teeth, they flip through it like old lovers thumbing through photographs.

Everyone else burns.

They blaze.

And they keep the receipts.

༊*·˚

The world is quiet. For once.

Not dead—though that’s always a possibility with them—but soft. Hushed. Lit by the dull morning light through dusty stained-glass windows. The air smells like candle smoke, dried herbs, and whatever spell she was working on last night. There’s ash on the table. Blood on the floor. Lipstick still smudged on his collar.

And her. Wearing his shirt.

She’s curled across his lap, knees tucked to her chest, flipping slowly through a weathered grimoire like it’s a bedtime story. The pages glow faintly under her fingers. Her hair’s a mess. There’s a cut on her cheek from the fight they won hours ago, and he still hasn’t stopped looking at it. Or her.

Not once.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and just lets him.

Her legs are heavy across his thighs. Warm. Real. She hums to herself when she reads sometimes, under her breath, in that voice like old honey and old magic. Like she knows things he’ll never learn and loves him anyway.

He would burn the world down just to keep this moment.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs without looking up.

Kai smiles, but it’s small. Soft. Nothing like his usual crooked grin. “I do that sometimes.”

“Mmm,” she says, pretending to ignore it. But her foot brushes his knee like it means something. Like she knows exactly how close to wrecked he is.

He watches her turn another page. Carefully. Reverently.

“I’d do anything for you,” he says suddenly. Quietly. No theatrics. No smirk.

Her eyes flick up, a little surprised.

“I mean it,” he says. “If you asked me to bury a city, I’d ask what color flowers you wanted planted after. If you wanted the moon—I’d rip it out of the sky and throw it at your feet. No questions. No hesitation. Just… here, take it. Yours.”

She stares at him.

He doesn’t look away.

“I know I’m not normal. Or good. Or easy to love.” He swallows, and his hand drifts to her shin, holding it gently. “But you make me want to try. You make me want to be something better. Not because you asked. You never ask. But because you look at me like I could be. Like there’s something worth saving.”

“Kai,” she says, and it sounds like a spell all on its own.

“I’d give you anything,” he whispers. “You want blood, I’ll bring rivers. You want quiet, I’ll silence the world. You want peace?” His voice almost breaks. “I’ll find it. I’ll make it. Somehow.”

She leans forward, the book slipping from her hands. Her forehead touches his. Their breaths tangle.

“You already give me everything,” she says, and it’s so soft he almost doesn’t hear it. “Just by being mine.”

He closes his eyes. Her hands cradle his jaw. His thumb brushes the edge of her knee.

And then, after a moment:

“I still want the moon,” she teases, a smile curling on her lips.

Kai laughs, breathless with relief. With love.

“I’ll get you two.”

a big thank you to @samatokisunfinishedcigarette I hope you like it! <3

And if the world ends tomorrow, let it find them like this: her in his shirt, him at her feet, and the kind of love that rewrites everything it touches.🤍

[r-memberme]

Your birthday is coming up soon, so is mine, May I request Klaus celebrating his partner's birthday? Hopefully something just romantic with only the two of them and a very smitten reader? 👀

Yes, you absolutely may — and happy almost-birthday to us both! That’s such a soft, perfect request, and I already see it:

Klaus spoiling her in the most private, deliberate way — no grand parties, just quiet intimacy. Candles lit. Paintings he’s hidden for her. A love letter folded beneath her breakfast plate. Him watching her with a look like she invented the stars. She’s so flustered and smitten she can barely speak. And every time she says “you didn’t have to do all this,” he only whispers, “But I did. I always will.”

This one’s going to be romantic, dreamy, and full of those quiet touches that say you are everything to me.

Stay tuned, angel. It’s coming - June 25th

(to those who don't know, my birthday is June 25th <3)

[r-memberme]

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!

[r-memberme]

omg you write so well its crazy, i’ve never fell more in love with an author’s writing like this before <3

i was wondering if i could request something with klaus or kai where the reader gets physically hurt by someone but is super stubborn and tries to hide it/doesn’t want to tell klaus but obviously he knows she’s hurt cause he can literally smell it but she is so headstrong of “i can handle it myself” but he is also stubborn and wont let her leave and insists on healing her (you can decide if with blood or like normal bandaging) and its just overall hurt/comfort but kind of angsty with happy ending

i’m not sure if that was clear or not but thanks for indulging and no worries if not (i still look forward to any writing you post 🧎‍♀️)

Oh angel 🥺 thank you so much for that—honestly, I’m hugging those words to my chest and spinning in dramatic circles. That kind of love? Straight to the soul. It means everything to me that the writing found you and made you feel something. I don’t take that lightly at all. Thank you for reading, for caring, for saying that—it’s such a gift 💘

I live for this dynamic. Klaus (or Kai) with a headstrong, stubborn-as-hell girl who insists she’s fine while clearly bleeding through her shirt? That’s peak comfort/angst gold. You’ve painted such a vivid picture already and I’m so in.

The moment where he smells the blood before she even steps through the door? His whole face darkens. She’s brushing it off like, “It’s nothing. Don’t freak out.” But he’s already lifting her shirt hem or pushing aside her jacket like, “Who did this?” And she’s like “I handled it.” And he’s like “Not well enough.”

He heals her—gently, intensely, maybe with blood, maybe with careful hands and whispered threats to whoever touched her. But either way, he’s so careful with her, like her pain is his, like he’ll burn the world before she hurts again.

Thank you for sending this, it’s a gorgeous request and I’m so honored you’d want me to bring it to life 🥹💛 Expect some poetic tenderness and a whole lot of protective rage—just how we like it.

[r-memberme]

I just love how good, how TENDER klaus can be. So, imagine this: he keeps reader away from his family, but they have been together for a while, and for the first time elijah see them interacting and is completely shocked by his brother's tenderness, how soft he is, the way he touches her and talks to her... And the imagine would be mostly by elijahs point of view and him talking to Klaus about this!

Oh my GOD yes—this is the kind of fic that would sit heavy in the chest in the best way. The kind that leaves you lying in bed afterward like, “wow... Klaus Mikaelson really loves her.”

Imagine Elijah walking in unannounced—probably mid-eye roll, expecting to find his brother brooding or wreaking havoc—and instead, he sees Klaus sitting on the floor, her legs over his lap, brushing her hair back with both hands like she’s porcelain. The way he leans in to whisper something and she laughs softly, and Klaus smiles, not that usual sharp smirk, but something small and real, like he’s been disarmed.

Elijah just freezes. Because Klaus—the war path, the storm, the monster they’ve all bled for—is here being gentle.

And later Elijah’s like, “Niklaus… does she know what you are?”

And Klaus just stares at the wall and says, “She knows who I am.”

Yes. YES. I'm absolutely writing this. Thank you for this soul-healing concept 🩵

reverence, rewritten - link to fic

[r-memberme]

I need a request this will heal me:

Reader is a very hard student, and she just got bad grades at a test for her first time. Being good at college means everything to her (yes I'm projecting 🤫)

I see clearly the scene where Klaus is taking her, she gets into the car and starts crying and he is like omg what happened and she my grade was terrible I'm terrible I'm never gonna make out of college and he comforts her 😊😊😊 (and wants to murder her teacher, of course)

Oh angel… this just reached into my soul, sat down, and made itself at home 😭

The image of her crumbling in the passenger seat? The tears, the “I’m never getting out of college,” the way she tries to hide how much it hurts her when she doesn’t do well? Oh I felt that.

And Klaus? Oh, he’s already got one hand on her knee and the other texting threats to the professor in perfect Old Norse. He’s soft, he’s simmering, he’s calling her his clever girl while secretly plotting a blood-soaked academic revenge.

I’m writing this. For you. For me. For the honor students everywhere holding it together with a color-coded planner and one fraying nerve. We deserve this fic. 🫶📚

[r-memberme]

Hear this concept: reader doesn't know Klaus is a vampire and always gets surprised by his intelligence. I mean, the guy is a thousand. He KNOWS things. She is just shocked that he seems to know every language ever. He helps her studying and always seems to know more than her even though she is the one in college. And then maybe one day she insists he goes to a little party with her friends and they play that type of quiz games? And he is simply the best? (Very much based in that scene Elijah and Cami play the quiz game together)

Ohhh yes. Yes, yes, yes—this concept is perfection and so you. Listen:

She thinks he’s just some hot, suspiciously poetic man who dresses like he’s allergic to hoodies and says things like “the stars are not so brilliant as your mind, love.” She just chalks it up to British charm and a very good vocabulary. But then he starts helping her study—first it’s Art History, and he’s casually naming obscure Renaissance painters like they’re old friends. Then it’s her French lit exam, and he’s quoting Baudelaire from memory, with perfect pronunciation and a smile like this is child's play.

She frowns. “How do you know all this?”

Klaus shrugs, lazy and smug on her dorm bed, flipping through her textbook. “I pay attention, sweetheart.”

Cut to: she ropes him into going to this little get-together with her friends. A casual night. Pizza. Music. Drinks. And a board game. It’s one of those team trivia games and everyone’s laughing—until Klaus opens his mouth.

He’s not just good. He’s scary good.

“Who built the original Hagia Sophia?” “Emperor Justinian I. Though technically, Anthemius and Isidore were the architects.”

“What’s the capital of Burkina Faso?” “Ouagadougou. Though I much prefer Timbuktu, aesthetically.”

“Name a Shakespeare play that doesn’t end in a death.” He gives three. In order. With commentary.

She’s sitting there with wide eyes, clutching her wine like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth.

“Are you…like…a genius?” she whispers after he wins again.

Klaus just smirks, leans in, brushes a curl behind her ear. “No, love. I’ve just had more time to learn than most.”

And for the first time, she realizes there’s something… off. Something timeless in the way he moves. Something ancient in his gaze. The dots don’t quite connect yet—but she’s getting closer.

And Klaus? He’s enjoying every second of it.

[r-memberme]

Klaus wearing her hair tie around his wrist. Everywhere. Sometimes extra if she needs one. But he mostly wears it to have something of hers.

Ohhh yes. Klaus Mikaelson with your hair tie snug around his wrist like it’s some ancient relic he swore a blood oath to protect? That’s canon now, sorry I don’t make the rules.

It’s not just one either—sometimes it’s two, three, like he’s preparing for battle but the battlefield is just you pulling your hair back with a huff. And he’ll offer one up silently, casually, like he didn’t spend five minutes choosing which one of yours matched his cufflinks better that day.

Rebekah clocks it instantly. Kol makes fun of him for it—calls him “Whipped Mikaelson” while dodging a hybrid punch. But Klaus? He doesn’t care. Because it’s yours. It smells like your shampoo. It reminds him of your fingers, of late nights and sleepy mornings and brushing your hair off your neck just to see that sliver of skin.

And if anyone even thinks about pointing it out, he just raises a brow like, “Jealous?”

Because that tiny elastic? Yeah, it’s everything.

[r-memberme]

Hey Queen how are you doing?? Hope you‘re doing fantastic 🫶🏻 I was wondering if you could write something about Kai where he and reader are just so obsessed with each other ( reader is a lil evil too) and they just go on with their mischief not giving two shits what the others think and Kai is SO obsessed with her he literally worships the ground reader walks on . I would be so grateful for that, but ofc only if you want to and take your time 🫶🏻thank you so much for all the beautiful pieces you write ❤️

Hey angel 🖤 I'm doing good—thank you for asking, seriously! That message was the sweetest thing, and it made my whole day. And um. OBSESSED Kai? Evil little reader? Twinning in chaos? That’s literally music to my ears.

Just picture it—two dangerously unbothered little disasters leaving scorched earth behind them, hand in hand, giggling like it's foreplay. Kai looking at her like she hung the damn moon, like he's ready to hex the sun itself if it ever makes her squint. Yeah. I’m so doing this.

Thank you for the love and for this glorious idea. Stay unhinged and adored 🖤🫶🏻

[r-memberme]

I've been waiting | k.m

⎯⎯ Carries them like a secret, like a promise, like a goddamn artifact. Something to remind him that even if you think it was nothing, he knows it was everything. That even if your lips say you’re over it, your body never lies.

warnings: kinda smut, 18+

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was one night. That whatever he’d taken from you—your breath, your sanity, your name spoken like a prayer half-burned—was long gone by now. Forgotten.

Because men like him always forget. They have empires to burn, thrones to protect, centuries to carry like ghosts in their lungs. You were just a girl who touched him once. Just hands. Just hips. Just heat.

Just nothing.

That’s what you told yourself when he stopped calling. When days passed without a flicker of him. When the silence bloomed sharp and cruel inside your chest and you started to believe maybe… maybe you were just a story he folded away.

Maybe he’d already taken what he wanted and moved on.

But Klaus Mikaelson doesn’t move on. Not when it comes to what’s his.

Not when it comes to you.

And you don’t know it yet—but he kept something. Not a memory. Not a photo. Not your perfume on his skin or your voice echoing in his head at three in the morning.

No. He kept your panties.

Pressed between the pages of a book he doesn’t let anyone touch. Tucked behind wards in a drawer no one dares open. Wrapped in the scent of you and the memory of your shaking thighs, the gasp in your throat when you gave in and let him ruin you.

He carries them sometimes.

Carries them like a secret, like a promise, like a goddamn artifact. Something to remind him that even if you think it was nothing, he knows it was everything. That even if your lips say you’re over it, your body never lies.

You feel it again when he enters the room weeks later, like no time passed at all.

Like the air knows him. Like you do.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. He never is.

He just walks up to you at some crowded gallery opening you came to escape your own mind. A glass of wine trembling in your hand. A stranger on your arm trying to talk about brushstrokes, unaware he’s already become prey.

And Klaus—

Klaus doesn't even glance at the boy beside you. His eyes are on you. Only you.

He leans in, close enough that only you can hear, and murmurs—

“Still sleeping in my shirt, love? Or did you move on to something else I touched?”

You freeze.

Your throat goes dry.

Because you are. You are sleeping in his shirt.

And he knows it.

His voice brushes against your jaw like the back of his knuckles used to. And he whispers, slow:

“I didn’t forget you. I chose not to come back… yet. There’s a difference.”

You can’t breathe. Not with the weight of him that close, not with the heat of him still coiled in your blood like a spell.

And then—then, he slides something soft and wicked into your hand, curled so carefully no one else can see.

You don’t need to look.

You already know what it is.

The panties you left behind. The ones he folded and kept like a prayer. Like a possession.

His voice curls like smoke in your ear.

“I carry them with me,” he says. “Like a reminder. Like a promise. Because you’re not something I got out of my system, sweetheart. You’re something I let in.”

And you realize something that unravels you like silk:

He never let you go.

༊*·˚

You tell yourself it won’t happen again.

That what he slipped into your hand that night—those delicate, dark scraps of silk you once left behind in the heat of a too-fast goodbye—was just a trick. A flourish. An attempt to rattle you.

But the truth is, it worked.

You keep them in the drawer now, those panties. Like they’re haunted. Like they hum.

And the worst part?

You touch them.

Sometimes you touch them with trembling fingers and remember how you felt that night—how he said your name like it was already carved into him. How he didn’t ask you to stay, but still made you feel like you belonged nowhere else but tangled in his sheets.

You remember the reverence.

The grip of his hands on your hips. The way he looked at you, like you were something holy. Something his.

And eventually, you stop pretending you don’t want it again.

So you go to him.

You don’t text. You don’t call. You show up, because you know that’s what he likes best.

Rain is falling when you do. So cliché it’s almost laughable, but the sky seems to know something about surrender.

His door opens before you knock.

Like he knew.

He always knows.

He doesn’t say a word at first. Just stands in the frame, shirt undone, chest bare like a threat. Like a temptation.

You say his name.

He doesn’t answer it. Doesn’t need to.

Because you’re already stepping inside. Already unbuttoning your coat. Already letting him see what you came for.

Him.

And when his hands finally touch you—slow at first, like rediscovering a painting he used to study with fever—your knees nearly buckle.

“I knew you’d come,” he whispers against your shoulder. “You were never going to forget me. Because I never left you.”

His lips find the side of your throat, tongue tasting the pulse you can’t control.

“And you’re not here for closure, love. You’re here because you miss the way it felt when someone worshipped you.”

And he’s right.

You want to be worshipped.

And god, he does. On his knees. In his bed. In every breath he takes while his fingers slide under your skirt like it’s still that first night.

You tell yourself it’s the last time.

But he already knows better.

༊*·˚

You don’t remember moving.

Only that now, somehow, the air between you is gone. That your back hits the wall with a sound too soft to echo. That his palm braces beside your head, knuckles grazing the crumbling plaster like he’s doing it gently—for your sake.

He’s not touching you.

But his body is so close you can feel the shape of it in your breath. The warmth radiating off his skin. The tension carved into every inch of him.

“Do you think I forgot?” Klaus asks, voice low, dangerous, intimate.

You can’t answer. Not with words. Not with the way his eyes hold you still like a storm about to break.

“Do you think I ever stopped remembering?” he murmurs, tilting his head. His mouth is close to your cheek now, but not touching. “The sound you made when you came that first time. The way your fingers dragged down my back like you couldn’t stand the thought of letting go.”

His words shouldn’t make your legs shake. But they do.

Your throat tightens. “You didn’t say anything. After.”

He hums, soft. A dangerous kind of soft. “I didn’t need to.”

“You let me leave,” you say, voice sharp with all the things you never let yourself feel. “You made it seem like it meant nothing.”

Finally, his eyes flash. “No, love. You convinced yourself it meant nothing.”

And then — then — he touches you.

A single knuckle under your chin, tilting your face toward his like you’re something he’s about to taste, not claim. And yet you already feel owned.

“You think I could fuck you like that and forget?” he whispers.

His hand slides to your neck, not gripping, just holding — like he’s checking your pulse. And he feels it. Rapid. Unsteady. Wanting.

“I kept those panties,” he says. “Not to remember the night. But to remember you. To keep the scent of you. The ghost of you. Because you haunt, darling. You live beneath the skin. You crawl under the ribcage and stay.”

He leans in. Breath on your jaw. Nose against your temple. His other hand finds your waist, dragging slowly up your side, not with lust — with reverence.

You could cry from the way it feels. Like he’s trying to memorize your shape again, just in case the stars steal you away.

“I wanted you to come back,” he says, voice breaking just slightly. “But I knew you wouldn’t. Not until you missed the way I touched you more than you feared what it meant.”

You whisper, “And what does it mean?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look.

“That you’re mine,” he says, finally. “And that I will ruin every man you try to love after me.”

Your fingers dig into his shirt. You pull. He presses his forehead to yours like a prayer.

Rain still beats against the windows.

And then — he leads you to the bed. Slow. Deliberate. Like you’re something to be carried, not taken.

And once you're there—his fingers on your thighs, your neck, your hips, your lips—he doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t need to.

You already said yes the moment you came back.

The moment you reached for the drawer and touched what he left behind.

You think it’ll be like last time.

Fast. Fevered. Forgotten by morning.

But Klaus touches you like there’s nothing else to do in the world.

No agenda. No rush. Just you, unraveling.

And him—watching it happen like it’s divine.

His fingers don’t fumble. They revere. They memorize. They press reverently into the dip of your back, the curve behind your knee, the fluttering skin at your hipbone where your breath stutters.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, mouth trailing along the slope of your shoulder, “what it’s done to me—having only the memory of you. I’ve had to live on echoes.”

You whimper when his lips find the hollow at your throat. It feels like a promise. Like he’s blessing the place he’s about to ruin.

He lifts his head, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s something raw behind his eyes. Not hunger. Not pride.

Longing.

“I dreamt of this,” he admits, almost to himself. “Of touching you again. Of undoing you again. Slowly this time.”

His fingers brush over your ribs, as if feeling for the cage that holds your heart. “I want to know what makes you break. And I want to be the only one who ever gets to do it.”

You try to speak—his name, a warning, a plea—but it falls apart when his palm spreads across your belly and anchors you to the mattress like you’re a storm he intends to weather.

“You’re so soft,” he says against your skin. “So goddamn warm. Do you have any idea what it did to me, walking around with a piece of you in my pocket, and not being able to touch the rest of you?”

He leans in, kisses the center of your chest like a prayer, like a bruise he’s sorry for. “I don’t just remember how you sounded. I remember how you shivered when I first said your name in the dark.”

His hands slide lower.

“You still do.”

You’re already trembling. You don’t know if it’s from the anticipation or the ache or the simple unbearable way he looks at you.

Like you are rare.

Like he’s found something holy in a world he long stopped believing in.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “You came back,” he whispers.

And for a moment, all the swagger, all the smirk—all of him—goes quiet.

“I didn’t think you would.”

You reach up, fingers ghosting over his jaw, into his hair. “Neither did I.”

He kisses you then.

But not hard.

Not like last time.

This kiss is slow. This kiss is ruinous.

This kiss is the kind that brands. The kind that breaks a promise made to someone else. The kind that lets him in.

And you do.

You let him in.

Not just under your clothes, but under your skin. Under your ribs. Under every lie you told yourself about what this wasn't.

Because the truth is—

He never needed to ask you to stay.

You were always going to.

༊*·˚

It’s quiet now.

The kind of quiet that only comes after something sacred has happened. Your breath still trembles. His doesn’t. He’s too steady. Too still. Like he’s been waiting a century to feel this again and now he’s terrified it will end.

The air smells like skin and rain and something sweeter. Something warmer. You don’t want to name it.

His fingers trail lazily down your spine, as if he doesn’t want to wake you—but he also doesn’t want to stop touching you. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He lies beside you, arm tucked beneath your ribs, gaze set on you like you’re an answer to a question he’s always been afraid to ask.

You try not to look. But then you do. And it breaks you a little.

Because it’s not lust in his eyes.

It’s ache.

It’s reverence.

“I should go,” you whisper, already hating the sound of your own voice.

He doesn’t blink. “Then why are you still here?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know.

Or maybe you do.

Because you miss the way his hands made you feel kept. Because you miss being wanted like that. Worshipped like that. Looked at like that.

Because no one else has ever looked at you like that.

He props himself up slowly, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his fingers.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he says softly.

Your breath catches.

“You think you were a night to remember.” His eyes flick down to your mouth. “But love… I haven’t let you go since.”

You open your mouth—to deflect, to deny—but his hand wraps gently around your jaw, thumb under your chin.

“Do you know how many times I reached into my coat pocket and found you there? A scrap of silk. A breath of sin.” His voice drops lower. “Do you know how many times I missed you when I had no right to?”

He leans closer.

“You think you were a mistake. But I think you were mine.”

Silence.

And then—

“I’m scared,” you whisper. And it tastes so bitter in your mouth, so raw, like truth ripped from bone.

He exhales. The sound is almost a laugh. Almost a sigh.

“So am I.”

His forehead touches yours. His hand splays across your stomach, like he’s grounding you, or himself, or maybe both.

“But I’d rather be scared with you than live another day pretending I don’t already belong to you.”

You feel it then.

Not just the aftermath of touch, but the ache of meaning. The bloom of something that shouldn’t be allowed to exist—this deep, this fast, this fierce.

And you’re still trembling, but this time not from the rain or the cold or the shame.

This time, you tremble because you know it’s real.

And so does he.

He doesn’t ask you to stay.

He doesn’t have to.

Because you do.

the freakyness has been matched again.... you're welcome😜

[r-memberme]

collapse into me | k.m

⎯⎯ You looked at him then, really looked. All those centuries in his eyes, the weight of time, the ache of love given and lost, and still—somehow—he had softness to spare.

warnings: nothing I think

There was a different kind of silence between you and Klaus tonight.

Not the one that crept in when the stars pressed against the windows and the words ran dry. Not the peaceful, shared hush of two people content to breathe the same air. No, this one trembled. It buzzed just beneath your skin, like something caged and frightened and aching to be known.

You sat at the edge of his bed—his, not yours—fingers laced tight in your lap, knuckles white. Klaus sat a few feet away, quiet, letting you hold the moment like a glass orb that might shatter.

You were the first to speak.

"I want you."

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t brave. But it was true.

Klaus looked up slowly, head tilting like he was trying to hear your heart rather than your voice. You felt it before he spoke—the way he gentled the space around him, softened his breath, steadied his gaze.

"You have me," he said simply

You swallowed. Shook your head. "Not like that. Not the way you probably want me."

He blinked, just once. "And what way is that, sweetheart?"

"I don’t know," you admitted, laughing under your breath, tight and unsure. "That’s the problem. I don’t know how to do this. I’m scared I’ll mess it up. I’m scared I’ll get it wrong. That I’m not enough—"

He cut you off, gently. Not with his voice, but with his movement. A shift forward, slow and deliberate, until he was close enough to touch but didn’t. He let you decide.

"You’re not a puzzle to be solved," Klaus said. "You don’t have to be anything but yourself. Not with me."

You looked at him then, really looked. All those centuries in his eyes, the weight of time, the ache of love given and lost, and still—somehow—he had softness to spare.

"I’ve lived long enough to know that love isn’t about perfect timing or perfect people," he continued. "It’s about truth. And your truth is more beautiful to me than any lie wrapped in confidence."

Your lip trembled. You hated that it did.

"But I don’t even know what I’m doing," you whispered.

"Then let me show you," Klaus said. "Not by asking more of you than you can give. But by staying. By being here, again and again, until you start to believe that you’re already everything."

You hesitated. Then, slowly, you reached for him.

It wasn’t graceful. Your hand shook. But he met you halfway, fingers warm and steady as they curled around yours.

He didn’t pull you into his lap. He didn’t lean in to kiss you. He simply held your hand, like that small, sacred thing was enough.

"You don’t have to be ready," Klaus said. "You just have to be honest. And right now? You’re doing beautifully."

A breath left your lungs you hadn’t realized you were holding.

You squeezed his hand.

He smiled. Not his usual smirk, not the sharp one he wore like armor—but something quieter. Something meant only for you.

"I love you," you said, voice small.

"And I adore you," he replied. "Exactly as you are."

You leaned into his shoulder. Just that. Just enough.

And he understood. Of course he did.

He always did.

just a short and sweet one this time to start of the day🙂‍↔️ thank you anon <3

[r-memberme]

WE ARE SO BACK IT’S DISGUSTING. like, i just rose from the grave clutching a half-finished fic in one hand and a gallon of emotional damage in the other. fic posts? imminent. mental stability? sold it for plot ideas. sleep schedule? what’s she wearing to the funeral. i’ve got 37 drafts, 3 brain cells, and a romantic obsession with men who would definitely ruin my life (and i’d say thank you).

just got one of my wisdom tooth out like 2 hours ago.

new fics tomorrow? yes.

its never over,

cue Jeff buckley.

[r-memberme]

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!!! 🤍

[r-memberme]

anchor yourself to me | k.m

⎯⎯“I’d carry your grief if I could. But I can’t. So instead, I’ll carry you.”

warnings: mention of death, grief, heavy feelings and a heavy heart,

this is for you sweet soul <3

It started with the sound of the key turning in the lock. Quiet. Too quiet.

Klaus looked up from the couch, a book half-forgotten in his lap. It wasn’t the slam of the door, or the usual rustle of your coat falling to the floor, or your voice calling out with some dry remark about his taste in novels. It was silence. That aching, telling kind that dragged its feet through the room like a ghost.

You stepped inside like the world was heavier than your bones could bear. Hair windswept, face drawn. You didn’t even look at him as you walked past.

“Darling?” he asked softly, setting the book aside.

“I’m fine,” you replied. But your voice was paper-thin and cracked halfway through.

He stood, slow and measured. You’d told him before—sometimes you just needed space. But this didn’t feel like space. This felt like you were floating far, far away, and even breathing seemed like it hurt.

He didn’t follow. Not yet. Just watched as you disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door.

He let time pass, let the silence grow thick. But then minutes stretched into nearly an hour. The light outside faded to dusk, and he couldn’t sit still anymore.

He knocked once. No answer.

Then he opened the door.

You weren’t in bed.

He found you instead sitting on the cold bathroom floor, your knees drawn up to your chest, one hand fisted in the hem of your shirt, the other trembling against your lips like you were trying to keep something inside. But it was spilling out anyway—tears you hadn’t meant to cry, sobs you didn’t know how to muffle.

Klaus didn’t speak.

He just crossed the floor, knelt in front of you, and reached for your hand.

And when you tried to turn away—to hide your face, to apologize, to say again that you were fine—he stopped you with one arm around your shoulders, the other guiding your cheek against his chest.

“You don’t have to pretend around me, love,” he whispered, his voice low and unshakable. “You never have to pretend again.”

You broke.

There was no other word for it. The dam burst. Your body shook. Grief clawed its way out, raw and ugly and loud. And Klaus held you through all of it, like the flood of it could never scare him.

His hand moved slowly up and down your back, steady and warm. Not trying to hush you. Not offering platitudes. Just there. Solid. Real.

Time bent strangely in that small space. The tiles dug into his knees. Your tears soaked his shirt. The light overhead buzzed faintly, flickering every so often.

Still, he didn’t move.

He didn’t let go.

༊*·˚

You didn’t mean to speak.

The words just slipped out—hoarse, tired, shaped like a wound that hadn’t stopped bleeding.

“She used to hum when she folded laundry.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, and Klaus didn’t interrupt.

“She’d do it without even noticing,” you continued, blinking hard, eyes unfocused. “Just this quiet little tune… over and over. And I hated it as a kid, I used to tell her to stop. God, I was so—” You stopped, jaw clenched, grief swelling up too fast.

Klaus's hand found yours again, steady and grounding.

“Grief makes villains out of memories, sweetheart,” he said gently, his accent thick with emotion. “Even the kindest ones.”

You nodded slowly, as if that truth was something you’d been trying to name for days but couldn’t.

“I keep thinking—if I could just go back for one minute,” you whispered. “One minute to hear her hum again, to sit on the stupid couch while she folds towels… I swear I’d never complain about it. I’d never leave the room.”

You paused, swallowing hard.

“And now I’d trade anything just to hear it one more time.”

Klaus leaned in, his forehead touching yours, his breath warm and quiet against your skin. “There is nothing crueler,” he murmured, “than how the simplest memories become the loudest screams when someone we love is slipping away.”

You closed your eyes.

“I don’t know who I’ll be without her.”

And there it was. The truth. Your deepest fear, unwrapped like a secret you didn’t want to admit. Not even to yourself.

But Klaus—he didn’t flinch from it. He didn’t look away.

“You’ll still be you,” he said, his thumb stroking over the back of your hand. “But softer, maybe. Bruised in places no one can see. And I’ll be here to hold you together when it aches too much to stand.”

Your lip trembled.

“You don’t have to be strong for me,” he said. “You don’t have to be anything but exactly what you are—hurting, breaking, surviving.”

Then, softly, like he was giving you something holy:

“I’d carry your grief if I could. But I can’t. So instead, I’ll carry you.”

And for the first time that day, your breath didn’t catch—it released.

Not because the pain was gone.

But because it was seen. Heard. Held.

༊*·˚

“She’s really going to die, Klaus.”

The words came from you like smoke from a fire already dying out—thin, trembling, hollow in the middle.

You weren’t asking. You weren’t even crying yet. It was just the truth laid bare, soft and sharp all at once. You could’ve whispered it to a ghost, and it would’ve flinched the same.

Klaus said nothing at first.

Just stayed beside you on the couch, knees touching, his hand steady over yours—like he knew that silence, right now, was the gentlest thing he could offer.

Your throat worked around the next words, broken glass of memory catching in every breath.

“She used to sing to me in the car,” you murmured. “Not even real songs—just these silly little tunes she made up. I hated them. I was embarrassed. I used to beg her to stop before she rolled the windows down at a red light.”

You laughed, but it caught in your chest like it didn’t know where it belonged.

“But now… I can’t even remember the lyrics. I’ve been trying all week and—” Your voice cracked. “It’s like she’s already fading.”

Klaus’s voice was low, reverent.

“She’s not.”

You blinked at him through a veil of tears.

“She’s still here,” he said. “In your hands. Your stubbornness. The way you fold your clothes. Her voice, it’s still in your laugh even if you can’t hear it yet.”

You looked away.

But he wasn’t done.

“When my mother died,” Klaus began, eyes distant, voice like something pulled from centuries ago, “I couldn’t even say her name for decades. Not because I didn’t love her. But because it hurt too much to try.”

You turned back to him, startled at the rawness of it. He so rarely offered pieces of himself like this—never without reason.

“I was angry,” he continued. “Furious at the world for letting someone so warm vanish. And that anger—it stayed. It made a home in me. Until one day… I heard someone humming a tune I hadn’t heard since childhood.”

You waited, breath hitched.

“And I remembered,” he said softly. “Her hands. The way she tucked my hair back. The way she forgave me more times than I ever deserved.”

His hand lifted, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. It didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like a vow.

“You will carry her,” he whispered, “even when she’s gone. In every laugh you inherited. In every kindness she taught you. In every heartbeat, I promise you, she will still be here.”

And that’s when the dam broke.

You didn’t just cry—you folded. Crumpled into him like grief was gravity itself. But he held you. Not like you were breaking. Like he’d been there before, and he knew how to keep you from shattering.

Klaus pulled you to him without asking. Without a single word.

It wasn’t for comfort, not really. And it certainly wasn’t for passion. It was instinct—his, not yours. The kind that said I will not let you float too far from shore.

One hand found the back of your head, fingers weaving into your hair, steady and sure. The other slid along your spine, slow circles etched into your skin like a promise you didn’t have to speak aloud.

He didn’t tell you it would be okay.

Because it wouldn’t be. Not for a long while. Maybe not ever in the way you needed.

Instead, Klaus said softly into your hair, “I’ll be here when it’s not.”

You could feel the tears start again. Not sharp this time. Just… heavy. Like they’d been waiting for someone to say the exact thing you needed without sugar, without denial.

He kissed your temple. Gentle. Reverent. Like you were breakable but beloved all the same.

A blanket came next, drawn around your shoulders like he was trying to shield you from the air itself. And then—without ceremony—he slid down, sat cross-legged on the floor, and tugged you down with him.

There wasn’t a clock in the room. Nothing but the tick of your breath and the way Klaus didn’t let go, not even once. The kind of quiet that made the world feel too big. The kind of closeness that made it survivable.

At some point—maybe hours later, maybe minutes—he whispered it, low and certain against your ear:

“Let the world break, sweetheart. I’ll hold what’s left of you.”

And just like that, you believed it.

༊*·˚

You woke up to sunlight.

Gentle, golden light spilled through the curtains, warming your cheek, painting the world in a hue that felt wrong somehow—too lovely for a day like this.

And yet, it was there. Quietly existing. Just like him.

Klaus hadn’t moved.

His arms still held you, one across your waist, the other tucked beneath your head like a vow. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek in slow, steady rhythm. He wasn’t asleep. He’d been awake for hours, maybe all night, and when you stirred, he looked down as if you were the only thing worth watching in a world that had done its best to hurt you.

You didn’t speak for a long while.

There was no rush. No plan. Just the creak of morning and the ache in your bones.

But eventually, you whispered it. Raw. Honest. The truth of it catching in your throat like glass.

“I don’t want to do this without her.”

Klaus’s answer came after a beat. Low, steady. Certain.

“Then you won’t,” he said. “You’ll do it with every piece of her that lives in you. And with me beside you. Every step.”

He meant it. You could feel it in the way his hand tightened ever so slightly around yours. In the way he didn’t try to make it smaller or easier than it was.

Later, you’d talk about arrangements. About hospitals and signatures and saying goodbye. You’d dread it, but he’d stay beside you, his quiet reverence wrapping around you like armor.

For now, you let your head fall back to his shoulder.

And the sun kept rising.

༊*·˚

There was something reverent about the silence.

Not the empty kind. Not the hollow ring of loss echoing down endless halls. No, this was different—a hush draped in love, in preparation, in all the small things that grief demands before it breaks you.

You stood before the mirror in a simple black dress. One your mother would have liked. Timeless. Modest. Graceful.

But your hands were trembling.

“Come here,” Klaus said softly, not asking.

You turned, barely breathing, and he was already stepping in behind you.

His hands were careful—gentle as breath—as he fastened the back of your dress, the zipper rising slowly under his fingers. There was nothing suggestive in the closeness. No hunger. No heat.

Only devotion.

“You used to get ready with her?” he asked, voice low, as though afraid to break the memory before it surfaced.

You nodded, eyes burning. “She always ironed my clothes… even my socks. Used to hum while she did it—some old song from her childhood. I never learned the words. Just… the sound of it.”

You swallowed thickly, staring down at your hands.

“She would braid my hair for picture day. We’d fight about it, and she’d say, ‘You’ll thank me when you’re older.’ I never thought ‘older’ would mean this.”

Klaus brushed a curl behind your ear, fingertips trailing slow and feather-light down the curve of your neck. A steadying touch, meant to remind you: you are not alone.

“Thank her now,” he said. “In the way you show up. In the way you remember.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying not to cry. Not yet. Not before the casket. Not before the eulogy. But you leaned into him, pressing your forehead to his chest.

His hands slid around your waist, palms flat and grounding.

“She taught me how to be soft,” you murmured. “Even when the world wasn’t.”

“She taught you well, then,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

And in the mirror behind you, the two of you stood still—your black dress and his black suit. Grief-stricken, yes. But unbroken.

Together.

༊*·˚

The air was thick with lilies and silence. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask for permission, just settles into your bones and makes a home there.

You stood beside the casket, one hand gripping the edge like it might anchor you, the other clutching a crumpled tissue that hadn’t stood a chance. The room was full of people—faces from old photo albums, voices you hadn’t heard in years. But all you saw was her.

Her picture framed in white roses. Her favorite song playing too quietly in the background. Her laugh, suddenly unbearable in memory.

You couldn’t breathe.

Then—a hand.

Klaus.

He stepped up behind you without a word, his presence like shelter. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His hand found the small of your back, warm and steady, and your lungs remembered how to work again.

You leaned into him like the only safe thing in the world was his body beside yours.

As people stood to speak, to cry, to tell stories—some real, some embellished—you stayed quiet. Until someone asked if you wanted to say a few words.

Your heart hammered.

“I… I don’t know if I can,” you whispered to Klaus, barely able to look up.

“You can,” he said, his voice low and sure. “And if your voice shakes, let it. That’s love, too.”

So you walked up.

And your voice did shake.

But you spoke.

You told them about bedtime songs and burned cookies. About the way she danced in the kitchen when no one was looking. About the long car rides with the windows down, and how you never felt more alive than when her hand was reaching for yours at a stoplight.

You didn’t remember how you finished. Just that you sat down and Klaus took your hand. Laced his fingers with yours and squeezed.

You didn’t speak again until the service was over. Until the final prayer had faded. Until you were standing at the graveside, watching them lower her down into the earth.

Your chest caved.

“I don’t know how to let her go,” you said, voice small, broken.

“You don’t have to,” Klaus answered. “You just… carry her differently now.”

And as the wind picked up, and a rose slipped from your hand into the dark, open grave, Klaus stepped behind you again—both arms wrapping around you this time.

A fortress of flesh and bone and unconditional devotion.

He didn’t speak after that.

He just held you, and held you, and held you—until you believed, for a moment, that maybe the world wouldn’t end.

Not today.

༊*·˚

The house was too quiet.

Not peacefully so—not the kind of silence that invites rest—but the kind that hummed behind your ribs and made the walls feel like strangers. Her scent still lingered faintly in the air, the ghost of jasmine and citrus, and it clung to everything like it didn’t know she was gone.

You stood in the doorway of her bedroom, the door barely cracked, afraid to go in.

Klaus stood just behind you. Close enough that you felt his presence in the warm brush of his breath against your neck, but far enough that you had to reach for him if you needed it.

You did.

You took his hand.

Inside, the room was untouched. A sweater tossed across the armchair. Her glasses on the nightstand. An open book with the corner folded in—chapter fourteen, half-read.

It hit like a punch.

“I don’t know what to do with any of this,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to decide today,” Klaus said, his voice a velvet balm.

“But it’s all her,” you said. “I look at the books she read, the coffee mug still in the sink, and it feels like she’s about to walk in and finish the story. And then I remember…”

Your voice cracked.

Klaus stepped in then. Properly. Firmly. Completely.

He turned you gently to face him, brushing his knuckles along your jaw.

“I know what it’s like,” he murmured. “To be surrounded by echoes. To wonder how someone so enormous could be reduced to absence.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy.

“She was my whole world.”

“And now,” he said, “you carry the pieces of it. I know that weight. But you’re not alone in it.”

You nodded, even though your lip trembled. Then, without meaning to, you laughed—a small, helpless thing.

“She used to hum to herself while folding laundry,” you said. “Like she was on stage and the detergent bottle was her microphone.”

Klaus smiled. A real one.

“And if I ever rolled my eyes, she’d throw a sock at me.”

“She sounds like she had good aim.”

“Too good.”

The laugh became a sob. Then laughter again.

And Klaus just pulled you in. Not like the night before—when he was a pillar to keep you upright—but now like a harbor, ready to take whatever storm you needed to pour out.

You buried your face in his chest.

“I don’t know how to live in a world she’s not in,” you said.

Klaus pressed a kiss to your hair. “Then don’t live in it alone. Let me build something beside you. Even in the rubble.”

And he meant it. In the way his hand threaded through yours again. In the way he sat with you on the edge of her bed, just listening as you shared more stories. The good ones. The dumb ones. The ones that hurt to tell.

You didn’t move for hours.

Because grief didn’t demand motion. Not yet.

Only company.

And he never left your side.

༊*·˚

It was quiet.

Not the kind that settles, but the kind that echoes. That strange, disorienting silence after something enormous has ended and the world, impossibly, continues.

The funeral was over. The people were gone. The flowers wilting in their vases. The scent of lilies still clinging to your dress.

You stood at the window with your arms folded over yourself, watching the sky begin to change colors, knowing she would’ve loved it. The way the clouds had made space for that soft lilac light. The way it felt like the earth was holding its breath in reverence.

And then Klaus came behind you, wordless. His presence not loud or demanding—just there, as promised. As always.

He wrapped a blanket around your shoulders.

You didn’t move.

“I don’t know how to start again,” you whispered. “Not after this.”

His voice was low, steady. “You don’t have to start. You just have to stand. And I’ll stand with you.”

You turned to him slowly. His eyes found yours, and he brushed his knuckles across your cheek. Like you might crack if he wasn’t careful. Like maybe you already had.

“She should be here,” you said, voice breaking. “She should be here to see me grow. To see me fall in love. To see me… just live.”

Klaus’s hands found yours, anchoring them between both of his.

“She will,” he said softly. “Because everything you are—your stubbornness, your tenderness, your light—it’s all her. You’ll live, and she’ll be in every second of it.”

You tried to speak, but your throat closed.

He tugged you forward, pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then rested his chin there.

The sunset stretched through the glass, painting you both in gold and soft pink.

And there, in the hush of the first day after goodbye, you found something else:

The beginning of healing.

It wouldn’t be linear. It wouldn’t be quick.

But it would be real.

And you wouldn’t be alone.

Not with him beside you. Not with her inside you.

Not ever.

༊*·˚

Extra part:

It was tucked inside a book.

One of hers, of course—an old copy of “Little Women,” soft-spined and underlined, dog-eared in all the places that had once made her cry. You weren’t looking for anything. Just running your fingers along the pages like touching something she had touched might tether you to her a little longer.

And then you saw it.

An envelope.

Your name written in her handwriting.

Everything in you froze. As if the world narrowed to that one single shape, those curved letters—her voice, somehow, in ink.

Klaus was in the next room, but he must have felt it, the change in your breath. The stillness. The grief rising again, not loud now, but aching and tender.

He appeared without a sound, leaning in the doorway, watching as you turned the letter over in trembling hands.

“She left me something,” you whispered. “I didn’t know she did. I—I wasn’t ready.”

“No one ever is,” Klaus said gently.

You opened it.

The paper was soft from age, creased neatly, folded with care. And it began, not with hello, not with my darling, but with:

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. And if you’re crying, I hope you know it’s okay. I’d be crying too, if I were you.

But listen to me—really listen: You were the best thing I ever did. I want you to know that. No matter how much time we had, it wasn’t enough. But it was everything. You were my everything.

Promise me you’ll laugh again. That you’ll dance. That you’ll let people love you and you’ll let yourself love them back, without guilt. Especially that man I know is probably standing nearby. Yes, I saw the way he looked at you. And the way you looked back. Don’t pretend you didn’t.

You laughed through the tears, clutching the letter with both hands, shaking your head.

“She knew,” you murmured.

Klaus stepped closer, crouched in front of you, eyes searching yours. “Of course she did.”

You kept reading.

I’m sorry I can’t be there when you need me most. But I’ll still be here. In the way you stir your tea. In the way you hum when you’re nervous. In the way you hold people close, even when you’re hurting. That’s all me. That’s all you.

I love you. I loved you every day, and I will love you every day after this. You’re not alone. Not ever.

Your fingers pressed to your lips, the paper trembling in your lap.

Klaus leaned forward, his forehead resting gently against yours, voice a reverent hush:

“She never really left you. Not where it counts.”

You closed your eyes, breathing her in like you could still find her in the paper, in the words, in the air itself.

And maybe you could.

Because somehow, she felt closer now.

Dear sweet angel anon, you reached out with your heart cracked open, and I never took that lightly. This piece is for you, written with all the softness and warmth I could gather. I hope these words wrap around you like a safe place, even just for a moment. I’m so sorry you’re walking through something this heavy. I hope you never forget how loved you are — by those around you, by your mom, and even by a stranger who poured this story out for you. Thank you for trusting me with your ache. This one's yours.

[r-memberme]

lurk | k.m

⎯⎯“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice ragged silk. “Tell me, and I’ll worship you until your knees forget how to stand.”

warnings: smut, 18+

The tavern is alight with laughter, a warm haze of firelight and clinking glasses filling the air. The scent of spiced wine curls through the wooden beams, mingling with the low hum of drunken song. It is a raucous, unremarkable evening—except for her.

Klaus watches from the shadows, elbow propped against the worn wood of the bar, a goblet of untouched wine in his grip. She sits at the far end of the room, back straight, fingers drumming against the table as she listens to the chatter around her. There is something infuriatingly self-satisfied in the way she smirks, as if she knows precisely what she is doing to him.

And, of course, she does.

"Are you planning to lurk all evening, Niklaus, or will you find the courage to approach?" Her voice carries across the distance, lilting with amusement, and a few heads turn in interest.

Klaus’ lips curl, a slow, knowing smirk. "Oh, I was simply admiring the way you pretend not to miss me. Quite the performance, love. Shall I applaud?"

She rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her drink. "I’d rather you choke on that wine."

He chuckles, pushing off the bar and making his way toward her, slow and deliberate. The flames flicker in his wake, shadows stretching long against the floorboards. "Now, now, don’t be cruel. It wounds me terribly."

"You’ll survive."

"Will I?" He slides into the chair opposite her, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You wound me daily, and yet here I remain, tormented by your absence."

She leans forward, resting her chin against her palm. "Tormented? My, what a dramatic creature you are."

"Ah, but you like it," he drawls, tilting his head. "Admit it, love—you’d be terribly bored without me."

She hums as if considering, then shrugs. "Perhaps. But I’d also be terribly peaceful."

He places a hand against his heart. "A dagger to my very soul."

She laughs then, a quiet, melodic thing, and Klaus drinks in the sound like a man starved. It is his favorite song, one he would cross oceans to hear again. But she will never make it easy for him—she never has.

"You keep looking at me like that, Niklaus," she muses, swirling the wine in her glass, "as if you expect me to crumble under the weight of your longing."

His eyes darken, voice dropping to a murmur. "And if I do?"

She exhales, a breathy sort of chuckle, before leaning in just enough to steal the space between them. "Then you’re a fool."

His lips twitch. "Then I am the happiest fool in all the world."

She shakes her head, but there is no true reproach in her gaze—only something teasing, something fond. "You are impossible."

"And yet you remain. Curious, isn’t it?"

She studies him for a long moment, as if searching for something in his expression. Then, with a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, she leans back in her chair. "Keep up, Mikaelson. The night is young."

He watches her, eyes gleaming with something wicked. The hunt is never truly over. Not with her.

And so, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he settles in for the chase.

༊*·˚

The tavern fades behind them like a story half-finished, laughter and wine-stained songs swallowed by the hush of night. The door creaks shut, muffling the world they left behind, until only the quiet hush of trees and the echo of breath remain. It is here, in the veil between shadow and moonlight, that the air shifts.

She stands by the edge of the woods, a silhouette carved from the hush, her figure softened by mist and the slow coil of night wind. Her back is turned to him, posture serene, but it is the kind of calm that hums with provocation—the stillness before a storm. Her fingers rest at her sides, deceptively idle.

Klaus follows, steps measured, heart anything but. There is a coil tightening in his chest, an ache blooming low in his stomach—not just desire, no, but something older, heavier. Hunger laced with reverence. She is not the first woman to haunt him, but she is the only one he lets.

“Still lurking in the shadows, Niklaus?” she murmurs without turning, voice velvet-laced smoke. “Or have you finally remembered how to chase?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he closes the distance between them with the quiet grace of a predator, until the heat of his chest brushes her back, until the scent of her curls makes his mouth water. One hand rises, slow as a tide, to brush her hair away from her neck, and there—there it is:

The first shiver.

“You’ve no idea,” he whispers into her skin, “what you’ve done to me.”

“Don’t I?” She turns her head slightly, and their noses nearly brush. “You look like a man starved.”

“I am.”

His hands are careful, reverent, as they slip around her waist, fingers spreading over the fabric of her bodice. There is nothing rushed in him—no desperation, only the crushing weight of self-control fraying at the edges. He touches her like she’ll vanish. Like she’s a miracle summoned from blood and prayer.

She leans back into him, slow and deliberate, letting her spine curve against his chest. Her breath catches as his lips ghost along the shell of her ear, then lower, to the sensitive hollow where her neck meets her shoulder. He doesn’t kiss her. Not yet.

“Niklaus,” she breathes.

He hums against her skin, one hand sliding up to her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast. Not claiming. Worshipping. “Say it again.”

“Niklaus.”

The sound is an invocation. It shatters him.

He turns her in his arms with exquisite slowness, fingers splayed across her lower back. She tilts her face to his, and the look in her eyes is ruinous. Moonlight clings to her lashes, her lips still stained with wine. He brushes his knuckles along her cheek, marveling at the softness there.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice ragged silk. “Tell me, and I’ll worship you until your knees forget how to stand.”

She exhales, shaky and shallow, and cups his face with both hands. “I want the way you look at me to mean something.”

That brings him to his knees.

Not literally. Not yet. But it strikes something marrow-deep, and he presses his mouth to hers as if trying to pour centuries of ache into a single breath. It is not a kiss. It is devastation.

Her fingers knot into his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there is no space left between them. His hands roam—her back, her hips, the curve of her thighs. She lets him, eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the weight of his attention.

Every inch of her he touches feels like a vow. Every gasp he earns is a cathedral burning.

When he lifts her, she wraps her legs around him without hesitation, and he carries her toward the tree, the bark rough against her back as he presses her into it. The contrast between the cold wood and his fevered mouth sends a shudder through her.

He groans when she rolls her hips against him, teeth grazing her jaw. “Careful, sweetheart. I’m already trembling.”

“Good,” she pants, dragging his lower lip between her teeth. “Let it wreck you.”

He chuckles darkly. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me.”

The trees sway. The sky watches. The world holds its breath as his hand slides under her skirts, fingers slow, seeking. She moans softly, head tipping back, throat bare to his mouth. He doesn’t bite. Not yet. Tonight, he wants to feel her, not feed from her.

“You’re soaked, love,” he whispers, dragging his fingers through the heat between her thighs. “All for me.”

She nods, breathless. “I hate you.”

He smiles against her throat. “I love you too.”

And then—finally—he begins.

Fingers first—slow, languid, reverent. He parts her with maddening care, every motion drawn out like a spell. She claws at his shoulders, desperate for more, hips lifting to chase the curl of his touch, the press of his fingers, the holy friction. It isn’t enough. Nothing ever is.

But he gives her everything anyway.

He pulls back, just enough to see her—really see her—head tilted, lips parted, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea. Eyes fluttering half-shut, mouth pink and kissed raw. She looks ruined already.

The thought is a lit match to the oil in his veins. It nearly brings him to his knees.

When he slips his fingers away, she whines, soft and broken, and he kisses her through it—forehead, cheek, mouth. Like an apology. Like a promise.

But gentleness is no longer enough.

His hands are shaking when he fumbles with his trousers, buttons stiff, fabric stubborn. He mutters something crude under his breath and she laughs—laughs—a breathless, wicked little sound that cuts straight through the haze.

“Careful,” she teases, dragging her fingers through his curls, nails grazing his scalp. “You’ll make me think you’re nervous.”

He bares his teeth in a crooked smile, voice rough with hunger. “I am.”

She leans in, lips grazing the corner of his mouth like a secret. “Then ruin me.”

His breath catches. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it—gladly.

Her nails scrape against his scalp as he lines himself up, the heat of her already driving him mad. He kisses her again—rough, hungry—and then pushes in, slow and steady, until he’s buried deep, hips flush with hers.

It is not just pleasure. It is obliteration.

It knocks the air out of both of them.

She’s tight. Too tight. Hot and slick and perfect around him. His forehead drops to hers, and for a moment, they just breathe. Nothing else moves. Her walls flutter around him and his hands shake where they grip her hips, but he holds. He holds because this is not a taking—it is a worship. A sacrament.

He could stay like this forever.

But she shifts, just enough to make him groan, and the moment breaks.

He brushes his thumb along her jaw, voice low, barely there. “Look at me.”

She does. Of course she does.

And then he moves.

The first roll of his hips sends her gasping, spine arching off the tree, thighs tightening around him. He holds her there, one hand under her leg, the other gripping her waist, and moves again. Slow. Deep. Unforgiving.

Her moans echo through the trees, quiet at first, then louder, and he swallows them with his mouth, lips dragging along hers, jaw, throat. She clings to him like she’ll fall if she lets go.

Maybe she will. Maybe they both will.

The world disappears. There’s only this—his body moving against hers, the heat, the drag, the pressure building sharp and fast. She clenches around him and he curses, burying his face in her neck.

He doesn’t stop.

He never stops.

She comes again, legs trembling, and he follows—choking on her name like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

And still, even in the quiet that follows, he doesn’t let her go.

Her breath is shaky against his ear, hands still knotted in his shirt, like she’s trying to keep him inside her, like letting go might mean falling apart entirely. He’s still hard, still pulsing faintly inside her, still wrapped around her like a man half out of his mind. And maybe he is.

He presses kisses to her neck—sweat-slick, frantic things. His lips trail lower, along her collarbone, the curve of her breast, anywhere he can reach without pulling out.

“More,” she breathes, hoarse and lovely, eyes glazed and mouth swollen. “Don’t stop. Klaus—please—”

God help him, he listens.

His hips start to move again, slow at first, just the lazy grind of him pushing deeper, testing her sensitivity, drawing out the tremble in her limbs. She shudders around him, half-whimper, half-moan, and he drinks it in like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

“You feel what you do to me?” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “You feel how I lose myself in you?”

She nods, dazed, already close again. Her thighs squeeze tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans, low and broken, head falling against hers.

He finds a rhythm again, rougher this time. Deeper. A different kind of hunger behind it now—not need, no, not anymore.

Worship.

The tree creaks behind her from the force of it, bark biting into her spine, but she doesn’t care. She wouldn’t notice if the forest burned down around them. All she knows is him—his breath, his voice, the way his hand curls possessively around her thigh, anchoring her, like she might vanish if he lets go.

And the way he looks at her.

God. That look.

Eyes blown wide, mouth parted, gaze locked to hers like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her soul from the inside out.

She comes again, violently, all breath and broken sound, her nails dragging down his back as her body clamps down around him in rhythmic spasms. He moans, raw and almost pained, still chasing, still deep inside her, her pleasure only spurring him on.

“Fuck—love—” He swears again, dragging her hips up, angling deeper, harder. “I could stay inside you forever.”

She gasps at that, at the promise of it, the sheer weight of it.

“Then do it,” she dares, breath hitching. “Fill me. Make it last.”

He snarls, something dark and helpless ripping through him, and slams into her once, twice, three more times before he’s falling apart, clutching her so tightly it hurts. His release hits him like a blow to the chest, and he spills inside her with a groan, low and guttural, teeth gritted like her name is the only word he knows.

She holds him through it, kisses his shoulder, strokes his hair, her body still fluttering with aftershocks.

And even then—when they’re both ruined and wrung out and breathless—he still doesn’t let her go.

He sinks down slowly, drawing her into his lap, still inside her, refusing to part just yet. Her legs curl around him like they belong there, and his arms wrap around her waist, possessive and gentle all at once. Their foreheads touch again, noses brushing.

The forest is quiet now, save for the sound of their breathing, the wind, the distant rustle of leaves.

“I love you,” he whispers, so quietly it’s almost nothing. “I love you so much it feels like dying.”

Her eyes flutter open.

“No,” she whispers back, brushing her lips against his. “This feels like living.”

And still—still—he doesn’t let her go.

some Monday smut for you guys😜

[r-memberme]

you’re not fooling me | k.m

⎯⎯ He scoffed so hard you almost saw the trees flinch. “I’ve slaughtered men with my bare hands. I’ve bathed in blood. Feelings?” he sneered.

warnings: so he does have feelings

It was the sort of afternoon that didn’t beg to be remembered—no sweeping declarations, no high-stakes danger, no promises sealed in blood or magic—just the hush of old trees swaying in rhythm with the wind and the faint warmth of sun filtering through half-bare branches, dappling the worn path like scattered gold, as if the earth itself had tried to decorate its skin for you.

You were walking side by side, your boots scuffing lazily through crumbling leaves, and he was talking — something half-hearted and faintly amused, a story from a time so far gone you couldn’t tell if he was making it up just to hear you laugh — but then it happened, the moment that would lodge itself into your memory like a song: a sharp, fluttering rustle from the side of the path, broken and panicked, the sort of sound that hit somewhere under your ribs and made you stop mid-step.

Klaus paused too, head tilted, eyes narrowing in that way they always did when something tugged at his attention—not suspicion, not threat — just something quieter. Something helpless.

You barely got the words out — “Wait, did you hear that?” — before he was already turning, walking toward the edge of the clearing with that easy, predatory grace of someone who moved like the world itself bent to him. And there, caught in a cruel little snare of wire and brambles, wings flapping wild and hopeless, was a bird so small it barely seemed real. Its feathers twitched frantically. Its chest heaved. And its eyes wide and glassy with fear — reflected the barest glint of sky.

You didn’t expect him to crouch.

Didn’t expect the silence, the stillness, the slow, reverent way he knelt in the dirt without a word, as if the moment didn’t call for commentary. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t glance around to see if anyone was watching. He just reached forward—without fear, without hesitation—and placed his fingers gently around the tangled mess of wire and feathers, and then he hummed.

At first, you thought it was the wind again, or some trick of the forest—low and steady and soft—but no, it was him. A barely-there melody, old and unplaceable, like something ancient passed down from a time when singing to birds was a form of magic and gentleness was more powerful than force.

Your breath caught.

Klaus Mikaelson—who once told you that kindness was weakness, that mercy was the blade your enemies would turn on you if you dared offer it—was humming to a terrified creature in his hands like he’d done it a hundred times before.

The bird froze. Its wings stilled. And slowly, ever so carefully, he began to undo the wire—snapping one part, loosening another, working with the quiet focus of someone doing something sacred, until at last, the final knot came free and he cupped it in his hands a moment longer, letting it breathe, letting it choose.

And then, with no flourish, no expectation, he opened his palms to the sky.

It didn’t fly away at first.

It looked at him. Looked at you.

Then it soared.

Gone in a heartbeat, trailing a single feather behind like a thank-you.

And you stood there, dumbfounded, mouth parted in disbelief, watching him rise from the dirt and dust off his trousers with the air of a man who hadn’t just unraveled every assumption you’d made about who he truly was.

“…Did you just save a bird?” you asked, blinking, stunned.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “It was shrieking,” he muttered. “Giving me a headache.”

You stepped closer. “You sang to it.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You hummed, Klaus. You cradled a little wild creature like it was your own child and you sang.”

“It was merely a noise. A sound. It calmed it down, nothing more.”

“Klaus.”

“What?”

“You have feelings.”

He scoffed so hard you almost saw the trees flinch. “I’ve slaughtered men with my bare hands. I’ve bathed in blood. Feelings?” he sneered—except his voice cracked a little, and he turned away too quickly, like he didn’t want you to see what that feather-light act of mercy had done to him.

You grinned.

“Oh my god. You liked it.”

“I loathed it.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving.”

You caught up to him, skipping a little, reaching out to thread your fingers through his—slowly, gently, because you knew better than to rush touch, knew how long it had taken him to earn that simple gesture—and he let it happen. Let you hold him. Let the silence fill again, full of softness and unspoken warmth.

“Just admit it,” you teased, eyes glinting. “You’re not as bad as you pretend to be.”

“I am the darkness that haunts men’s dreams.”

“You are the darkness that saves baby birds and hums lullabies.”

“I should’ve let it die,” he muttered—but he squeezed your hand, once, almost shyly, and didn’t let go.

And when you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye—Klaus Mikaelson, ancient and dangerous and wrapped in centuries of sorrow—you saw it.

The ghost of a smile.

The kind you only caught when he forgot to be afraid of being seen.

The kind you never forgot, no matter how quiet the day.

just a short and sweet one for today <3