The Assistant — Your were captured by Klaus Mikaelson after he caught you snooping around in his house unattended. Somehow, you end up as his assistant..will you end up being more than just that?
- Part 1
- Part 2
- Part 3
- Part 4
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Ego —You run into Klaus at the grill leading to some banter
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Masterpiece — Klaus forgets that it’s Valentine's Day
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His Lady [1] | His Lady [2]
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Green Thumb
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New Years Eve
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Halloween One shots:
Angel part 1 | Angel part 2 | Angel Part 3
Pretty Devil
One shot | Established Relationship | Smutish | Masterlist | WC: 3.7K
Summary: Studying anatomy is hard…luckily Klaus's extensive knowldege makes for an enticing study method
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The anatomy textbook lay open on the bed, pages covered in Y/N's frustrated notes. She'd been at this for three hours trying to memorize the placement of organs and the names of bones and even the way everything connected in the human body. Keywords: Trying.
"I give up," she groaned, flopping backward onto the pillows. "The radius and the ulna are the same thing. Bones are stupid. Who needs this many bones?"
Klaus looked up from his easel where he'd been working on a landscape, a smirk playing at his lips. "You do realize you're saying this to someone who's broken most of those bones in other people, love. I could probably draw you a detailed anatomical chart from memory."
Y/N sat up, eyeing him suspiciously. "Are you seriously telling me that your extensive knowledge of torture has made you an anatomy expert?"
"A millennium of creative violence does provide certain educational benefits." He set down his brush, wiping his hands on a rag as he crossed to the bed. "What specifically is giving you trouble?"
She gestured helplessly at the textbook. "All of it? The bones in the arm. Where the liver actually sits. How the ribcage protects things. It's all just...words on a page. I can't visualize it."
Klaus picked up the textbook, scanning the pages. Then he set it aside and reached for her hand. "Then let's make it more interesting, shall we?" His voice dropped lower, taking on that dangerous edge that always made her pulse quicken. "Close your eyes."
"Klaus..."
"Trust me, sweetheart. This is educational."
She closed her eyes, feeling the bed shift as he moved behind her. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, thumb pressing against her pulse point.
"The radial artery," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Right here. Can you feel your heartbeat under my thumb?"
She could. Her heart was doing complicated things that had nothing to do with anatomy and everything to do with his proximity. His fingers traced up her forearm, pressing gently.
"The radius bone runs here, along the thumb side of your forearm. And just beside it..." His other hand traced a parallel line. "The ulna. Two bones working together to let you rotate your wrist. Like this."
He demonstrated by turning her hand palm-up, then palm-down. “Now you'll remember," he said, voice thick with amusement. "Because you'll think of this every time you look at that textbook."
"That's cheating," Y/N breathed.
"It’s effective teaching." His hands slid higher, fingers trailing along the inside of her elbow. "The brachial artery branches here. Major blood vessel. Very dangerous to sever. I've seen men bleed out in minutes from a wound right here."
"You're supposed to be helping me study, not giving me nightmares."
"I'm doing both." She could hear the grin in his voice. "Where's the humerus, love?"
"Upper arm bone. Runs from shoulder to elbow."
"Good girl." His hands moved to her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the joint. "And here's where it connects to the scapula. Feel that? The way it rotates in the socket?"
He guided her arm through a slow circle, and she was acutely aware that this was the least educational anatomy lesson in the history of education.
"Now," Klaus said, his hands settling on her ribcage, "tell me what organs the ribs protect."
"Heart and lungs," she managed, though thinking was becoming increasingly difficult with his palms warm against her sides.
"And where exactly is your heart, sweetheart?" His hand slid to rest over her left breast, palm flat against where her heart was hammering. "Right here. Between the fourth and fifth ribs, slightly left of center. I can feel it racing."
"That's because you're being distracting."
"Am I now?" His thumb traced the curve of her bottom rib. "The liver sits here, on your right side, just beneath the ribcage. Largest internal organ. Extremely vascular, which means—"
"It bleeds a lot if damaged. I know. I read that part."
"But now you'll remember it." His hands spanned her waist. "Because you'll remember this."
Y/N opened her eyes and turned her head to find him watching her with that intense focus that still made her stomach flip even after three years.
"This is the worst study method ever," she said.
"Is it working?"
She grabbed the textbook, flipping to a diagram of the skeletal system. "Radius is thumb-side forearm bone. Ulna is pinky-side. Humerus is upper arm. Scapula is shoulder blade. Heart between fourth and fifth ribs, left of center. Liver right side, beneath ribs."
Klaus's grin was absolutely wicked. "See? Effective. You're going to ace this exam." He pulled her into his lap, textbook and all. "Now, shall we discuss the skeletal structure of the hand? I have very strong opinions about metacarpals."
"Of course you do."
But she didn't pull away. And when he started explaining the twenty-seven bones in the human hand while tracing each one on her palm, she actually retained the information. Even if he was using a thousand years of creative violence to help her pass anatomy.
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Klaus was sprawled across his bed the following evening, reading a first edition of Byron's poetry. One he'd acquired directly from the source back in 1816. That’s when Y/N burst through the door with her anatomy textbook and a determined expression.
"Take your shirt off."
He lowered the book slowly, one eyebrow arching in amusement as a slow smirk spread across his face. "Well, love, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but generally there's a bit more preamble. Perhaps some—"
"I need to study muscles," she interrupted, already pulling sticky notes and markers from her bag. "You have muscles. Take your shirt off."
The smirk faltered slightly. "You want me to...what, exactly?"
"Be my anatomical model." She was flipping through the textbook, completely focused. "Yesterday you helped with bones and organs. Today I need to map muscle groups. The trapezius, deltoids, pectoralis major, all of it. So. Shirt. Off."
Klaus set the book aside, genuinely caught off guard for possibly the first time in decades.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious. I have an exam in three days and I still can't tell the difference between the flexor carpi radialis and the flexor carpi ulnaris."
"Those are in the forearm, love."
"I KNOW." She looked up at him with those eyes that had been wrecking his composure for three years. "Which is why I need a three-dimensional reference. Please?"
He couldn't quite suppress his grin as he sat up and pulled his henley over his head in one smooth motion. "You know, most people would just use diagrams."
"Most people don't have a thousand-year-old vampire boyfriend with perfect muscle definition." She stepped closer, textbook in one hand, sticky notes in the other. "Now hold still."
For the next twenty minutes, Klaus discovered what it was like to be treated as a living anatomy chart. Y/N circled him with scientific precision, comparing his actual musculature to the diagrams in her book. She pressed her fingers against his shoulder, feeling the way the deltoid connected, her touch clinical but maddening.
Klaus's breath hitched. It was subtle, just the slightest catch, but enough that he had to close his eyes and concentrate on maintaining his composure. Legendary self-control, and here he was, undone by her fingertips tracing the contours of his shoulder.
She scribbled "DELTOID - raises arm laterally" on a pink sticky note and pressed it onto his skin, completely oblivious to the effect she was having.
Her fingers moved to his chest, mapping the pectoralis major with careful attention. Klaus kept his eyes firmly shut, jaw tight.
"You alright?" she asked absently, not looking up from her textbook.
"Perfectly fine, love." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Just...focusing."
Another sticky note landed on his chest. Her palm pressed flat against his sternum as she smoothed it down. His breathing definitely wasn't steady anymore.
She moved to his back, and he felt her fingers trace the line of his trapezius from neck to shoulder blade. The touch was exploratory and entirely innocent in intent. But it was driving him absolutely mad.
"This is absolutely ridiculous," he muttered, more to himself than to her.
"This is effective studying. You said so yourself yesterday."
"Yes, but yesterday I was the one doing the teaching. This is different."
"How so?"
"Because yesterday I got to touch you. Today I'm supposed to sit here like a statue while you—" He broke off as her fingers found the tricep. "Bloody hell."
She patted his shoulder absently, already moving on to label different muscle groups. By the time she'd covered his arms, shoulders, chest, and back with sticky notes, Klaus looked like he'd been attacked by an overeagerly organized student, and his self-control was hanging by a thread.
Then her eyes landed on his paint supplies.
"Oh, that's perfect."
"What's perfect? Y/N, what are you—"
She'd already grabbed his cadmium red and a fine brush. "The book shows the muscles in different colors to distinguish them. If I outline them on you, I can see exactly where they start and stop."
"Absolutely not."
"Klaus, please? It'll wash off."
"I'm a hybrid, not a canvas!"
But she was already uncapping the paint with a look that meant arguing was pointless. He sighed, resigned to his fate. "You're lucky I love you."
"I know." She dipped the brush in red paint. "Now flex your arm."
Klaus sighed, obeying her commands snd she just...stopped. Stared. Her eyes fixed on the way his bicep curved under the skin, the definition of muscle that came from a millennium of fighting.
Klaus's eyes opened. The corner of his mouth twitched. "See something you like, sweetheart?"
She blinked, cheeks flushing. "I'm studying."
"Studying requires looking at the textbook occasionally." His smirk widened. "You've been staring at my arm for fifteen seconds which I would know because I counted."
"I was comparing it to the diagram."
"The diagram is on the table behind you, my love"
Her blush deepened. "Shut up."
"Make me." His voice dropped lower, teasing. "Or are you too busy admiring the brachialis? Perhaps the biceps brachii? I can flex again if you need a longer look." He flexed again, deliberately slow. "What happened to clinical detachment, love? All that scientific focus?"
"I hate you," she muttered, but she was fighting a smile as she finally pressed the brush to his skin.
She traced the bicep, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. The paint was cool against his skin, her touch feather-light as she followed the muscle's contour from shoulder to elbow. Klaus watched her work, and despite the torment of sitting still while she touched him so innocently, there was something quietly perfect about this moment. The little furrow between her brows and even the way she muttered anatomical terms under her breath.
She switched to blue for the triceps, yellow for the deltoid, and green for the pectoralis major. "There," she finally announced, stepping back to admire her work. "Perfect. Now I can actually see how everything connects."
Klaus looked down at himself covered in paint outlines and sticky notes, looking like the world's most ridiculous anatomy lesson.
"I look like a child's art project."
"You look educational." She was already taking photos with her phone from different angles. "This is going to help so much."
"Thrilled to be of service," he said dryly.
She laughed, finally looking up from her phone to really look at him. "Thank you. I know this is weird."
"Weird doesn't begin to cover it, love." He plucked a sticky note off his chest. "But if it helps you pass your exam, I suppose I can endure the indignity."
"My hero," she teased.
"Speaking of which." He stood, paint-covered and sticky-note-decorated, and closed the distance between them. "Since you've quite literally decorated me, I think it's only fair you help clean it off."
"I was going to let you shower—"
In one smooth motion, he had her lifted over his shoulder. "Klaus!"
"You put it there, sweetheart. You're helping wash it off." He was already heading toward his bathroom, her protests dissolving into laughter. "Consider it additional anatomy study. I'll even quiz you on muscle function while we're at it."
"That's not how studying works!"
"It is now."
The shower turned on, steam immediately beginning to fog the glass. Klaus set her down just long enough to start pulling sticky notes off himself, dropping them in a colorful pile on the bathroom counter.
"This is going to take forever," Y/N protested, but she was already pulling her sweater over her head. "Some of those paint lines are really detailed."
"Then I suppose we'll be here a while." He stepped under the spray, colored water already running down his chest as the paint began to dissolve. He held out his hand. "Coming, love?"
She took it, stepping into the shower with him, warm water cascading over them both. "You're going to quiz me, aren't you."
"Absolutely." His hands were already working shampoo through her hair, fingers massaging her scalp. "What's the largest muscle in the human body?"
"Gluteus maximus."
"Good girl." His hands slid down her back deliberately, finding exactly that muscle and squeezing with intent.
She gasped against him. "Klaus—"
"What? I'm being educational." But his smirk was absolutely wicked. "And what does the sartorius do?"
She tried to focus through the distraction of his hands still kneading her backside. "Flexes the hip and knee. It's the longest muscle in the body."
"Excellent." He pressed a kiss to her temple, then without warning, lifted her effortlessly against the shower wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as the water streamed over both of them.
"What muscle did I just use to lift you?" he asked, voice dropping lower. Her brain scrambled to function while pressed against tile, held up by nothing but his strength.
"The—the deltoids helped. Biceps. Core muscles for stabilization."
"Very good, sweetheart." One hand slid up her thigh, squeezing the muscle there. "And what muscle is this?"
"Quadriceps," she breathed.
His hand moved higher, fingers tracing, caressing. "And this?"
"Adductors. Inner thigh."
"Mmm. You're doing so well." His lips found her neck, teeth grazing. "What about here?" His hand splayed across her ribcage.
"External obliques."
"Perfect." The word rumbled against her throat. "See how much better you remember when there's proper motivation?"
"This is—" She lost her train of thought entirely when his thumb traced circles against her hip. "This is not proper study technique."
"Isn't it? You're answering every question correctly." He shifted his hold, demonstrating his point. "What muscles am I using now to keep you exactly where I want you?"
She was trembling, and not from the cooling water.
"Deltoids, biceps, pectorals for...for holding. Core strength. Gluteus maximus for hip extension and—oh god—"
"Keep going, love. You're doing brilliantly."
"I can't think when you're—"
"When I'm what?" Pure innocence in his tone, completely contradicted by the way his hands were mapping her body. "I'm simply providing hands-on education. You said you needed a three-dimensional reference."
“I did?”
“Mhm. And you're going to ace this exam,” he finally lowered her back to her feet, though his hands remained at her waist. "Because every time you look at those diagrams, you're going to remember this. Aren't you?"
Her legs were unsteady, her heart was racing, and yes, she was absolutely going to remember every single muscle group now. "You're very pleased with yourself."
"Extremely." He tucked wet hair behind her ear. "Now, let's actually wash this paint off before the water runs cold. And I expect you to identify every muscle I use while doing so."
"You're going to make me work for this, aren't you?"
"Always, sweetheart." His grin was devastating. They stayed in the shower until every trace of color had washed away, Klaus continuing his relentless anatomical quiz while she scrubbed paint from his skin, both of them laughing when she got an answer wrong and he found creative ways to help her remember the correct one.
By the time they finally emerged, wrapped in towels with the bathroom thick with steam, Y/N had successfully memorized twelve major muscle groups and several creative applications thereof. And Klaus had a pile of sticky notes on his counter that he absolutely was not throwing away, along with the private satisfaction of knowing his girlfriend would never look at an anatomy textbook the same way again.
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Klaus drove into her, his hands gripping her hips as she lay beneath him. But something felt off. Her responses were all there. The usual soft gasps and the way her body arched but her focus wasn't. Her hands weren't clutching at him desperately as they usually did; instead, they were...exploring. They were focused and dare he say too focused as they traced patterns across his shoulders and down his spine.
He slowed his movements, watching her face. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, her brow furrowed in concentration that had nothing to do with pleasure.
"Are you..." he began, disbelief coloring his tone, "Are you studying my musculature while I'm fucking you?"
Y/N's eyes snapped to his, a guilty flush spreading across her cheeks. "What? No! I'm—" she broke off as his expression darkened. "Maybe a little?"
Klaus stilled completely, still buried inside her, his jaw tightening. "Let me understand this correctly," he said, his accent thickening dangerously. "I have you naked beneath me, my cock inside you, and you're using this opportunity to mentally catalog my trapezius?"
She bit her lip, fighting a smile despite the tension. "It's just...they're right there," she explained weakly as he drops his head into the crook of his neck "And they're so well-defined when you're holding yourself up like this. I can see exactly where the latissimus dorsi connects to—"
"Oh my god." Klaus lifted his head to stare at her in utter disbelief. "I'm literally inside you and you're thinking about anatomy."
"It's your fault!" She tried to defend herself, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. "You made me use you as a study model and now I can't stop thinking about it!"
"That was supposed to help you pass your exam, not ruin our sex life!"
"It's not ruining—"
Klaus cut her off with a growl, pulling out of her entirely and flipping her onto her stomach in one fluid movement. Before she could protest, he'd pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. "If you insist on treating me like an anatomy lesson," he murmured against her ear, his free hand sliding beneath her to lift her hips, "then I'll make certain it's one you won't forget."
He entered her again, the new angle drawing a genuine gasp from her lips. "Now," he continued, his voice conversational as he established a punishing rhythm, "since you're so interested in muscle function, let's discuss what's happening right now."
His hand released her wrists to slide down her back, following the curve of her spine. "The erector spinae," he informed her, fingers tracing the muscles along either side of her vertebrae, "contracts to arch your back just like this."
His hand moved to grip her hip, fingers digging into the flesh there. "The gluteus medius," he continued, punctuating the words with a deep thrust that made her cry out, "stabilizes your pelvis while I'm taking you."
"Klaus," she moaned, all thoughts of studying forgotten as her fingers clutched at the sheets.
"No, no," he chided, reaching around to cup her breast, thumb circling her nipple. "Pay attention, love. This is educational. The pectoralis major," he squeezed gently, "so sensitive to touch."
His other hand slid between her legs, finding her center with ease. "And here," he murmured, circling the bundle of nerves with his fingers as he continued to move within her, "is where all those nerve endings converge. Fascinating bit of anatomy, wouldn't you agree?"
Y/N could only respond with incoherent sounds of pleasure, her body trembling beneath his expert touch.
"I asked you a question," he prompted, slowing his movements until she whimpered in protest.
"Yes," she gasped out. "Fascinating. Please, Klaus—"
"Please what?" His voice was silk wrapped around steel. "Continue the anatomy lesson?"
"No!" she cried out. "Just...please."
He leaned down, his chest pressed against her back, lips at her ear. "I want to hear you say it," he demanded softly. "Tell me where your attention is now."
"On you," she breathed. "You. I swear."
He smiled against her skin, satisfaction evident in the curve of his lips. "Good girl," he praised, resuming his earlier pace. "Now, shall I demonstrate what happens when these muscles contract all at once?"
His fingers moved faster against her center, his thrusts becoming more intense as he drove her toward the edge.
"Klaus!" she cried out, her body tightening around him as release crashed over her.
He followed her moments later, his own release punctuated by a low groan against her neck. They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and ragged breathing. After several moments, Klaus rolled onto his side, pulling her against his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her arm as their breathing returned to normal.
"So," he said finally, amusement coloring his tone, "did that help with your studies?"
Y/N turned in his arms to face him, her expression sheepish but satisfied. "Definitely," she admitted. "Though I'm not sure I could explain any of it on an exam."
"Perhaps not," he agreed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I guarantee you'll never look at a muscle diagram the same way again."
She laughed, burying her face against his chest. "You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"
Klaus shook his head, a rare genuine smile softening his features. "Next time you need to study," he suggested, pulling her closer, "perhaps just ask me to pose for you properly. Less distracting for both of us."
"Where's the fun in that?" she countered, but he was already pulling her on top of him, all thoughts of anatomy lesson forgotten as her lips found his once more.
I don’t know what wrong with my account :( My messages tab has disappeared. I can’t comment on any posts, whether that be mine or someone else’s. I even had difficulty searching my account up (after someone mentioned it to me I tried it myself)
Am I restricted? I emailed tumblr but they have yet to get back to me. It’s been two weeks :( I really want to post what I’ve been working on but I’m afraid it won’t reach anyone. I’ll try regardless
Are you experiencing any complications on my page?
Hiiiii i actually love your writing so much. I just read both parts of My Lady. Could u do a part 3? :) maybe one where she finally caves and lets him turn her? Thank you!
Klaus had the first vampire suspended three feet off the ground, his hand buried wrist-deep in the man's chest cavity, fingers wrapped around the frantically beating heart. The second vampire lay beneath his boot, neck pinned to the filthy concrete, making wet choking sounds as Klaus applied just enough pressure to keep him immobile without crushing his windpipe entirely.
"Now," Klaus said conversationally, "I'm going to ask you one more time. Who sent you to spy on my family?"
The vampire in his grip gurgled something unintelligible, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. His hands clawed uselessly at Klaus's arm, nails scraping against the leather of his jacket.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that." Klaus tightened his grip on the heart, feeling it spasm against his palm. "You'll need to speak up."
His phone rang.
The sound cut through the alley with a specific ringtone he'd assigned to only one person. Y/N's face lit up the screen, her smile bright against the darkness of the scene around him.
Without hesitation, Klaus shifted his grip on the suspended vampire, freeing one hand to answer the call. The movement jostled the heart still clutched in his other fist, and the vampire let out a strangled whimper.
Klaus shot him a look of pure murder. Silence
The vampire went rigid, terror overriding pain.
"Yes, sweetheart?" Klaus's voice transformed entirely, now warm and attentive, with that particular softness he reserved exclusively for her.
"Hi! Are you busy?" Y/N's voice came through the speaker, slightly uncertain. "I'm sorry to interrupt if you are."
"Don't be ridiculous." Klaus pressed his boot down harder on the second vampire's throat when the fool started to squirm. A pointed glare communicated his expectations clearly: make a sound and I'll make this last for days. "I could never be too busy for you, love. What do you need?"
"Okay, so, don't laugh at me—"
"I would never."
"—but I'm currently in your study, and I'm looking for paper. Like, nice paper. Do you have fancy writing supplies? Wax seals? That kind of thing?"
Klaus felt his lips curve into a genuine smile, even as he gave the heart in his hand a warning squeeze when its owner started to lose consciousness. The vampire's eyes flew open, wild with pain and terror.
Stay awake, Klaus mouthed. I'm not finished with you.
"As a matter of fact, I do," he said into the phone, his tone light and warm. "There's a drawer in the desk, the one on the left side, second from the top. You'll find stationery, various inks, and several wax seals. The red wax is in the small box beside the inkwell."
"Oh my god, you actually have wax seals. Multiple wax seals." Y/N laughed, and the sound loosened something in his chest. "Why am I not surprised?"
"I've had centuries to accumulate correspondence supplies, love. One develops preferences." He adjusted his stance, grinding his heel slightly when the vampire beneath him tried to inch away.
There was a rustling sound, she must be opening the drawer. "Klaus, these are beautiful. Is this actual parchment?"
"Italian vellum, actually. Sixteenth century technique, modern production." The vampire in his grip was turning an alarming shade of purple. Klaus loosened his hold on the heart just enough to allow blood flow to resume. Couldn't have him dying before answering questions. "The cream-colored sheets are best for formal correspondence. Excellent absorption for fountain pen ink."
"You're such a nerd," Y/N said fondly. "A thousand-year-old nerd with fancy paper preferences."
"I prefer 'refined connoisseur of traditional arts.'"
"Nerd."
Klaus chuckled, low and genuine. The vampire beneath his boot made the mistake of interpreting his good mood as distraction and attempted to roll away. Klaus's heel came down on his chest instead, cracking at least two ribs with an audible snap.
He covered the phone's microphone with his thumb.
"Try that again," he said pleasantly, "and I'll remove your spine through your stomach."
The vampire went very, very still.
Klaus returned to the call seamlessly. "—and there should be a pen case in the back of the drawer. The blue one contains my better fountain pens. You're welcome to use whichever you'd like."
"You trust me with your fancy antique pens?"
"I trust you with considerably more than that, sweetheart." The warmth in his voice was entirely unfeigned. "Though I would recommend the Montblanc for everyday writing. The Waterman has a temperamental nib."
"Noted." Another pause, more rustling. "Okay, I found the wax seals. There are like... eight of them? Do you have a favorite?"
"The one with the M is the family crest. The wolf is mine personally." Klaus twisted his hand slightly, eliciting a fresh whimper from the suspended vampire. He shot the man an irritated look. "The plain circle is best for non-family correspondence. It’s elegant without being presumptuous."
"Plain circle it is." Y/N's voice had taken on that particular quality it got when she was concentrating on something. "How do I actually use the wax seal? I've never done this before."
"Light the candle beside the wax sticks, there should be matches in the top drawer. Hold the wax at an angle over the envelope flap, let it drip into a small pool. Wait three seconds for it to begin setting, then press the seal firmly and hold for a count of five. Lift straight up."
"You make it sound so easy."
"Practice makes perfect, love. Though I suspect you'll master it quickly." He paused, unable to resist. "If you'd like, I could give you a personal demonstration when I return home."
"That sounds suspiciously like an excuse to show off."
"I prefer to think of it as sharing my expertise with someone I adore." Klaus smiled, genuinely amused despite the gore currently coating his hand. "Besides, watching you learn new things is one of my favorite pastimes."
"Smooth." But he could hear the smile in her voice. "When will you be home?"
Klaus glanced at the two vampires, one still dangling from his grip, heart clutched firmly, the other pinned beneath his boot with terror etched across his features. This interrogation had been going on for nearly an hour before Y/N's call, and he'd extracted precious little useful information.
"I have a few matters to attend to," he said. "But I should be back within the hour. Perhaps two. I've missed you today."
"I saw you this morning."
"And yet, I still miss you." He could feel the vampire trembling beneath him.
“I miss you too. I'll be in your study, probably making a mess of your expensive paper."
"Make whatever mess you'd like. It's yours to use." The sincerity in his voice surprised even him. "I'll see you soon, sweetheart."
"See you soon. Love you."
"And I love you."
The call ended.
Klaus tucked his phone back into his pocket with his clean hand, then turned his full attention to the vampire still suspended in his grip. The man had gone pale, his eyes darting between Klaus's face and the hand still wrapped around his heart.
"Now then," Klaus said, his voice losing all warmth, all softness, becoming something cold and ancient and utterly merciless. "Where were we?"
"Please—" the vampire gasped. "I'll tell you everything—"
"You'll tell me everything regardless." Klaus tilted his head, studying the man with detached curiosity. "The only question is how much of yourself you'd like to retain by the end of this conversation."
The vampire beneath his boot whimpered.
"Oh, don't worry." Klaus glanced down at him with a smile that held no humor whatsoever. "You'll get your turn."
Klaus slipped through the compound's side entrance, moving with the silent grace that came from centuries of practice. Blood still clung to his forearms beneath his jacket sleeves, and his shirt, well, the shirt was a lost cause. Some stains simply didn't come out, no matter how skilled the launderer.
He could hear Y/N in his study. The scratch of pen against paper, the soft muttering she did when concentrating, the occasional frustrated sigh. His lips curved despite himself.
Shower first. Then her.
He made it to his bedroom without incident, stripping off the ruined clothes and stepping under scalding water. The blood swirled down the drain, red fading to pink fading to clear, and Klaus scrubbed until his skin was raw and clean. He dressed quickly in fresh clothes: dark henley, black jeans, barefoot because he was home and she liked seeing him relaxed.
The study door was open when he reached it.
Klaus leaned against the frame, taking in the scene before him with a mixture of amusement and profound affection.
Y/N had, apparently, discovered his collection of quill pens.
Feathers were scattered across the desk, peacock, goose, swan, several exotic varieties he'd collected over the centuries. Ink stained her fingers in at least three different colors. Wax had dripped onto the desk surface in abstract patterns, some successful seals scattered among the failures. Paper, some crumpled, some pristine, some covered in her elegant handwriting, surrounded her like fallen leaves.
She was currently attempting to seal an envelope, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration, a smudge of blue ink on her cheek.
"I see you've been busy," Klaus said.
Y/N startled, nearly dropping the seal. "Oh! You're back." Her face lit up when she saw him, and that expression, the pure, uncomplicated joy at his presence, still caught him off guard every single time. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to appreciate your dedication to destroying my study."
"I'm not destroying it!" She gestured at the chaos around her. "I'm... creatively utilizing it."
Klaus pushed off the doorframe, crossing to the desk. He picked up a particularly dramatic wax failure, a blob that looked vaguely like a melted snowman, and raised an eyebrow.
"This is creative?"
"That was my third attempt. I got better." She held up a successfully sealed envelope as evidence. The wax was slightly off-center, but the impression was clean. "See?"
"Impressive improvement." He set down the wax blob and leaned against the desk beside her, close enough that his hip brushed her shoulder. "Though I notice you've discovered my feather collection."
"Klaus." Y/N looked up at him with wide eyes. "You have peacock quills. Actual peacock quills. I couldn't not use them."
"They're purely decorative. The barbs are too soft for proper writing."
"I figured that out." She held up a peacock feather with a rueful expression. The tip was bent and ink-stained. "After I tried to use it. Sorry."
Klaus took the damaged feather, examining it with mock solemnity. "A tragedy. However will I recover from this loss."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm never dramatic." He set the feather aside, then reached down to brush the ink smudge from her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was warm beneath his touch. "What are you writing, love? You've been at this for hours."
Y/N's expression softened. "It's a tradition I have. Every New Year's Eve, I write letters to the people who've been important to me that year. People who've had an impact on my life, who I'm grateful for." She gestured at the stack of sealed envelopes. "I like to give them out before midnight. Start the new year having expressed my appreciation."
Klaus studied the envelopes. He could see names written on several: Jasmine. Camille. Mara. Names he recognized from her stories about friends back home and here. There were others too, Dr. Morrison must be someone from the museum, and Mrs. Chen was likely her elderly neighbor who kept bringing her homemade dumplings.
"You write physical letters," he said. "To express gratitude. Every year."
"Every year since I was sixteen." Y/N smiled, a touch self-conscious. "I know it's old-fashioned. Everyone else just sends texts or posts something on social media. But there's something about a handwritten letter, you know? The effort of it. The permanence. It means more than a quick message that gets lost in someone's notifications."
"It's..." Klaus searched for the right word. The concept was foreign to him. Sitting down to deliberately catalog the people he was thankful for, to express that gratitude openly and vulnerably. He'd spent centuries burning bridges, not building them. Collecting enemies, not appreciating allies.
Silly, his mind supplied. Sentimental. Naive.
But looking at Y/N's face, at the earnest warmth in her eyes, he couldn't bring himself to say any of that.
"It's very you," he finished.
"Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"A compliment. Always a compliment when it comes to you." He picked up one of the unused quills. A proper goose feather, functional rather than decorative, and twirled it between his fingers. "How many more do you have to write?"
"Just two." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "And I need to deliver them before midnight, so I should probably focus."
"Then focus." Klaus settled into the chair beside her, pulling a blank sheet of paper toward himself. "I'll keep you company."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." The words came out more sincere than he'd intended. "Besides, someone needs to supervise your wax technique. That last seal was acceptable, but your angle was off."
Y/N laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly. "My angle was fine."
"It was adequate at best. Here." He reached for the wax and candle, demonstrating. "Hold it like this. The wax should drip in a controlled stream, not splatter."
For the next hour, Klaus found himself doing something he never would have predicted: helping Y/N write thank-you letters.
He corrected her wax technique, suggested better ink choices for different paper weights, and listened as she talked through what she wanted to say to each person. He learned about Jasmine, her best friend from childhood who'd supported her through her parents' divorce. About Camille, who'd helped her with her move to New Orleans and called every week without fail. About Dr. Morrison, her mentor at the museum who'd taken a chance on hiring someone so young.
Each letter was personal, specific, filled with details that showed how deeply Y/N paid attention to the people in her life.
She sees people, Klaus realized. Really sees them. And she makes sure they know it.
The thought made something ache in his chest.
"Done!" Y/N sealed the final envelope with a flourish, her technique had improved dramatically, and held it up triumphantly. "That's everyone."
Klaus glanced at the stack. Eight letters total. Eight people who would receive tangible proof of her appreciation, her gratitude, her love.
He hadn't expected to be among them. They'd only known each other since late October. Barley barely two months. Hardly enough time to warrant inclusion in a tradition she'd maintained for seven years.
"I should go deliver these." Y/N stood, gathering the envelopes carefully. "Some of them I can just leave at doors, but a few I want to hand-deliver. I should be back before midnight."
"Do you want company?"
"No, this is something I like doing alone." She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "But save me some champagne? I want to be here when the clock strikes twelve."
"I'll have a glass waiting."
She smiled, bright and beautiful, and swept out of the study with her stack of letters clutched to her chest.
Klaus listened to her footsteps fade, the front door open and close, the sound of her car starting in the driveway.
Then he looked at the desk.
The supplies were still scattered everywhere. Ink bottles open, wax sticks half-melted, feathers strewn about like the aftermath of a pillow fight. Y/N had made an impressive mess, but she'd also left everything out, accessible, as if expecting the creative chaos to continue.
Klaus picked up the goose quill he'd been twirling earlier.
Ridiculous, he thought. Sentimental nonsense.
He pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward himself.
What would I even say? Who would I even write to?
The blank page stared at him, accusatory in its emptiness.
Klaus dipped the quill in ink.
Dear Y/N, he wrote, then immediately crossed it out. Too formal. Too stiff.
He tried again on a fresh sheet.
My dearest love,
Better. But what came next?
Klaus stared at the words, at the curve of his own handwriting, at the way the ink gleamed wet against the cream-colored vellum.
A thousand years of existence, and he'd never written a letter like this. Never sat down to deliberately express gratitude, appreciation, love. He'd written threats, demands, manipulations. He'd composed poetry for women he'd wanted to seduce and manifestos for enemies he'd wanted to intimidate.
But this, honest, vulnerable, genuine, this was new.
My dearest love,
I am not a man accustomed to gratitude. I have spent centuries taking what I want, destroying what I cannot have, and burning bridges with everyone foolish enough to care for me. I have been called monster, abomination, devil. I have earned every epithet.
And yet.
You looked at me that first night and you saw something worth knowing. You invited me into your home, your life, your heart, despite every warning your instincts must have screamed.
You challenged me. Laughed at me. Refused to be intimidated by my reputation or my temper. You treated me like a man, not a monster, and in doing so, you made me want to be one.
I do not deserve you. I know this with the same certainty I know the sun will rise tomorrow. You are light and warmth and everything good, and I am a thousand years of darkness and blood and terrible choices.
But you chose me anyway.
For that, for you, I am grateful.
Not just grateful. Transformed. You have made me want to be better, to do better, to become someone worthy of the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching.
I love you. Those words feel inadequate, too small to contain the enormity of what you've given me. But they are true, perhaps the truest thing I've ever said.
Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for staying. Thank you for teaching me that perhaps, even after a millennium, change is still possible.
Yours, eternally and completely,
Klaus
He set down the quill, staring at the letter.
The words looked foreign on the page, vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be. If anyone else read this, they would have leverage over him. Ammunition. Proof that the great Klaus Mikaelson had weaknesses after all.
But this wasn't for anyone else.
This was for her.
Klaus reached for the red wax, lighting the candle with steady hands. He let the wax drip onto the envelope, perfect angle, controlled stream, just as he'd taught her, and pressed his personal seal into the cooling pool.
The wolf stared up at him from the crimson wax.
He set the letter aside, on top of her scattered supplies, where she would find it when she returned.
Then Klaus went to pour the champagne, to wait for midnight, to begin a new year with someone who made him believe that even monsters could learn to be grateful.
Y/N burst through the compound doors with 10 minutes to spare, cheeks flushed from the cold December air, breathless and laughing.
"Made it!" she called out, kicking off her shoes in the foyer. "Don't start without me!"
Klaus appeared in the hallway, champagne flute in hand, an amused smile playing at his lips. "I wouldn't dream of it, love. Though you're cutting it rather close."
"Mrs. Chen wanted to talk. You know how she gets." Y/N was already moving toward the stairs, unbuttoning her coat as she went. "Give me five minutes to change. I refuse to ring in the new year in jeans that smell like her cat."
"Take your time. The clock will wait."
She disappeared up the staircase, and Klaus heard her footsteps padding toward his bedroom. Their bedroom, really, though neither of them had officially acknowledged the transition. Her things had simply migrated there over the past weeks, a hairbrush on his dresser, her favorite sweater draped over the armchair, a collection of hair ties that seemed to multiply on his nightstand.
Klaus returned to the sitting room, where he'd arranged champagne and glasses by the window overlooking the courtyard. The compound was quiet tonight. Elijah had taken Rebekah to some gala across town, and Kol was doing whatever Kol did on New Year's Eve, which Klaus preferred not to contemplate.
He reached into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the envelope.
The letter felt heavier than paper and wax should. It felt like exposure, like vulnerability, like handing someone a weapon and trusting them not to use it.
This is absurd, Klaus thought, pulling the envelope out and turning it over in his hands. I've faced down ancient vampires, werewolf packs, witch covens. I've survived a thousand years of betrayal and violence and war. Why does a piece of paper make my hands unsteady?
But he knew why.
Because this wasn't a battle he could win through strength or cunning. This was surrender, freely offered. This was showing Y/N the soft, wounded places he'd spent centuries armoring over, and hoping, trusting, that she wouldn't recoil from what she found there.
He tucked the letter back into his pocket as her footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Y/N appeared in the doorway wearing one of his shirts, a deep burgundy button-down that fell to mid-thigh on her, and soft sleep shorts beneath. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, slightly windswept from her delivery rounds, and her feet were bare against the hardwood floors.
She looked like home.
"Better?" she asked, crossing to join him by the window.
"Perfect." Klaus handed her a champagne flute, letting his fingers brush against hers in the exchange. "Did you deliver all your letters successfully?"
"Every single one." She took a sip, then made a small sound of appreciation. "Oh, this is good. This is really good champagne."
"1996 Dom Pérignon. I've been saving it for a special occasion."
"And New Year's Eve qualifies?"
Klaus looked at her, at the way the candlelight caught the gold in her hair, at the warmth in her eyes, at the easy comfort of her presence in his space.
"You qualify," he said simply.
Y/N's cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head with a smile that made his chest ache.
Two minutes to midnight.
Klaus could feel the letter in his pocket like a brand. His fingers itched to pull it out, to hand it over, to get this moment of terrifying vulnerability over with so he could stop feeling like his heart was trying to escape through his throat.
Since when do you get nervous? he demanded of himself. You're Klaus Mikaelson. You don't get nervous.
But apparently he did. Apparently one human woman with ink-stained fingers and a tradition of writing thank-you letters had found the one thing that could make a thousand-year-old hybrid feel like a nervous schoolboy.
He glanced at Y/N and noticed something curious.
She was fidgeting.
Her free hand kept moving to the pocket of her shorts, touching something there, then pulling away. She was biting her lower lip, a tell he'd learned meant she was anxious about something. Her eyes kept darting to him, then away, as if she was working up courage.
Interesting.
"Everything alright, love?" Klaus asked, keeping his voice casual.
"Fine! Great. Perfect." The words came out too quickly, too bright. "Just, you know. New Year's Eve. Big moment. Fresh starts and all that."
Klaus raised an eyebrow but didn't press. Whatever was making her nervous, she'd tell him when she was ready.
One minute to midnight.
"I should refill my glass," Klaus said, turning toward the champagne bottle on the side table. It was an excuse, his glass was still half full, but he needed a moment to steel himself. To make the decision.
Just give it to her. It's a letter. Words on paper. You've written thousands of letters in your existence.
But never one like this.
Never one that mattered.
He pulled the envelope from his pocket, grip tightening around it. The wax seal pressed into his palm, the wolf, his personal mark, stamped over words he'd never said to anyone.
Now or never.
Klaus turned, extending his hand with the letter held out before him—
And found Y/N doing exactly the same thing.
She stood there, arm outstretched, an envelope clutched in her fingers. Her expression was a mirror of what he imagined his own must look like: nervous, hopeful, terrified, determined.
The envelope in her hand bore his name in her elegant handwriting. A wax seal, slightly off-center, the plain circle he'd recommended for non-family correspondence, held it closed.
"I—" Y/N started.
"You—" Klaus said at the same moment.
They both stopped. Stared. Looked at the letters in each other's hands.
"You wrote me one," Klaus heard himself say, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. Rough. Uncertain. "I thought—you'd only known me for two months. I didn't think I would warrant inclusion in your tradition."
"Klaus." Y/N's voice was soft, incredulous. "You're one of the most important things that's happened to me this year. Maybe ever. Of course I wrote you one."
The clock began to chime midnight.
Klaus couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but stare at the envelope with his name on it, at this impossible woman who had looked at a monster and seen someone worth thanking.
She wrote me a letter.
She included me in her tradition.
She thinks I'm important.
The thoughts crashed over him like waves, each one more overwhelming than the last. A thousand years of being told he was worthless, unlovable, a curse upon his family, and here was Y/N, holding out a piece of paper that said otherwise.
"You wrote me one too," she said, eyes fixed on the envelope in his hand. "I didn't expect—I mean, you said the tradition was silly—"
"I never said that."
"You thought it. I could tell."
Klaus let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "I thought it was sentimental. Naive, perhaps. The kind of thing that wouldn't survive contact with the harsh realities of the world." He looked at her, letting her see the rawness in his expression. "I was wrong."
The clock finished its chiming. Midnight. A new year.
"Happy New Year, Klaus," Y/N whispered.
"Happy New Year, my love."
They exchanged letters slowly, almost ceremonially. Klaus's fingers trembled slightly as he took the envelope bearing his name, actually trembled, like he was some green fledgling vampire rather than an ancient Original.
The paper was warm from her pocket. The wax seal bore a slight fingerprint where she'd pressed too hard. His name was written in blue ink, with a small flourish on the K that he found inexplicably charming.
"Should we—" Y/N gestured vaguely. "Read them now? Or..."
"Now." The word came out hoarse. Klaus cleared his throat. "If you don't mind. I find I'm rather impatient to know what you've written."
Y/N smiled, that bright, beautiful smile that made him feel like the sun had risen just for him. "Together, then?"
Klaus nodded.
They settled onto the window seat, close enough that their shoulders touched. Outside, fireworks began to burst over the city, celebrating the turn of the year.
Klaus broke the seal on his letter with careful fingers, unfolding the paper within.
Y/N's handwriting filled the page, slightly uneven from the unfamiliar quill, ink-stained in places where she'd pressed too hard. It was imperfect and earnest and so utterly her that his throat tightened before he'd even read the first word.
He began to read.
And for the first time in a thousand years, Klaus Mikaelson felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
Dear Klaus,
I almost didn't write you a letter this year. Not because you don't deserve one, you absolutely do, but because I wasn't sure I could fit everything I wanted to say onto a single piece of paper. I've gone through three drafts already, and I'm still not sure I'm getting it right.
Two months ago, I met you on Halloween night. I was drunk and ridiculous, dressed as an angel, and you carried me home like I weighed nothing. I thought you were someone dressed up as Klaus Mikaelson. I told you your accent needed work.
I still can't believe that actually happened.
But here's the thing, even drunk, even thinking you were just some guy in a costume, I felt safe with you. You could have done anything. You could have taken advantage of my state, or stolen from my apartment, or a thousand other terrible things. Instead, you put me to bed, left water on my nightstand, and locked my door behind you when you left.
You showed me kindness when you had no reason to. When I was a stranger who couldn't even tell you my last name coherently.
Since then, you've shown me so much more.
You've shown me New Orleans through your eyes, a city that's both beautiful and brutal, full of history and magic and secrets. You've shared your art with me, and listened to me ramble about museum exhibits until I'm sure your ears were bleeding. You've made me laugh until my sides hurt, and held me when I cried about missing home.
You've protected me. Not because you think I'm weak or incapable, but because you care. Because you've lived long enough to know how dangerous the world can be, and you want to shield me from the worst of it.
You've been patient with me. I know I ask a million questions about vampires and magic and your family history. I know I sometimes say the wrong thing or push too hard. But you never make me feel stupid for not knowing. You just explain, with this fond exasperation that makes me want to kiss you.
(I usually do.)
You've let me see you. The real you. Not the monster everyone else sees, but the artist who loses track of time when he's painting. The brother who would burn the world for his siblings, even when they drive him crazy. The man who's been hurt so deeply that trust doesn't come easy, but who's trying anyway.
That last one means more to me than you might realize.
I know you think you're not a good man, Klaus. You've told me as much, usually when you're trying to push me away for my own good. But here's what I see:
I see someone who remembers how I take my coffee. Who leaves little sketches on my desk at work because he knows they make me smile. Who learned about art history periods he doesn't even like because I mentioned being interested in them. Who holds my hand during scary movies and pretends it's for my benefit when we both know he's the one who jumped at the last jump scare.
I see someone who's spent a thousand years surviving, and who's finally learning how to live.
You've changed my life, Klaus. You've made me braver, stronger, more willing to see the complexity in people instead of just the surface. You've challenged everything I thought I knew about good and evil, about monsters and men.
And you've loved me. Fiercely, completely, in a way that makes me feel like the most important person in the world.
So thank you. Thank you for carrying me home on Halloween. Thank you for every moment since. Thank you for being exactly who you are, in all your complicated, frustrating, beautiful glory.
I love you. I'm going to love you for as long as you'll let me.
Happy New Year, Klaus. Here's to all the letters I'll write you in all the years to come.
Yours always,
Y/N
P.S. - I'm keeping the peacock quill I ruined. It's going in my drawer of things that make me happy. Don't try to steal it back.
Klaus stared at the letter, reading it once, twice, a third time. His vision blurred slightly, and he blinked rapidly, unwilling to miss a single word.
He looked up to find Y/N watching him, her eyes soft and uncertain. She'd finished reading his letter too, and he could see the emotion in her face, surprise, tenderness, a hint of wonder.
"Y/N," he began, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Y/N, I—"
Words failed him. A thousand years of eloquence, of manipulation through language, of poetry and threats and everything in between, and now, when it mattered most, he couldn't find the right thing to say.
So instead, he reached for her.
He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones, and kissed her with everything he couldn't articulate. All the gratitude, the wonder, the disbelief that someone could see him so clearly and still choose to stay.
When they broke apart, Y/N was breathless, her eyes shining.
"I take it you liked the letter," she said, a small smile playing at her lips.
"It was..." Klaus shook his head, searching for the word. "Perfect. You are perfect."
"I'm really not."
"You are to me." He rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling in the small space between them. "Thank you. For the letter. For including me in your tradition. For seeing me."
"Thank you for writing one too." Y/N's fingers traced the line of his jaw, gentle and reverent. "I never expected that. It means more than you know."
"I meant every word."
"I know. That's why it means so much."
Outside, the fireworks continued, painting the night sky with bursts of color and light. Inside, in the quiet of the sitting room, Klaus held Y/N close and marveled at the strange, unexpected gift of being known, being seen, being chosen, not despite his darkness, but with full awareness of it.
"Happy New Year, my love," he murmured against her hair.
First, the Uber driver got lost despite having GPS, taking her on a fifteen-minute detour through the Garden District before finally finding the correct address in the French Quarter. Y/N spent the entire ride clutching the tart box like a lifeline, convinced the ganache was going to slide everywhere and she'd show up with a chocolate disaster.
Second, when she finally arrived at the address Klaus had provided, she stood outside for a full three minutes just staring at the building.
It wasn't a mansion. It was a compound. A massive structure that took up half the block, with wrought-iron gates, a courtyard visible through the entrance, and architecture that screamed "we've been here since before your great-great-grandparents were born." The kind of place that belonged in a historical preservation catalog, not as someone's actual home.
"You can still leave," she whispered to herself. "Just turn around. Text Klaus that you got food poisoning. He'd understand. Probably."
Except her feet were already carrying her toward the gate.
Third, the gate swung open before she even touched it, like the house itself was inviting her in. Or trapping her. Either option seemed equally possible.
The courtyard was beautiful in the fading evening light. There was a fountain in the center and ivy climbing the walls, the kind of Old World elegance that New Orleans did better than anywhere else. She could hear voices and laughter from inside, the warm glow of lights spilling through tall windows.
She was halfway to the front door when it opened.
A blonde, stunning woman wearing a cocktail dress appears at the door. She had the same timeless quality Klaus did, that sense of being both young and ancient at once.
"You must be Y/N!" the woman said brightly, her accent like Klaus's but with a slightly different cadence. "I'm Rebekah. Nik's been pacing for the last hour convinced you weren't coming. It's been hilarious."
"I—hi. Sorry I'm late, the driver got lost—"
"Oh, don't apologize. Come in, come in!" Rebekah ushered her inside before Y/N could finish the sentence. "Is that a tart? You didn't have to bring anything, but Elijah will be thrilled. He gets unbearably smug when guests bring contributions."
The interior was even more overwhelming than the exterior. High ceilings, original artwork on every wall, some of which Y/N recognized from her art history courses, antique furniture that looked both priceless and actually used. The kind of space that had been lived in for centuries and showed it in the best possible way.
"Rebekah, don't ambush her at the door," came a cultured voice from the next room. A man appeared, dark-haired, impeccably dressed in a full suit despite this being a family dinner. He had Klaus's bone structure but none of his casual menace. "I'm Elijah. Welcome to our home."
"Thank you for having me," Y/N managed, suddenly hyperaware that she was standing in a vampire's house holding a chocolate tart and wearing thigh-high boots to Thanksgiving dinner.
"Where's Nik?" Rebekah called over her shoulder.
"Upstairs changing his shirt for the third time," another male voice answered, and a younger-looking man appeared from what looked like a sitting room. He had the same sharp features as his siblings but with an impish quality the others lacked. "I'm Kol. You're the museum girl who told him his accent needed work. I like you already."
"I was drunk," Y/N said weakly. "I thought he was just some guy in a costume."
Kol's grin was absolutely wicked.
"Oh, this is going to be fun."
"Kol, behave," Elijah said mildly, taking the tart box from Y/N's hands. "Let me take this to the kitchen. Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Bourbon? Something stronger given that you're about to endure dinner with all of us?"
"Wine would be great," Y/N said, because she absolutely needed alcohol to get through this evening.
"Red or white?"
"Is it bad that I don’t have a preference?"
Elijah's lips twitched in what might have been amusement.
"I'll bring you both and you can decide as the evening progresses."
He disappeared toward what she assumed was the kitchen, leaving her alone with Rebekah and Kol, who were both looking at her with undisguised curiosity.
"So," Rebekah said, linking her arm through Y/N's like they were old friends. "Tell me everything. How did you two meet? Was it romantic? Did he do the brooding mysterious thing? He always does the brooding mysterious thing."
"He found me drunk on Halloween dressed as an angel and thought I was going to fall into traffic," Y/N said honestly, because what was the point of lying to vampires who could probably hear her heartbeat anyway.
Kol burst out laughing.
"Oh, that's perfect. That's absolutely perfect."
"He didn't mention that part," Rebekah said, delighted. "He just said he'd met someone interesting who appreciated art and wasn't afraid to argue with him about Byzantine iconography."
"I wasn't arguing, I was just—"
"She's here."
Klaus's voice came from the staircase, and Y/N turned to see him descending. He was wearing dark slacks and a henley in deep blue that matched his eyes, casual but still somehow elegant. His hair was slightly disheveled like he'd been running his hands through it.
He looked relieved. Genuinely, visibly relieved that she'd actually shown up.
"Hi," Y/N said, suddenly forgetting every word in the English language.
"Hi," Klaus echoed, and that dimpled smile appeared. "You came."
"You invited me."
"I did. I'm glad you're here." He crossed the room and to Y/N's complete surprise, kissed her cheek gently, his hand settling briefly on her lower back. "You look beautiful."
"I brought a tart," she blurted out, because apparently her brain had decided coherent conversation was optional now.
"She brought a tart!" Kol announced cheerfully.
"Ignore Kol," Klaus said, shooting his brother a look. "He's been into the bourbon since noon."
"It's Thanksgiving," Kol protested. "It's traditional."
"It's four in the afternoon."
"Your point?"
Rebekah rolled her eyes.
"Come on, Y/N. Let's get you that wine before these two start bickering about something that happened in 1492."
Dinner was simultaneously exactly what Y/N had expected and nothing like she'd imagined.
The dining room was stunning. There was a long table that could easily seat twenty, set with china that looked older than the United States, and candles flickering in antique holders. The food was excessive in the best way: turkey, ham, three different potato dishes, vegetables she couldn't even name, homemade rolls that smelled like heaven.
Elijah hadn't been joking about taking his hosting duties seriously.
Y/N sat beside Klaus, hyperaware of his presence next to her. Too aware of the way his arm occasionally brushed hers when he reached for something and the warmth radiating from him despite vampires supposedly running cold. She'd half-expected them to be ice-cold to the touch, but he was just...warm. Normal. Human, except for the whole immortal thing.
The family dynamic was chaotic.
Rebekah and Kol bickered about something that had apparently happened in Paris in the 1920s. Elijah interjected with corrections about dates and details, which sparked an entirely new argument about who had the better memory. Klaus made dry commentary that had everyone either laughing or throwing dinner rolls at him.
It was loud. Messy. Strangely affectionate despite the constant verbal sparring.
It was also completely overwhelming.
Y/N found herself just...listening. Watching. Trying to process the fact that she was sitting at a table with people who casually referenced centuries like she referenced years. Who argued about historical events they'd actually lived through. Who passed dishes and poured wine and teased each other exactly like any normal family, except nothing about this was normal.
"—and I'm telling you, Elijah, you were absolutely smitten with that opera singer. Don't pretend otherwise."
"I was appreciative of her talent, Rebekah. There's a difference."
"You bought her flowers every night for three months!"
"Supporting the arts is hardly evidence of romantic attachment."
Klaus snorted into his wine glass.
"You proposed to her."
"I was being polite!"
The table erupted in laughter, and Y/N felt a smile tugging at her lips despite her nerves.
Then Kol turned his attention directly to her, his dark eyes bright with mischief.
"I thought you said she had a mouth on her, Nik. What happened? Did you compel her to behave at family dinner?"
The table went quiet.
Y/N felt Klaus tense beside her, his hand tightening slightly on his fork.
"Kol—" he started, voice carrying a warning edge.
"What? I'm just saying, you made her sound like she'd give as good as she got." Kol leaned forward, grinning. "But she's been quiet as a mouse all through dinner. I'm starting to think you exaggerated."
Y/N set down her wine glass carefully.
The thing was, Kol wasn't wrong. She had been quiet. Sitting here like some nervous teenager meeting her boyfriend's parents for the first time, letting them talk around her while she just observed.
And she was tired of being nervous.
"I've been quiet," she said evenly, meeting Kol's gaze, "because I was trying to figure out if it would be rude to ask how old everyone actually is, or if that's the vampire equivalent of asking a woman her weight."
Rebekah choked on her wine.
Kol's grin widened.
"Oh, I like her."
"Also," Y/N continued, warming to the topic now that she'd started, "I've been trying to work out the math on some of the stories you've been telling. Kol, you said you were in Paris in the 1920s, but earlier Rebekah mentioned you were daggered for most of the twentieth century. So either someone's timeline is off, or there's a story there you're all deliberately avoiding."
The silence that fell over the table this time was different. Surprised.
Klaus was staring at her with something that looked suspiciously like pride.
"The museum training," he murmured. "You catalogue details."
"I catalogue everything," Y/N confirmed. "It's literally my job. You think I wasn't taking notes during all those stories about historical events I've only read about in books?"
Elijah set down his wine glass, looking genuinely impressed.
"Kol was undaggered briefly in 1914," he said. "He made it to Paris before Niklaus caught up with him and put him back in the box."
"I was only in Paris for three days!" Kol protested.
"Three very memorable days, apparently," Rebekah said sweetly. "Since you're still talking about them a century later."
"So the daggering thing," Y/N said, because apparently she'd committed to this now. "That's real? You can actually just...put each other in magical time-out?"
"Only I," Klaus said dryly. "Though I haven't had to resort to it in some time."
"Define 'some time,'" Kol muttered.
"Three years is quite restrained for Nik, actually," Rebekah added.
Y/N looked at Klaus, eyebrows raised.
"You daggered your brother three years ago?"
"He tried to kill me," Klaus said, as if this explained everything.
"You killed me first!" Kol shot back. "In 1821!"
"You were conspiring with our father!"
"I was trying to survive!"
"Gentlemen," Elijah interrupted smoothly. "Perhaps we could table the death threats until after dessert? We have a guest."
Y/N took a long drink of her wine.
"This is the most dysfunctional family dinner I've ever been to," she said. "And my uncle once threw mashed potatoes at my aunt during an argument about politics."
"Did she throw them back?" Rebekah asked, genuinely curious.
"No, she just divorced him."
"Smart woman."
Klaus's hand found Y/N's under the table, his fingers lacing through hers. When she glanced at him, he was smiling that genuine, dimpled smile that made her heart do complicated things.
"There she is," he said softly, just for her. "My little angel with the sharp tongue."
"I was just nervous," Y/N admitted, equally quiet. "This is...a lot."
"I know. But you're doing brilliantly."
Kol cleared his throat loudly.
"Are we having a private moment? Should we leave?"
"Yes," Klaus said without looking away from Y/N.
"No," Elijah said firmly. "We're having Thanksgiving dinner like civilized people. Kol, pass the potatoes."
After dessert Klaus stood and offered her his hand.
"Come on," he said. "Let me show you the rest of the house before my siblings start telling embarrassing stories from the fourteenth century."
"Too late!" Kol called after them. "I've already got three queued up!"
"Ignore him," Rebekah advised, waving them off. "Go. Enjoy the tour. We'll be here drinking Elijah's expensive wine and arguing about the Renaissance."
Klaus led Y/N up the grand staircase, his hand warm and steady in hers. The second floor was just as impressive as the first. The hallways were lined with artwork and the rooms looked like they belonged in a museum rather than a home.
"This is Elijah's study," Klaus said, gesturing to a door. "Don't go in there unless you want a two-hour lecture on legal precedent. That's Rebekah's room that is also off-limits unless you enjoy being subjected to fashion critiques. Kol's room is down that hall, and I'd recommend avoiding it entirely."
"And yours?" Y/N asked.
Klaus's smile turned slightly mischievous.
"I'll show you. But first—" He opened a set of French doors at the end of the hallway. "The best view in the Quarter."
The balcony stretched the length of the building, wrought-iron railings overlooking the streets below. The French Quarter sprawled out before them in a tapestry of lights and shadows, gas lamps glowing on corners, music drifting up from distant bars, the cathedral spire visible in the distance. The air was cool but not cold, carrying the scent of jasmine and something distinctly New Orleans.
"Oh," Y/N breathed, moving to the railing. "This is beautiful. I mean, I knew the Quarter was gorgeous, but seeing it from up here..."
She turned to look at Klaus, expecting him to be taking in the view with her.
He was looking directly at her.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Beautiful."
Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks, suddenly very aware of the intensity in his gaze. The way the moonlight caught in his blue-green eyes, the slight curve of his mouth.
"You're not even looking at the view," she said, aiming for teasing but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
"I'm looking at exactly what I want to see."
Her blush deepened.
"That's...that's a line. That's definitely a line."
"Doesn't make it less true." Klaus moved closer, not touching her but near enough that she could feel the warmth of him. "I'm interested in you, Y/N. Genuinely, completely fascinated by you. The way you look at art like you're seeing something no one else can. The way you argued with me about iconography despite thinking I was just some stranger at a gala. The way you agreed to have dinner with a family of Vampires."
"I was terrified," Y/N admitted.
"I know. But you came anyway. You brought a tart and wore those boots and sat through dinner with my insane family without running for the door." His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "Do you have any idea how extraordinary you are?"
"I'm really not," she whispered. "I'm just...me. Human. Mortal. Ordinary."
"There is nothing ordinary about you, love."
The endearment settled over her like a physical touch, warm and possessive and achingly gentle all at once.
"Klaus—"
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, leaning closer.
Y/N's heart was hammering so hard she was certain he could hear it.
"What if I don't want you to stop?"
His smile was devastating.
"Then I won't."
The kiss started gentle His lips brushing hers with a softness that seemed at odds with everything she knew about him. Careful. Almost reverent. Like she was something precious that might break if he wasn't cautious.
But then Y/N's hands found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his henley, and something shifted.
Klaus's hand slid into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The gentleness gave way to hunger, not aggressive, but intense. Consuming. Like he'd been holding back and finally, finally had permission to let go.
Y/N made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.
"You taste like chocolate and wine," he murmured against her lips.
"You taste like bourbon and bad decisions," she managed, breathless.
His laugh was low and rich.
"The best kind of decisions, love."
He kissed her again, slower this time but no less thorough. His thumb traced patterns on her hip where her sweater had ridden up slightly, the touch sending sparks along her skin. She could feel the careful control in every movement. Could feel the way he held her like she was both fragile and essential, the way his lips moved against hers with practiced expertise but genuine feeling.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder than necessary, Klaus rested his forehead against hers.
"I've wanted to do that since Halloween," he admitted.
"You should have," Y/N said. "Would've saved me a lot of confused feelings."
"You were drunk and thought I was a costume. Hardly the time for declarations."
"Fair point." She paused, her fingers still tangled in his shirt. "Your family is watching us, aren't they?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Are they going to say something embarrassing when we go back downstairs?"
"Absolutely."
Y/N groaned.
"Great. Perfect. Love that for me."
Klaus kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips again. Quick and sweet.
Three weeks of Klaus showing up at the museum during her lunch breaks with coffee and pastries from her favorite bakery. Three weeks of late-night conversations on her apartment balcony, where he'd tell her stories about Renaissance Florence and she'd counter with facts about museum conservation techniques. Three weeks of stolen kisses in darkened galleries after hours, of his hand finding hers under tables at restaurants, of waking up to find sketches slipped under her door with her face rendered in charcoal, her hands curled around a coffee cup, her profile as she studied a painting.
Three weeks of falling completely, irrevocably for a thousand-year-old vampire who looked at her like she was the most fascinating thing he'd encountered in a millennium.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was the best three weeks of her life.
Tonight, Y/N was at the compound. She'd started keeping a toothbrush in Klaus's bathroom, a change of clothes in his closet. Small invasions that he not only allowed but actively encouraged. He started moving his things to make room for hers, buying her favorite tea for the kitchen, and clearing space on his desk so she could work on museum catalogues while he painted.
She was curled up on the couch in his studio now, laptop balanced on her knees, trying to write condition reports for a new acquisition. The room smelled like oil paint and turpentine, classical music playing softly from speakers somewhere. Klaus stood at his easel across the room, lost in whatever he was creating, a streak of blue paint across his forearm.
Y/N had learned he painted when he was content. When his mind was quiet enough to let creativity flow instead of being consumed by paranoia and old wounds.
He'd been painting a lot lately.
"You're staring," Klaus said without turning around.
"I'm appreciating the view," Y/N countered. "There's a difference."
"Is there now?"
"Absolutely. Staring is creepy. Appreciating is romantic."
"And which am I doing when I watch you work?"
"Both, probably."
His laugh was warm and genuine.
"Fair assessment."
Y/N's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and frowned.
"My coworker wants to know if I can cover her shift tomorrow. Apparently she has a 'family emergency.'" She made air quotes with her fingers. "Which is code for 'I have a date and don't want to cancel.'"
"Will you do it?" Klaus asked, finally turning from his canvas.
"Probably. I'm a doormat like that." She typed out a response. "Besides, we're getting a new shipment of archival materials and someone needs to log them properly. Sarah would just shove everything in a box and call it a day."
"You take your work very seriously."
"Says the man who once spent six months perfecting a single brushstroke technique."
"That was different. I was avoiding my family."
"For six months?"
"They were being particularly insufferable that decade."
Y/N shook her head, smiling. The casual way he referenced time still threw her sometimes. Decades like months. Centuries like years.
Klaus set down his brush and crossed the room, settling onto the couch beside her. His hand found her ankle, thumb rubbing small circles over the bone.
"You're tense," he observed.
"Long day. The museum director wants to reorganize the entire European collection and I'm pretty sure it's going to be a disaster."
"Why?"
"Because he wants to arrange everything chronologically instead of by region, which sounds fine in theory but completely ignores cultural context and artistic movements." She gestured with her hands, warming to the topic. "You can't just put a Byzantine icon next to a Baroque altarpiece because they're both religious art from roughly the same century. The entire theological and aesthetic framework is different—"
Klaus was smiling at her.
"What?" Y/N asked.
"I love watching you talk about art. Your whole face lights up."
"I'm complaining about my boss."
"You're passionate about preservation and context. It's captivating." His hand slid higher, fingers tracing patterns on her calf. "Tell me more about why your director is wrong."
"Are you actually interested or are you just trying to get me worked up?"
"Can't it be both?"
She threw a pillow at him.
He caught it effortlessly, grinning.
"Come here," he said, tugging her closer until she was staddling his lap, laptop abandoned on the coffee table. “Keep talking,” he said, stoking the sides of her thighs.
She raises a brow, “you want me to talk about work while you attempt to seduce me?”
Klaus's hands settled firmly on her thighs, thumbs stroking lazy patterns through the fabric of her jeans. His eyes were dark with intent, that familiar mischief playing at the corners of his mouth.
"I want you to do whatever feels natural, love," he said, voice dropping to that low register that made her stomach flip. "If that happens to be explaining iconography while sitting in my lap, well. I'm certainly not going to complain."
Y/N braced her hands on his shoulders, trying to ignore the heat building low in her belly.
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm attentive. There's a difference." His fingers traced higher, skimming the curve of her hip. "You were saying something about theological frameworks?"
"I was—" She lost her train of thought as his lips found the pulse point beneath her jaw. "That's cheating."
"I'm simply multitasking." He kissed along her neck, unhurried and deliberate. "Please, continue. I'm fascinated by your thoughts on chronological versus regional curation."
"You're a terrible liar."
"On the contrary, I'm an excellent liar. I'm just choosing honesty at the moment." He pulled back to look at her, one hand coming up to cup her face. "I like listening to you talk. I like the way your mind works. I like that you care so deeply about things most people would find mundane."
"Museum cataloguing is not mundane," Y/N protested, but her voice came out softer than intended.
"See? Passionate. Captivating." His thumb brushed across her lower lip. "Though I'll admit my current interest is less academic and more..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he kissed her slow and thorough, his hand sliding into her hair while the other remained firm on her hip. Y/N melted into it, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
When they broke apart, she was breathing harder.
"More what?" she managed.
Klaus's smile was devastating.
"More focused on the fact that you're in my lap, looking at me like that, and I've been wanting to get my hands on you all evening."
"You've had your hands on me for the past five minutes."
"Not nearly enough." His hands slid under the hem of her sweater, palms warm against her skin. "I could touch you for a thousand years and it wouldn't be enough."
"That's—" Y/N's breath hitched as his thumbs traced the underside of her ribs. "That's very romantic for someone who's clearly trying to get me naked."
"I contain multitudes, love."
She laughed, the sound turning into a soft gasp as he kissed down her throat again, teeth grazing lightly.
"Your family is downstairs," she reminded him.
"Soundproofing spells," Klaus murmured against her collarbone. "Elijah insisted after the incident in 1952."
"I don't want to know, do I?"
"Absolutely not."
She wanted to argue that the door was open but his hands were doing wonderful, distracting things as they mapped the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, and the soft skin just above her jeans. Every touch was deliberate, controlled, like he was memorizing her through his fingertips.
She let out a breathy moan, “Klaus” she says, moving her hip deliberately in his lap
That sound. Klaus’ grip on her hips tightened reflexively as she rolled against him, deliberate and devastating.
"Fuck," he breathed, head falling back against the couch. His fingers dug into her flesh, hard enough to leave marks. "You're going to be the death of me, love."
"Pretty sure you're already dead," Y/N managed, doing it again. Watching the way his jaw clenched, the muscle jumping beneath skin. The way his eyes went darker, pupils blown wide.
"Semantics." His hands slid to her ass, pulling her harder against him. She could feel him now. Hard and thick through the layers of denim between them. "Keep doing that and I won't be responsible for what happens next."
"Maybe I want you to be irresponsible."
His laugh was rough, almost pained.
"Careful what you wish for, my dear."
But Y/N was done being careful. Three weeks of stolen kisses and careful touches, of Klaus holding himself back like she might break. She was tired of gentle. She wanted to see what he looked like when that iron control finally snapped.
She kissed him hard, her tongue sliding against his, hips moving in a rhythm that had him groaning into her mouth. His hands were everywhere, sliding under her sweater to palm her breasts through her bra, thumbs circling her nipples until she was gasping. Then down again, fingers working at the button of her jeans.
"Tell me to stop," Klaus said against her lips, even as he was dragging the zipper down. "Tell me this is too fast and I'll—"
"Don't stop," Y/N interrupted. "Don't you dare stop."
"Thank fuck."
He lifted her easily, vampire strength making it effortless, and laid her back on the couch, following her down. His hand slipped inside her jeans, inside her underwear, and then—
"Christ, you're wet," he groaned, fingers sliding through slick heat. "All this from sitting in my lap?"
"All this from three weeks of you being a gentleman," Y/N shot back, hips arching into his touch. "I was starting to think you didn't want—oh god—"
He'd found her clit, circling it with exactly the right pressure. His other hand was still under her sweater, rolling her nipple between his fingers.
"Didn't want what?" Klaus asked, voice rough. "Didn't want to spread you open and taste every inch of you? Didn't want to fuck you until you're screaming my name? Because I can assure you, love, I've wanted all of that and considerably more."
"Then why haven't you?" She could barely get the words out, too focused on the movement of his fingers, the building heat low in her belly.
"Because you're human. Fragile. Because I was trying to be decent." He kissed her hard, teeth catching her lower lip. "But if you keep making those sounds, decency is going to become a distant memory."
"Good," Y/N breathed. "I don't want decent. I want you."
"Then you'll have me, love. All of me."
He withdrew his hand from her jeans, ignoring her sound of protest, and sat back on his heels. His eyes were locked on her as he brought his fingers to his mouth, tongue sliding over them deliberately.
"Delicious," he said, voice dark with promise. "But I think I need a proper taste."
His hands went to her jeans, dragging them down her legs along with her underwear in one smooth motion. Cool air hit her skin and then his hands were on her thighs, pushing them apart.
"Klaus, "
"Let me hear you, love," he said, settling between her legs. "Let me hear what I do to you."
Then his mouth was on her and Y/N stopped thinking entirely.
Y/N let out a loud groan, arching her back and tilting her head back. Her hands gripped the sofa cushions.
Klaus's tongue dragged through her folds, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every second. He groaned against her, the vibration sending sparks up her spine, and the sound was pure satisfaction.
"Fuck, you taste incredible," he muttered, breath hot against her. "Better than I imagined."
Y/N's hips bucked involuntarily and his hands clamped down on her thighs, holding her open and still.
"Stay," he commanded, voice rough with authority. "Let me work."
Then his mouth was on her clit and she couldn't have moved if she wanted to. He sucked and licked with focused intensity, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and tight circles that had her gasping. Every nerve ending was on fire, pleasure building in waves that threatened to drown her.
"Klaus—oh god—"
"That's it, love. Say my name." He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them perfectly while his tongue continued its assault. "Let everyone in this house know who's making you feel this good."
She should have been embarrassed. Should have cared that his siblings were somewhere downstairs, probably hearing every sound. But all she could focus on was the stretch of his fingers, the wet heat of his mouth, the coil of tension winding tighter and tighter in her core.
"You're close," Klaus observed, almost conversational despite the fact that his face was buried between her thighs. "I can feel you clenching around my fingers. So tight, love. Can't wait to feel you do that around my cock."
The filth coming from his mouth should not have been as devastating as it was.
"Please—" Y/N didn't even know what she was begging for anymore. More, harder, don't stop, everything.
"Please what?" He added a third finger, the stretch almost too much. "Use your words, my dear."
"Make me come," she gasped. "Please, Klaus, I need—"
He sucked hard on her clit at the same time he crooked his fingers against that perfect spot inside her, and Y/N shattered.
The orgasm hit her like a freight train. It had her back arching off the couch, thighs trembling, his name torn from her throat in a sound that was half-scream, half-sob. Klaus worked her through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, fingers still moving as she clenched and pulsed around them.
When she finally came down, boneless and gasping, he pressed soft kisses to her inner thigh. His chin was wet, eyes dark and satisfied as he looked up at her.
"Beautiful," he said simply. "Absolutely gorgeous when you come undone."
Y/N couldn't form words yet. Her brain was still offline, body still singing with aftershocks.
Klaus crawled back up her body, settling his weight carefully over her. She could feel him still hard and straining against his jeans and pressing against her hip.
"Your turn," she managed, reaching for his belt.
He caught her wrist gently.
"Not tonight, love."
"But you didn't—"
"Tonight was about you." He kissed her softly, and she could taste herself on his lips. "About making you feel good. We have all the time in the world for the rest."
"That's not fair," Y/N protested, even as exhaustion was starting to creep in.
"Life rarely is." His smile was wicked. "Besides, I rather enjoyed myself. Watching you fall apart on my tongue was more satisfying than you can possibly imagine."
Heat flooded her cheeks.
"You can't just say things like that."
"I can and I will." He helped her sit up, retrieving her jeans from where they'd ended up on the floor. "Now get dressed before Kol decides to investigate what all the noise was about."
"Oh god." Y/N buried her face in her hands. "Your family definitely heard that."
"Undoubtedly. Rebekah will have commentary. Elijah will pretend nothing happened. Kol will make inappropriate jokes for the next week."
Two months of waking up next to her, of her laugh filling the compound, of sketching her face from memory because he couldn't go more than a few hours without seeing it rendered in charcoal. Two months of the best peace Klaus had known in a thousand years.
And now she was lying to him.
It started small.
A phone call she took in the other room. A text message she angled away from him. Hushed conversations with Rebekah that stopped the moment he walked in.
Klaus told himself it was nothing. Y/N was entitled to privacy. She had friends, coworkers, a life outside of him. Not everything needed to be shared.
But then he caught her whispering with Elijah in the library, both of them going silent when he appeared in the doorway. Saw her laptop screen go dark the second he approached. Found her leaving the compound at odd hours with vague excuses about errands and museum work.
The paranoia crept in like poison.
A thousand years of betrayal had taught him to recognize the signs. The secrecy. The lies. The way people he loved always, eventually, turned on him. His father. His mother. Countless others who'd sworn loyalty and then driven daggers into his back.
Three weeks of watching. Three weeks of cataloging every suspicious glance, every hidden conversation, every moment she pulled away from him. Klaus felt like he was going mad, torn between confronting her and dreading what he might discover.
It became an obsession. He started checking her phone when she was in the shower. Following her at a distance when she claimed to be running errands. Compelling information out of her coworkers at the museum.
Was she planning to leave? Had she realized what he truly was and decided she couldn't stomach it? Or worse…was someone else involved? Someone human, perhaps. Someone who could give her the normal life she deserved.
The thought made him want to destroy something.
He painted obsessively during those weeks. Dark, violent canvases full of chaos and rage. Y/N commented on them once, concern flickering across her face, and he'd brushed it off with a smile that felt like broken glass in his mouth.
"Just working through some things, love."
She'd accepted that. Kissed his cheek. Gone back to whatever secret she was keeping.
Klaus had nearly put his fist through the canvas after she left.
He'd been in his study, pretending to read while actually listening to Y/N's heartbeat two floors below. She was in the kitchen with Kol, their voices too low for even his hearing to catch clearly. But he heard his name. Once. Twice.
Then laughter.
Something inside him snapped.
He was downstairs in seconds, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a force that made the door frame crack. Kol and Y/N jumped apart, guilty, his mind screamed, look how guilty they look, and Klaus felt his face shift, veins crawling beneath his eyes.
"Out," he snarled at Kol.
His brother's expression flickered between amusement and genuine alarm.
"Nik, whatever you're thinking—"
"I said out."
Kol looked at Y/N, something unspoken passing between them, and Klaus saw red.
"Don't look at her. Don't even think about her. Get out of this room before I remove your head from your shoulders."
"Klaus—" Y/N started.
"And you." He turned on her, a thousand years of fear and betrayal boiling over. "You're going to tell me what's going on. Right now. No more lies, no more secrets, no more whispered conversations that stop the moment I enter a room."
Kol vanished. Smart, for once.
Y/N stood her ground, chin lifting in that stubborn way he usually found endearing. Right now it just made him angrier.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." The word came out guttural, barely human. "Don't insult my intelligence. I've been watching you for weeks. The phone calls. The texts. The meetings with my siblings behind my back. What is it? What are you planning?"
"Klaus, you need to calm down—"
"Calm down?" He laughed, the sound bitter and broken. "You want me to calm down while you're conspiring with my family? While you're keeping secrets and lying to my face? Tell me, love—" he spat the endearment like a curse— "how long have you been planning this? How long have you been waiting to betray me?"
Y/N's face went pale.
"Betray you? Klaus, I would never—"
"Everyone betrays me eventually!" The words tore from his throat, raw and ragged. "My father. My mother. Everyone I've ever trusted, everyone I've ever loved—they all leave. They all turn on me. So tell me what you're planning so I can at least prepare for it this time."
Silence.
Y/N stared at him, something shifting in her expression. The defensiveness melted away, replaced by something that looked horribly like pity.
"Klaus," she said softly. "I'm planning your birthday party."
The words didn't compute.
"What?"
"Your birthday. I've been trying to figure out when it actually is because apparently no one in your family can agree on a date, and medieval record-keeping was terrible, and I wanted to do something special for you because you've never—" Her voice cracked. "You've never had anyone celebrate it properly. A thousand years and no one's ever thrown you a party."
Klaus felt the ground shift beneath his feet.
"You've been...planning a party."
"Yes." Y/N's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Rebekah's been helping with the guest list. Elijah found some old eviednce. Kol was supposed to distract you while I finished the decorations. We've been working on it for weeks."
The anger drained out of him so fast it left him dizzy.
"I thought..." He couldn't finish the sentence.
"I know what you thought." Her voice was quiet. Hurt. "You thought I was plotting against you. That I was going to leave. That I was—what? Having an affair with Kol?"
The silence was damning.
"Oh my god." Y/N pressed her hand to her mouth. "You actually thought that. You actually believed I would—"
"Y/N—"
"No." She held up her hand, taking a step back. "I need a minute. I need—" A tear slipped down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily. "I have spent two months. Two months trying to show you that I'm not going anywhere. And the second things got a little secretive, for your benefit, you assumed the worst."
"I'm sorry." The words felt pathetically inadequate. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—my mind goes to dark places. I can't always control—"
"I know you can't." Her voice broke. "I know about Mikael and your mother and everything you've been through. I know trust doesn't come easily for you. But Klaus, I'm not them. I'm never going to be them."
He wanted to reach for her. Wanted to pull her into his arms and beg forgiveness until his throat went raw. But she was looking at him like he'd shattered something precious, and maybe he had.
"The party," he said quietly. "It's ruined now."
"Yeah." Y/N laughed, but there was no humor in it. "It really is."
"I'll make this right." Klaus took a step toward her, then stopped when she flinched. The small movement carved something out of his chest. "Please, love. Tell me how to fix this."
"I don't know if you can." She wiped her eyes again. "I don't know if there's a way to fix you looking at me like I was the enemy. Like I was capable of hurting you like that."
"You're not the enemy. You're the furthest thing from—"
"Then why did you treat me like one?"
Klaus had no answer. Or rather, he had too many. A thousand years of answers, none of them good enough.
"Because I'm broken," he said finally. "Because my father spent my entire human life telling me I was worthless, and then my mother tried to kill me, and everyone I've loved since then has eventually proven them right. Because some part of me is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to realize what I am and run."
Y/N was quiet for a long moment.
"I know what you are," she said softly. "And I'm still here."
"I know. I know you are. But the voice in my head—" He tapped his temple, grimacing. "It doesn't listen to logic. It only knows patterns. And the pattern has always been love, then loss, then betrayal."
"I'm not a pattern, Klaus. I'm a person."
"I know." His voice cracked. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so bloody sorry."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with hurt and history.
Finally, Y/N sighed.
"I'm going to go home tonight."
Klaus's heart stopped.
"Y/N—"
"I need space to think. I need to process this without you looking at me like I'm about to disappear." She grabbed her jacket from the back of a chair. "I'm not leaving you. I'm not breaking up with you. But I need tonight to be angry and hurt without having to manage your guilt about it."
It was reasonable. It was healthy. It was the most painful thing she could have said.
"Can I call you tomorrow?" he asked, hating how desperate he sounded.
"Yes." She paused at the doorway, looking back at him. "For the record, it was never about the party. It was about doing something nice for you."
Then she was gone, and Klaus was alone with the wreckage of his own making.
Hidden in one of the unused rooms were streamers and balloons and a banner that read "Happy Birthday Klaus" in Y/N's handwriting. There was a guest list on the table, names carefully organized. A menu she'd planned with his favorite foods. A stack of vintage art books she must have spent weeks tracking down.
Klaus sat in the middle of it all, surrounded by evidence of her love, and put his head in his hands.
A thousand years old, and he still didn't know how to accept that someone might simply want to make him happy.
Klaus paced the halls for hours after Y/N left, wearing grooves into ancient floorboards that had survived centuries of Mikaelson drama. His siblings gave him a wide berth, even Kol, who usually couldn't resist poking at open wounds, stayed conspicuously absent.
Smart.
If anyone had spoken to him tonight, he might have ripped their throat out.
By midnight, the walls were closing in. Every room held traces of her: the throw blanket she'd left on the study couch, a hair tie on his nightstand, the faint lingering scent of her perfume in the bedroom. It was suffocating. Maddening.
She said she wasn't leaving.
But she left.
She said she needed space.
Space to realize she'd made a mistake. Space to understand that loving him was a fool's errand. Space to come to her senses and run.
Klaus grabbed a crystal decanter and hurled it against the wall. It shattered beautifully, bourbon running down the wallpaper like amber tears.
The French Quarter was alive at 2 AM. Tourists stumbling between bars, jazz spilling from open doorways, the eternal carnival atmosphere that made New Orleans such perfect hunting ground.
Klaus moved through the crowds like a shark through shallow water. His face was human, his smile charming, but something dark and hungry lurked behind his eyes.
He needed to hurt something.
Needed to feel powerful again, after spending the evening feeling so pathetically, devastatingly small.
The first victim was easy. A man in his thirties, clearly intoxicated, separated from his group of friends outside a Bourbon Street bar. Klaus approached with practiced ease as a friendly local offering directions and a steadying hand when the man stumbled.
"Rough night, mate?"
"Yeah, man. Can't find my hotel." The tourist laughed, oblivious to the danger standing inches away. "Everything looks the same down here."
"Let me help you."
Klaus guided him into an alley with gentle pressure on his elbow. The man went willingly, trusting, drunk enough that alarm bells weren't ringing.
So easy. So pathetically easy.
In the shadows between buildings, Klaus let his face shift. Felt the satisfying burn of his fangs descending, the rush of power that came with embracing what he truly was.
"What the—" The tourist's eyes went wide, fear cutting through his alcohol haze. "What the fuck is wrong with your face?"
"Nothing's wrong with it, mate." Klaus gripped the man's shoulders, pinning him against the brick wall. "This is simply what I am."
He could hear the rapid, terrified heartbeat that was pumping blood so fast it was practically begging to be spilled. Could smell the fear, sharp and intoxicating. Could feel the familiar hunger rising, demanding to be fed.
This was what he knew. What he was good at. A thousand years of violence had made him an artist of death, and tonight he needed to create.
Klaus tilted the man's head, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. His fangs grazed skin—
And Y/N's face appeared in his mind.
Not angry. Not afraid.
Disappointed.
He saw her as clearly as if she were standing in the alley with him. Those eyes that had looked at him with such hurt tonight, now filled with something worse. The quiet devastation of watching someone you love prove they're exactly the monster everyone warned you about.
"I know what you are," she'd said. "And I'm still here."
Still here.
Despite everything. Despite the violence and the paranoia and the thousand years of blood on his hands. She'd stayed. She'd planned a birthday party. She'd coordinated with his siblings for weeks, all to make him feel special.
And how had he repaid her?
By accusing her of betrayal. By looking at her like she was the enemy. By driving her away with the same toxic patterns that had destroyed every relationship he'd ever had.
Now here he was, about to add another body to the pile. Another innocent life snuffed out because Klaus Mikaelson couldn't handle his emotions like anything other than a rabid animal.
What would she think if she saw him like this?
What would she think if she knew that the moment she left, he'd reverted to violence like a dog returning to its vomit?
Klaus's grip on the tourist loosened.
"Please," the man whimpered. "Please don't kill me. I have a wife. Kids. Please—"
The words barely registered. Klaus was still seeing Y/N's face. Still hearing her voice.
"I'm not a pattern, Klaus. I'm a person."
She'd asked him to be better. Not with words, she was too smart for ultimatums, but with her presence. Her patience. Her stubborn insistence on seeing the man beneath the monster.
And he'd been trying. God help him, he'd been trying. Two months of restraint, of choosing her over his worst impulses, of proving that he could be something other than a cautionary tale.
Was he really going to throw that away because she needed one night alone?
Klaus released the man entirely, stepping back so quickly the tourist slumped against the wall.
"What—what are you doing?"
"Changing my mind." The words tasted foreign. Wrong. Klaus Mikaelson didn't show mercy. Klaus Mikaelson didn't spare victims once he'd chosen them.
But Klaus Mikaelson had never had someone like Y/N before.
He caught the man's gaze, letting compulsion flood his voice.
"You're going to forget this happened. You got lost, wandered into an alley, and fell asleep for a few minutes. When you wake up, you'll find your way back to your hotel. You'll call your wife and tell her you love her. And you'll never walk alone in the French Quarter again."
The tourist's eyes glazed over, the terror smoothing into blank compliance.
Klaus bit into his own wrist, pressing the wound to the man's mouth.
"Drink. It'll heal the bruises."
The tourist obeyed mechanically, and Klaus watched the finger-shaped marks on his shoulders fade. Evidence erased. Like it never happened.
When he was satisfied, Klaus stepped back and let the compulsion settle.
"Sleep."
The man slid down the wall, unconscious before he hit the ground.
His hands were shaking. Not from hunger, the bloodlust had faded the moment Y/N's face appeared in his mind, but from something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like shame.
A thousand years.
A thousand years of killing without conscience, of taking what he wanted because he could, of justifying every atrocity with the simple truth that he was stronger and therefore entitled.
And one woman, one stubborn, beautiful, impossibly kind woman, had made him stop.
Not through threats or manipulation or leverage. Just by existing. Just by looking at him like he was capable of being more than a monster.
Klaus pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over Y/N's contact.
She'd asked for space. She'd been clear about needing tonight to process.
But he needed her to know. Needed her to understand that even when she wasn't there, even when his worst instincts screamed for blood and violence, she was still saving him.
He typed out a message, then deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.
Finally, he settled on something simple:
I almost did something terrible tonight. But I thought of you, and I stopped. I don't know if that means anything. But I wanted you to know that even when you're not here, you make me want to be better. I'm sorry for today. I'm sorry for everything. Take all the time you need. I'll be here when you're ready.
He hit send before he could second-guess himself.
Then he sat down on a crate in the alley, next to the unconscious tourist who had no idea how close he'd come to death, and waited for dawn.
I'm still angry. But thank you for telling me. That matters.
Klaus read the message seventeen times.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't an invitation to come over. But it was something.
It was her, still choosing to respond. Still choosing to engage. Still choosing him, even after everything.
He walked home as the sun rose over New Orleans, and for the first time in hours, the weight on his chest felt slightly less crushing.
Tomorrow, he would grovel properly. Would find some way to make up for the ruined party, for the accusations, for the centuries of damage that made him incapable of accepting love without waiting for the knife.
Tonight, he would hold onto those two sentences like a lifeline.
She was still angry.
But she was still there.
And for Klaus Mikaelson, that was more than he deserved.
The morning sun cast long shadows across the compound's courtyard as Klaus stood at the balcony, every sense attuned to the world beyond these walls. He hadn't slept, couldn't sleep, not with the weight of yesterday pressing down on him like a physical force. The text message exchange played on loop in his mind, those precious few words that meant she hadn't given up on him entirely.
I'm still angry. But thank you for telling me. That matters.
He'd read it so many times the screen had burned itself into his retinas.
Now he waited. Listened.
The compound was quiet.
Klaus's fingers drummed against the iron railing, restless energy with nowhere to go. He'd showered, changed, attempted to eat something that wasn't bourbon, all the motions of normalcy while his entire being remained focused on one thing.
Her.
And then—
There.
A heartbeat. Familiar as his own name, steady despite what he imagined must be considerable nervousness. The soft footfall of boots on cobblestone. The whisper of fabric, the faint trace of her perfume carried on the morning breeze.
Y/N.
Klaus moved before conscious thought could catch up, vampire speed carrying him from the balcony to the courtyard entrance in the space between one heartbeat and the next. He materialized directly in her path, close enough to touch, drinking in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst.
She flinched.
The reaction was small. Just a sharp intake of breath, eyes squeezing shut, and shoulders tensing, but Klaus caught every microsecond of it. Something in his chest twisted painfully.
She's afraid of you.
No. Not afraid. Startled. There's a difference.
Is there?
Y/N's eyes opened, and after a moment, a reluctant smile curved her lips. "Don't think I'll get used to that anytime soon."
"Apologies, love." His voice came out rougher than intended, scraped raw by a sleepless night and too many emotions he didn't know how to name. "I heard you coming and I...couldn't wait."
Pathetic. A thousand years old and you sound like a lovesick fool.
You are a lovesick fool.
She looked tired. Beautiful, always beautiful, but there were shadows under her eyes that spoke of restless sleep, and she held herself with a guardedness that hadn't been there before yesterday. Before he'd ruined everything.
"Can we talk?" Y/N asked. "Properly this time. Without accusations or..."
"Yes." Klaus stepped back, giving her space even though every instinct screamed to pull her close and never let go. "Please. I—yes."
Eloquent. Truly, Shakespeare would weep.
He led her to the courtyard's central fountain, where morning light danced on the water's surface. They sat on the stone edge, close but not touching, the distance between them feeling like miles.
"I got your text," Y/N said finally. "Last night."
Klaus nodded, not trusting his voice.
"What happened? What did you almost do?"
Ah.
He'd known she would ask. Had prepared himself for this moment during the long hours before dawn. But now, faced with those hazel eyes waiting for an answer, the words stuck in his throat.
"I went hunting," he admitted quietly. "After you left. I was...I couldn't stay here, surrounded by reminders of you, of what I'd done. So I went to the Quarter, and I found someone. A tourist. Drunk, alone, easy prey."
Y/N's expression didn't change, but he saw her hands tighten in her lap.
"I had him in an alley. Had my fangs at his throat. And then..." Klaus swallowed hard. "I saw your face. In my mind. The way you'd look at me if you knew. Not angry or afraid, just...disappointed. And I couldn't do it."
"So you stopped?"
"I stopped. Healed him, compelled him to forget, sent him on his way." Klaus laughed bitterly. "A thousand years of killing without conscience, and one thought of you made me release a victim mid-hunt. I don't know if that makes me better or simply proves how obsessed I've become."
"It makes you someone who's trying," Y/N said slowly. "Which is more than I expected, honestly."
"You expected me to slaughter half the Quarter?"
"I expected you to cope the way you always have. Violence, destruction, proving you're the biggest monster in the room." She met his eyes. "The fact that you didn't...that matters, Klaus. It matters a lot."
Hope.
Dangerous, fragile hope.
"I need to say something," Y/N continued, her tone shifting to something firmer. "And I need you to actually listen, not just wait for your turn to talk."
"I'm listening."
"Yesterday, when you accused me of plotting with your siblings, of keeping secrets..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "You were right that I was hiding something. But you were wrong about everything else. And the way you handled it, following me, checking my phone, whatever other surveillance you've been doing–"
Klaus opened his mouth to protest, then closed it.
She knows.
"How did you—"
"I'm not an idiot, Klaus. I know when I'm being watched." Y/N sighed, some of the tension draining from her shoulders. "Look, I get it. You have a thousand years of baggage. Trust doesn't come easy for you. But relationships don't work without it."
"I do trust you," he said quietly. "More than most. It's just—"
"Hard," she finished for him. "I know. But you have to try. You have to talk to me when you're feeling insecure instead of going full paranoid vampire stalker. Because that's what yesterday was, Klaus. You felt threatened, so instead of asking me what was going on, you investigated me like I was an enemy."
The words landed like blows, each one perfectly aimed at the truth he'd been avoiding.
"You're right," Klaus admitted. "I should have asked. Should have trusted that if you were keeping something from me, there was a reason. Instead, I assumed the worst because..." He trailed off, the confession lodging in his throat.
"Because?"
"Because everyone leaves eventually." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Everyone betrays me in the end. My father, my mother, lovers, allies—a thousand years of proof that the moment I let someone close, they'll use it against me. And you..." He looked at her, letting her see the raw vulnerability he usually kept buried. "You terrify me, Y/N. Because I've never wanted anyone the way I want you. Never needed anyone like this. And I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to realize what I am and run."
"I know what you are." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I've known since Halloween, when you showed me your true face. And I'm still here."
"For now."
"Yes, for now. That's how relationships work, Klaus. One day at a time. I can't promise you forever, no one can promise that. But I can promise that I'm not looking for an exit. I'm not gathering intelligence for your enemies. I'm just..." She laughed softly. "I'm just a woman who loves you, trying to plan a stupid birthday party because you deserve to feel celebrated for once in your very long life."
Klaus reached for her hand, hesitant, giving her every opportunity to pull away. When she didn't, when her fingers intertwined with his, something in his chest cracked open.
"I truly am sorry," he said. "For doubting you. For ruining your plans. For being so bloody difficult that planning a simple surprise required weeks of covert operations."
"You should be sorry." But she squeezed his hand, a peace offering. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to plan a surprise party for someone who can hear a pin drop from three rooms away? Who has supernatural senses and trust issues? I've been losing my mind trying to keep this secret."
Despite the sleepless night, the guilt, and the fear that he'd destroyed something precious, Klaus felt a smile tug at his lips.
"I imagine it's quite the challenge."
"It's impossible. You're impossible." But she was smiling too, reluctantly, and the sight of it made his dead heart stutter. "Next year, I'm just getting you a card."
"Next year," he repeated, the words warming something in his chest. The simple assumption that they would still be together. That this wasn't the end.
Next year.
She's already thinking about next year.
"Yes, next year. And the year after that. And probably the year after that, unless you pull this kind of stunt again." Y/N's expression softened. "I meant what I said, Klaus. I love you. All of you, even the difficult parts. Especially the difficult parts, sometimes. But you have to meet me halfway. No more surveillance. No more assuming the worst. When you feel insecure, you tell me. We talk about it like adults."
"And if I slip?" The question came out before he could stop it, vulnerability bleeding through. "If the paranoia wins and I—"
"I'm not saying it'll be easy.” She shifted closer on the fountain's edge, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “I'm not saying I won't get angry or frustrated or need space sometimes. But I'm not going anywhere, Klaus. Not unless you give me a really good reason to."
Klaus pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers. Her scent surrounded him and underneath it the intoxicating rhythm of her pulse. He could stay like this forever, suspended in this moment where she'd chosen him despite everything.
"I love you," he said softly. "More than I thought possible. More than is wise, probably. You've become the center of my entire existence, and that should terrify you."
"Maybe it does, a little." Her breath was warm against his lips. "But wisdom is overrated."
She kissed him. Gentle but firm. Klaus let himself sink into it, into her, letting the contact ground him in a way nothing else could.
When they finally pulled apart, Y/N's eyes held a glint of determination.
"Now, since you've ruined the surprise, you can help me finish planning this damn party. And you have to act surprised when it happens, or I will never forgive you."
"I'm an excellent actor," Klaus promised, unable to keep the relief from his voice. "Centuries of practice deceiving enemies and allies alike."
"You'd better be. I've put too much work into this for you to ruin it twice." She stood, pulling him up with her. "Also, you owe me. Big time. I'm talking jewelry, Klaus. Expensive jewelry. Maybe a small island."
"I'll buy you a country if you'd like."
"Let's start with dinner and see where it goes." But she was laughing now, the last of the tension dissolving between them. "Come on. You can tell me what you actually want for your birthday, since the surprise is ruined anyway."
Klaus followed her into the compound, her hand still clasped in his. The weight on his chest had lifted, not entirely, perhaps never entirely, but enough that he could breathe again.
She stayed.
Despite everything, she stayed.
Don't ruin it this time.
Don't let your demons destroy the only light you've found in a thousand years of darkness.
"Klaus?" Y/N's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Yes, love?"
"That tourist last night. The one you let go." She paused at the doorway, looking back at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "I'm proud of you for that. I know it wasn't easy."
The words hit him harder than any blow. Proud. When was the last time anyone had been proud of him? When was the last time he'd done something worthy of pride?
"It wasn't," he admitted. "But I thought of you, and suddenly...the hunger didn't matter. Nothing mattered except not becoming the monster you'd be ashamed of."
"I could never be ashamed of you." She reached up, cupping his face in her hands. "Frustrated, yes. Angry, definitely. But never ashamed. You're trying, Klaus. That's all I can ask."
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm.
"I'll do better," he promised. "I'll try harder. Whatever it takes to deserve you."
"You already deserve me." She smiled, soft and real. "Now come on. We have a party to plan, and your siblings are probably eavesdropping from somewhere trying to figure out if they need to intervene."
As if on cue, Klaus heard the distinct sound of Kol's footsteps retreating hastily from somewhere above them.
"They definitely are," he confirmed. "Kol's not nearly as subtle as he thinks."
Y/N laughed, and the sound was better than any symphony, any masterpiece, any treasure he'd accumulated over his long existence.
This, he thought, following her into the warmth of the compound. This is worth a thousand years of suffering.
Summary: Your going crazy trying to figure out if this Klaus Mikaelson is real. No need to wonder when he just shows up at your musem gala event
[Y/N squinted, trying to get a better look at the man's face without being obvious about it. Was that him? The height seemed right, and there was something about the way he held himself, a certain confidence that—
"I'd be quite offended," a voice murmured directly behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of breath against her ear, "if you genuinely thought that's what I look like."]
The green part is an optional song to play while reading :)
Morning arrived with all the cruelty that hangovers deserved. Y/N woke to sunlight stabbing through her bedroom curtains like divine retribution, her mouth feeling like she'd been chewing on cotton balls, and her head pounding with a rhythm that could've been mistaken for a drum solo at a rock concert.
"Oh god," she groaned, pressing the heels of her palms against her temples as she tried to remember literally anything about the night before. There were fragments and flashes of the French Quarter, the smell of beignets mixing with alcohol, her friends' faces twisted in anger about...something. What had they even fought about?
She sat up slowly, the room tilting alarmingly before settling. That's when she noticed the water glass on her nightstand, condensation still beading on its surface, and two white pills sitting beside it. Next to them, a piece of paper with handwriting she didn't recognize.
Y/N reached for the aspirin first, swallowing them with half the water before her curiosity got the better of her. She picked up the note, squinting at the elegant script that seemed far too refined for any of her college friends.
Y/N,
Your critique of my accent has been duly noted. Perhaps next time we meet, I'll have improved it to your satisfaction. Until then, drink water, take the aspirin, and do try to be more careful about who you stumble into on Halloween night. Not everyone in the Quarter is as gentlemanly as I.
—Klaus Mikaelson (the genuine article)
She read it once. Twice. Three times, her confusion deepening with each pass.
"What the hell?" she muttered, turning the paper over as if expecting to find some explanation on the back. There was nothing but blank space.
Critique of his accent? Stumbling into someone? And the signature—Klaus Mikaelson, the genuine article—was that supposed to be funny?
Y/N pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying desperately to summon any memory of the previous night. There was nothing. Just a black void where several hours should have been.
She grabbed her phone from where it had somehow ended up on the floor, the screen cracked slightly more than it had been yesterday. A dozen missed texts from her friends, mostly from the group chat.
Melissa: okay so are we not gonna talk about how you just DISAPPEARED???
Sara: girl where did you go we looked everywhere
Melissa: if you hooked up with someone at least tell us you're alive
Sara: she's probably passed out somewhere lol
Melissa: Y/N ANSWER YOUR PHONE
Y/N typed out a quick response:
Y/N: I'm alive. Somehow made it home. No idea how. Did one of you guys bring me back and leave this weird note?
She attached a photo of the note and hit send, then immediately regretted it when her phone buzzed with rapid-fire responses.
Sara: what note? we didn't bring you home we thought you left with that guy
Melissa: WHAT GUY
Sara: the one she was hanging all over at Lafitte's
Y/N's stomach dropped.
"No," she whispered to herself, staring at the note with growing horror. "No, no, no. I did not go home with some random guy. I wouldn't—"
But the evidence suggested otherwise. She was in her apartment, wearing a t-shirt she didn't remember putting on over her costume dress, which was now bunched awkwardly around her waist. Her angel wings were discarded on the floor, one of them bent at an unnatural angle.
Another text came through, this time from Melissa alone:
Melissa: okay but Klaus Mikaelson??? Really??? Someone's having a laugh. Unless you picked up a guy who was REALLY into his costume lol
Y/N groaned, dropping her phone onto the bed. This had to be some kind of elaborate prank. Maybe one of her friends had doubled back, helped her home, and left the note as a joke. That made way more sense than the alternative.That she'd actually encountered someone claiming to be an infamous vampire from New Orleans folklore.
Except her friends' texts suggested they genuinely didn't know where she'd gone or how she'd gotten home.
She glanced at the clock and swore loudly. 8:47 AM. She was supposed to be at the museum by nine for the opening shift.
"Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, scrambling out of bed and immediately regretting the sudden movement as her head protested violently. She steadied herself against the nightstand, taking a few deep breaths before making her way to the bathroom.
The hot shower helped marginally, though looking at herself in the mirror afterward was a mistake. Her mascara was smudged halfway down her cheeks, her hair was a tangled mess, and there was what looked suspiciously like glitter in places glitter had no business being.
She dressed quickly in her work clothes, dark jeans and a burgundy blouse that wouldn't show stains if a tourist spilled their coffee, and pulled her hair into a somewhat presentable ponytail. The note sat on her nightstand, taunting her with its mysteries.
On impulse, she folded it and tucked it into her pocket. Maybe she'd figure it out later when her brain wasn't trying to escape through her eye sockets.
The walk to the museum was mercifully short, just four blocks through the Quarter. The morning air was crisp with that particular November quality, and the streets were littered with the detritus of Halloween. A ton of abandoned plastic cups, the occasional lost shoe, streamers hanging sadly from balcony railings.
Y/N arrived at the New Orleans Museum of Art's satellite gallery in the French Quarter 5 minutes after nine. The small building specialized in local history and folklore, with a particular emphasis on the supernatural legends that had made the city famous.
"You look like shit," her coworker Marcus observed as she stumbled through the employee entrance. He had changed out of his rather impressive vampire costume from the night before and was now behind the front desk in his usual museum polo shirt, already at his post.
"Feel like it too," Y/N admitted, gratefully accepting the coffee he offered her. "Halloween was a mistake."
Marcus laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet gallery.
"It always is," he agreed. "But we survive to make the same mistake next year. That's the beauty of it."
Y/N took a long sip of coffee, letting the caffeine begin its merciful work. As she moved to set up her station in the Renaissance wing, her favorite section with a collection featurning European paintings and artifacts from the 1400s-1600s—she couldn't shake the feeling that she was forgetting something important.
The note in her pocket seemed to burn against her hip, a tangible reminder of the hours she'd lost to alcohol and poor decision-making.
Klaus Mikaelson (the genuine article).
The words kept circling through her mind as she went through the motions of opening the gallery, checking that all the displays were secure, ensuring the temperature and humidity controls were functioning properly.
It was ridiculous, obviously. Klaus Mikaelson was a legend, a story people told to scare tourists and add mystique to the Quarter. He wasn't real. And even if he was, he certainly wouldn't be escorting drunk graduate students home from Halloween parties and leaving polite notes about their accent critiques…right?
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
The morning dragged on with agonizing slowness. Every footstep of the handful of early visitors seemed to echo directly into Y/N's skull, and the fluorescent lighting felt specifically designed to punish the hungover. She was halfway through explaining the provenance of a 16th-century Venetian mask to a tourist couple when her boss, Dr. Catherine Roussel, appeared at her elbow.
"Y/N, a word?" the older woman asked, her French accent still thick despite decades in Louisiana.
Y/N excused herself from the tourists and followed Dr. Roussel toward the back offices, her curiosity momentarily overriding her headache.
"We've received a rather extraordinary donation," Dr. Roussel explained as they walked, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors. "It arrived this morning by private courier. Renaissance era, authenticated paperwork included. The preliminary assessment suggests it's quite valuable."
Y/N's interest piqued despite her physical misery. Donations of actual Renaissance pieces were rare and most of what the gallery received were reproductions or pieces from much later periods mistakenly believed to be older.
"What is it?" she asked.
"A painting," Dr. Roussel replied, leading her into the climate-controlled storage room where new acquisitions were kept before being properly catalogued and displayed. "Oil on canvas, appears to be Italian, possibly Florentine. Fifteenth century, if the documentation is accurate."
She gestured to a canvas resting on the examination table, still partially wrapped in protective covering. Even from where she stood, Y/N could see the rich colors and intricate detail that suggested genuine age and quality.
"I want you to handle the initial assessment," Dr. Roussel continued. "Your thesis work on Italian Renaissance art makes you our resident expert, hungover or not."
Y/N winced at the pointed observation but moved closer to the painting, her professional interest overcoming her discomfort.
"Who donated it?" she asked, carefully pulling back more of the protective wrapping.
Dr. Roussel consulted the papers that had accompanied the piece, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.
"The documentation just lists the initials K.M.," she said with a slight frown. "No full name, which is unusual but not unheard of. Some collectors prefer anonymity. The courier service was paid in cash, apparently."
Something about those initials made Y/N's hand pause mid-reach. K.M. Her fingers moved unconsciously to her pocket, where the note from this morning sat folded.
"K.M.?" she repeated, her voice coming out slightly strangled.
Dr. Roussel looked up from the paperwork, one eyebrow raised.
"Yes. Why? Does that mean something to you?"
Y/N shook her head quickly, perhaps too quickly.
"No, no. Just...wondering if they'd donated before. Under those initials, I mean."
Dr. Roussel's expression suggested she didn't entirely believe this explanation, but she let it pass.
"Not that I'm aware of. But if this piece is authentic, and the preliminary carbon dating suggests it is, we should be grateful regardless of the donor's preference for privacy." She set the papers down on the table beside the painting. "I need to make some calls about insurance and security. You have until this afternoon to complete your initial assessment. Be thorough."
With that, Dr. Roussel swept out of the room, leaving Y/N alone with the painting and her growing sense of unease.
She pulled the rest of the protective wrapping away carefully, revealing the full canvas. It was a breathtaking portrait of a young woman in a Renaissance dress, rendered with the kind of technical skill that suggested a master's hand. The subject's dark eyes seemed to follow the viewer, and there was a knowing quality to her slight smile that reminded Y/N of the Mona Lisa, though the style was distinctly different.
The documentation was impressively complete. Provenance papers traced the painting's ownership back through several private collections, with gaps that weren't unusual for pieces that had survived five centuries. Carbon dating results, X-ray analysis showing the canvas's age and the paint's composition, even a letter from a certified art historian vouching for its authenticity.
Everything was in order. Everything was perfect.
Too perfect, perhaps.
Y/N pulled out her phone and the note from her pocket, laying them side by side. She pulled up the photo she'd sent to her friends earlier, zooming in on the signature.
—Klaus Mikaelson (the genuine article)
K.M.
"This is insane," she muttered to herself, staring between the note and the documentation for the painting. "This is absolutely insane. There's no way."
But the coincidence was hard to ignore. A mysterious donation arrives the morning after she supposedly spent the evening with someone claiming to be Klaus Mikaelson. A donation worth potentially hundreds of thousands of dollars, from an anonymous benefactor with the same initials.
She picked up the authentication letter, examining the signature of the art historian who'd verified the piece. The handwriting was different from the note. It was more cramped and less elegant but that didn't mean anything. People could alter their handwriting.
Y/N set the letter down and pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to massage away the headache that was intensifying with her confusion.
"Okay," she said aloud, her voice echoing slightly in the storage room. "Let's think about this logically. Option one: I got extremely drunk last night, met some rich weirdo in a Klaus Mikaelson costume, he brought me home like a gentleman, and then coincidentally his initials match someone who donated a priceless painting to my workplace the next morning."
She paused, considering.
"Option two: I'm still drunk and hallucinating this entire thing."
Another pause.
"Option three: I actually met a vampire who claims to be Klaus Mikaelson, he brought me home, and then donated a Renaissance painting to my museum because...why? Because I criticized his accent?"
She laughed at the absurdity of it, the sound coming out slightly hysterical.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Marcus:
Marcus: Dr. R says you're with the new donation. Is it as good as she thinks?
Y/N looked back at the painting, at the woman's knowing smile and ancient eyes.
Y/N: Better. It's incredible. Whoever donated this has serious money.
Marcus: Lucky us. Maybe they'll donate more
Y/N stared at that message for a long moment before typing:
Y/N: Do we have any way to contact anonymous donors? To thank them?
Marcus: Usually no, that's kind of the point of anonymity. Why?
She didn't answer, instead setting her phone down and turning her full attention to the painting. If this really was from whoever, or whatever, had left that note in her apartment, then there had to be some kind of message in it. Some clue.
She examined every inch of the canvas with a magnifying glass, looking for...what? A hidden signature? A message painted in code?
What she found was more subtle. In the bottom right corner, barely visible among the intricate details of the woman's dress, were initials. Not the artist's signature as that was clearly visible on the left side, but something else. Letters worked into the embroidery pattern of the fabric so skillfully that they could easily be mistaken for mere decoration.
K.M.
And beside them, newer additions that didn't quite match the age of the rest of the paint—she could tell from the way they caught the light. Letters that had been added much more recently, perhaps even in the last few hours.
Y.N.
Her initials.
Y/N sat back, her heart racing despite the rational part of her brain screaming that this was all some elaborate coincidence or prank.
"Okay," she whispered to the empty room. "Okay. So either I'm losing my mind, or..."
She didn't finish the thought. Couldn't finish it. Because finishing it meant accepting that the impossible might actually be possible. That the legends whispered in the Quarter's bars and told to wide-eyed tourists might have some basis in truth.
That she'd spent last night in the company of something far more dangerous than a man in a costume.
Her phone buzzed again. Another text, this time from an unknown number:
Unknown: I trust the donation met with your professional approval. Do let me know if my accent has improved when next we meet. I'm quite committed to getting it right. -K
Y/N stared at the message, her hands trembling slightly. She should delete it. Block the number. Pretend this whole thing never happened.
Instead, she found herself typing:
Y/N: Who are you? Really?
The response came almost immediately:
Unknown: I believe I left you a note explaining exactly that. Though I understand if you find it difficult to accept. Most do, at first.
Y/N: This is insane. You're insane. I'm insane for even entertaining this.
Unknown: Perhaps. Though insanity and truth are not mutually exclusive. Enjoy the painting, love. Consider it a thank you for the most entertaining Halloween I've had in decades.
Before she could respond, another message came through:
Unknown: And do try to remember our evening together. I'd hate for all those charming observations about my accent to be lost to alcohol-induced amnesia.
Y/N set her phone down with shaking hands, staring at the painting, more specifically at her initials hidden in five-hundred-year-old fabric. Put there by someone who couldn't possibly exist.
"I need another coffee," she muttered. "Or therapy. Probably both."
But even as she tried to rationalize it away, she couldn't shake the memory of elegant handwriting on a note, or the feeling that her life had just become infinitely more complicated than a simple hangover could explain.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
The weeks following Halloween had been a study in controlled paranoia. Y/N found herself checking over her shoulder constantly, startling at shadows, and taking different routes home from work with a frequency that would have seemed absurd if she'd been thinking rationally.
But rational thought was in short supply when one was potentially being...what? Watched? Courted? Stalked by a thousand-year-old vampire who may or may not actually exist?
The painting was officially catalogued as "Portrait of an Unknown Woman, Italian School, circa 1480". It had become the centerpiece of the museum's Renaissance collection. Visitors stood before it daily, admiring the technical mastery and the subject's enigmatic expression, completely unaware of the hidden initials that Y/N saw every time she walked past.
K.M. Y.N.
She'd stopped looking at it directly after the first week. It felt too much like being watched.
The mysterious texter—Klaus, or whoever was pretending to be him—had gone silent after that initial exchange. No more messages. No more donations. No more evidence that any of it had been real except for the note she'd foolishly kept, now hidden in her nightstand drawer beneath a stack of unread novels.
Her friends had eventually stopped asking about Halloween night, though Melissa occasionally gave her knowing looks that suggested she thought Y/N was hiding a scandalous hookup story. If only it were that simple.
By the time Thanksgiving week rolled around, Y/N had almost, almost, convinced herself that the whole thing had been an elaborate prank. Some rich eccentric with too much time and money, getting his kicks by messing with a hungover graduate student.
The fact that this explanation made her feel oddly disappointed was something she chose not to examine too closely.
The museum's pre-Thanksgiving gala was the kind of event Y/N normally enjoyed. It was a chance to dress up, mingle with donors and art enthusiasts, and talk about the pieces she loved with people who actually cared. She'd been heavily involved in the planning, coordinating the display of several new acquisitions and not just the mysterious portrait, but several other pieces that had come in over the past month.
Her dress for the event was a deep emerald green number she'd found at a vintage shop and had taken to a tailor for alterations. Simple but elegant, appropriate for a museum employee who needed to look professional while not overshadowing the donors.
She'd planned to pick it up that afternoon, giving herself plenty of time to get ready before the seven o'clock start.
The tailor shop was tucked into a side street off Royal, the kind of place that had probably existed since dinosaurs roamed New Orleans. The bell above the door chimed as Y/N entered, and the elderly proprietor who’d been running the shop since before Y/N was even a concept looked up from her sewing machine.
"Hello, dear," Mrs. Chen said with a warm smile. "What can I do for you?"
Y/N returned the smile and stepped up to the counter.
"I'm here to pick up my dress. Y/N? It should be ready today.”
Mrs. Chen’s expression shifted into polite confusion.
"I'm sorry, dear. What dress?"
Something cold and unpleasant slid down Y/N’s spine.
“The green one? I brought it in two weeks ago. Hemming, taking in at the waist. You pinned it on me in that little mirror corner.”
Mrs. Chen shook her head gently, brows pulled together. “I don’t recall ever seeing you before, sweetheart. Are you sure you brought it here?”
Y/N blinked at her. Hard. She had definitely brought it here. She could practically still feel the pins scratching her thighs.
She dug into her purse and produced the receipt.
“Look. Right here. Your shop. Two weeks ago.”
Mrs. Chen examined it carefully, frowning, then looked back up with the same puzzled apology.
“This is our receipt…but I have no memory of this. Let me check the back room.”
She shuffled into the workroom, leaving Y/N standing there feeling like the floor was very gently tilting under her feet.
Several minutes later, Mrs. Chen returned, empty-handed and distressingly sincere.
“I’m so sorry, dear. There’s no green dress at all. Nothing matching this. I truly don’t know what happened.”
Y/N’s mouth felt dry. Her brain started clawing for explanations. Mix-up? Employee she’d never seen? A new system glitch? Had she actually dropped it off somewhere else and just…convinced herself it was here?
But the receipt was right there.
A stupid, irrational thought whispered through her mind. Those old vampire stories, the ones about people just forgetting things they shouldn’t, memories wiped clean like chalk from a board, but she shoved it down immediately. That was folklore. Campfire nonsense. She was stressed, not…feral.
“It’s…fine,” Y/N forced out, retreating a step. “Maybe I messed up. Sorry to bother you.”
She left before Mrs. Chen could say anything else, the bell chiming above her like it was mocking her.
Outside, the street felt too bright and too loud. Her heart hammered. She kept replaying the conversation. Remembering Mrs. Chen’s kind confusion, the missing dress, the receipt that proved she wasn’t losing her mind. Except right now she kind of felt like she was.
She called two other tailors she’d used in the past, praying she’d somehow swapped memories like a scrambled playlist.
Nope. No dress. No record. Nothing.
By the time she reached her apartment, she was seconds from a full meltdown. The gala was in four hours. No dress. No backup. No time. And the smallest, most ridiculous part of her brain kept circling back to that one impossible explanation she refused to take seriously.
Because who in their right mind thinks, hey, maybe something wiped a tailor’s memory of me?
Only someone who’s really, really desperate not to believe they’re losing it.
She took the stairs two at a time, fumbling with her keys as she reached her door. Her closet was modest and most of her wardrobe consisted of work-appropriate pieces and casual clothes. She had exactly two formal dresses, and neither was suitable. One was the bridesmaid dress from her cousin's wedding, a truly unfortunate shade of peach that had looked bad on everyone in the bridal party. The other was from her undergraduate graduation and no longer fit properly.
"Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, pulling out both dresses and holding them up critically. The peach monstrosity was at least the right size, even if it made her look like a sad citrus fruit. That would have to do.
She was debating whether she had time to try to find something at a department store when there was a knock at her door.
Y/N froze, the peach dress still in her hands. She wasn't expecting anyone. Melissa and Sara were both traveling for Thanksgiving. Marcus was already at the museum, helping with last-minute setup.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
She approached the door cautiously, checking the peephole. The hallway was empty. No one stood outside her door.
Y/N's hand hovered over the doorknob. Every instinct screamed at her not to open it. But curiosity, that same damned curiosity that had gotten her into this mess won out.
She opened the door slowly, peering into the empty hallway.
Nothing. No one.
Just a large white box sitting on her doormat, tied with an emerald green ribbon that matched the dress she'd lost.
Y/N looked left, then right down the hallway. Still empty. Still silent except for the muffled sounds of her neighbors' televisions and the building's ancient heating system.
She bent down, picking up the box carefully as if it might explode. It was surprisingly light for its size. A small cream-colored envelope was tucked under the ribbon, her name written across it in handwriting she recognized.
That same elegant script from the note she'd kept. From the authentication papers for the painting.
With trembling fingers, she brought the box inside and closed the door, engaging both locks and the chain for good measure. She set it on her coffee table and stared at it for a long moment before opening the envelope.
The note inside was brief:
Y/N,
I do apologize for the inconvenience with your original dress. Consider this a replacement, and my thanks for your continued dedication to preserving history. Even when that history includes pieces donated by "mysterious benefactors."
I look forward to seeing you wear it tonight. The color will suit you far better than that regrettable peach situation you were considering.
Do save me a dance.
—K
Y/N read it three times, her emotions cycling through anger, fear, confusion, and frustratingly a hint of excitement she refused to acknowledge.
"He can see me," she whispered to her empty apartment. "He can see into my apartment. He saw the peach dress."
The implications were terrifying. The fact that she was still standing here, about to open this box instead of calling the police, was perhaps more terrifying still.
But she opened it anyway.
The tissue paper inside was the expensive kind, rustling softly as she pulled it back. Beneath it lay a dress that made her breath catch.
It was stunning. Deep burgundy silk that seemed to shift between red and purple depending on how the light hit it. The neckline was elegant without being too revealing, the waist fitted, the skirt flowing in a way that suggested it would move beautifully. It was clearly expensive. Probably more expensive than anything she'd ever worn in her life.
There were shoes too, tucked into the bottom of the box. Heels in a complementary shade, the exact size she wore.
Of course they were. Because apparently, her mysterious vampire stalker—and yes, she was starting to accept that's what he was—knew everything about her.
Y/N sat back on her heels, the dress pooled in her lap, and tried to decide if she was more angry or scared or, horrifyingly, flattered.
"This is insane," she said aloud. "I should not wear this. I should throw this away and show up in the peach dress just to spite him."
But even as she said it, she was running her fingers over the silk, feeling the quality of the fabric, imagining how it would look.
Her phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number:
Unknown: The peach dress is a crime against fashion and your complexion. Please, for the sake of everyone who will have to look at you tonight, wear the burgundy.
Y/N grabbed her phone and typed furiously:
Y/N: Stop watching me. This is beyond creepy. This is restraining order territory.
His reply came instantly.
Unknown: I'm not watching you, love. Your window is wide open. Is that my fault?
Another message appeared a second later, almost teasing:
Unknown: If you don’t want people noticing your wardrobe choices, close the blinds.
Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs. She shot to her feet so fast the dress slid off her lap. She rushed to the window, grabbing the cord and yanking the blinds down with a frantic snap. The street below buzzed with the usual French Quarter chaos with tourists, musicians, someone arguing with a plant but no looming figure staring at her.
She pressed her face close to the gap between the slats anyway, peering out like a paranoid meerkat. Nothing. No one. Just normal New Orleans weirdness.
Her hands shook as she typed:
Y/N: I’m NOT wearing your stupid dress. I don’t care how expensive it is. I don’t care if it’s made from angel tears. I’m wearing the peach one.
The response came so fast it almost felt pre-written.
Unknown: You will.
That was it. No argument. No persuasion. Just certainty, like he already knew how the night would go.
Y/N locked her phone, tossed it onto the bed, and immediately unlocked it again because her brain was spiraling.
Y/N: Why are you doing this?
Unknown: Because you told me my accent needed work. I'm simply trying to make amends. Consider the dress an apology gift.
Y/N: A normal apology gift is flowers. Or chocolate. Not a dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
Unknown: I'm not known for doing things normally. Besides, I've had a thousand years to accumulate wealth. Might as well spend it on someone who appreciates Renaissance art and isn't afraid to critique an Original vampire's pronunciation.
There it was again. That casual confirmation of what he claimed to be. Said so matter-of-factly, as if being a thousand-year-old vampire was just another biographical detail like his height or hair color.
Y/N: I still think you're insane.
Unknown: Undoubtedly. Will you wear the dress?
Y/N looked at the burgundy silk, then at the peach monstrosity still hanging from her closet door.
Y/N: ...Yes.
Unknown: Excellent. I'll see you tonight.
She wanted to ask how, exactly, he planned to see her tonight. The gala was invitation-only, and the guest list had been finalized weeks ago. But she had a sinking feeling she already knew the answer.
Klaus Mikaelson didn't need an invitation. Not to her apartment, and apparently not to museum galas either.
Y/N set her phone down and held up the dress, checking it against her in the mirror. It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Which somehow made the whole situation worse.
"I'm going to regret this," she told her reflection. "I am absolutely, definitely going to regret this."
But she was going to wear the dress anyway.
Because apparently, when it came to mysterious, possibly-immortal men who donated priceless artwork and left designer dresses on her doorstep, her self-preservation instincts had completely abandoned her in favor of curiosity and a deeply inconvenient attraction to danger.
She had three hours to get ready.
Three hours to prepare for whatever the evening would bring.
Three hours to convince herself that this was all still somehow normal and explainable and not the beginning of something that would completely upend her carefully ordered life.
The dress hung on her closet door, catching the afternoon light, beautiful and ominous and impossible to ignore.
Just like the man who'd sent it.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
The updo had taken Y/N longer than anticipated. Her hands kept shaking as she tried to pin the intricate twists into place. By the time she'd finished her makeup and slipped into the burgundy dress, she looked polished and professional, even if she felt like her nerves were strung tight enough to snap.
The dress fit like it had been made for her. Which, she supposed with growing unease, it probably had been.
The museum gallery was already filling with guests when she arrived, fashionably late despite her best intentions. Soft classical music drifted through the space, competing with the gentle murmur of conversation and the clink of champagne glasses. The paintings had been lit to perfection, each piece glowing under carefully positioned spotlights.
Including the portrait. Her portrait, as she'd come to think of it, though she'd never say that aloud.
The woman's knowing smile seemed even more pronounced tonight, and Y/N deliberately turned her back on it.
"There you are!" Dr. Roussel appeared at her elbow, immaculate in a black evening gown. "I was beginning to worry. That dress is stunning, by the way."
"Thank you," Y/N managed, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter more for something to do with her hands than any desire to drink it.
"We have quite the turnout," Dr. Roussel continued, gesturing around the crowded space. "Several major donors, some collectors from out of state, even a few academics from Tulane. This could be very good for us."
Y/N nodded, only half-listening. Her eyes were already scanning the crowd, looking for…what? A man who'd been alive for a millennium? Someone who'd look out of place among the art enthusiasts and society types?
Except he wouldn't look out of place, would he? Klaus Mikaelson, if he really was who he claimed, would blend in perfectly. He'd probably been attending events like this since before the museum existed.
"Are you alright, dear?" Dr. Roussel's concerned voice cut through her thoughts. "You seem distracted."
"Just nervous," Y/N lied. "Big crowd."
Dr. Roussel patted her arm sympathetically before being pulled away by a donor wanting to discuss the provenance of a particular sculpture.
Y/N took a fortifying sip of champagne and moved toward her assigned section which naturally was the Renaissance wing. A small group had already gathered around one of the paintings, a 16th-century Flemish landscape, and she fell into the familiar rhythm of explanation.
"The artist used a technique called atmospheric perspective," she explained to the attentive faces, "where distant objects are painted with less detail and cooler colors to create the illusion of depth—"
The words died in her throat. Someone was watching her. Not the polite attention of the guests listening to her explanation, but something more intense. More focused.
She scanned the crowd, her pulse quickening. Nothing. No one obviously staring. Just the usual mix of interested faces and people more focused on their conversations than the art.
But the feeling didn't fade.
It continued throughout the evening. Every time she moved to a new painting, every time she engaged with a new group of guests, that sensation of being watched prickled along her spine.
She found herself studying every tall man with dirty blonde hair, her heart jumping each time before she realized it wasn't him. The hair was too dark, or the build was wrong, or they were clearly American tourists without a trace of a British accent.
By the eighth or ninth false alarm, she was starting to feel ridiculous. Maybe he wasn't even here. Maybe this was all part of whatever game he was playing. To make her paranoid, keep her on edge, never actually show up.
She was examining yet another possibility. A man near the bar with curled hair that could have been dirty blonde in the right light. Then…she felt it again. That electric awareness of being observed.
Y/N squinted, trying to get a better look at the man's face without being obvious about it. Was that him? The height seemed right, and there was something about the way he held himself, a certain confidence that—
"I'd be quite offended," a voice murmured directly behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of breath against her ear, "if you genuinely thought that's what I look like."
Y/N's entire body went rigid. The voice was cultured, British, with just a hint of amusement threading through it. And it was coming from directly over her shoulder, close enough that she could feel the presence of someone standing behind her.
She turned slowly, champagne glass clutched in suddenly nerveless fingers.
Klaus Mikaelson, and there was no doubt now that this was actually him, stood less than a foot away, regarding her with eyes that were indeed that distinctive blue-green she'd read about in countless folklore accounts. The dirty blonde hair was artfully tousled, and he wore a perfectly tailored black suit that probably cost more than her car.
But it was his expression that caught her. The equal parts amused and something darker, more intense. Like he was enjoying her discomfort but also genuinely interested in her reaction.
"The suit alone should have told you that wasn't me," he continued, his gaze flicking briefly to the man she'd been studying. "I would never wear something so poorly fitted. And the hair gel?" He shuddered dramatically. "Criminal."
Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"You're real," she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Klaus's lips curved into a smile that was both charming and slightly dangerous.
"Very much so, love. And might I say," his eyes traveled down the burgundy dress and back up with clear appreciation, "the color suits you far better than peach would have. I do have excellent taste."
The words tumbled out before she could stop them, her voice small and breathless.
"Please don't kill me."
The champagne glass trembled in her grip, the golden liquid threatening to slosh over the rim. Around them, the gallery hummed with polite conversation and refined laughter. A world of normalcy that suddenly felt very far away.
Klaus's expression shifted, the amusement fading into something more complicated. He tilted his head slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her want to take a step back, though her feet seemed rooted to the floor.
"Kill you?" he repeated, his accent wrapping around the words with what sounded like genuine surprise. "My dear girl, if I wanted you dead, you would have been dead the moment I carried you home on Halloween. Certainly before I went through the trouble of procuring that painting for your museum."
He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted, and gently steadied her champagne glass with his fingers over hers. His touch was warm. She'd half-expected it to be cold, corpse-like, the way vampires were supposed to be in stories. But there was nothing cold about him.
"Your heart is absolutely racing," he observed quietly, and she knew without asking that he could indeed hear every frantic beat. "Though I suspect that's less about fear of imminent death and more about the confirmation that everything you've been telling yourself was impossible for the past few weeks is, in fact, quite real."
Y/N swallowed hard, trying to find her voice again.
"I've heard stories," she managed. "About you. About your family. The things you've done—"
"Oh, I'm certain you have," Klaus interrupted, his tone going dry. "New Orleans does love its ghost stories. Though I assure you, most of them are either wildly exaggerated or concern situations where someone was extraordinarily foolish." His eyes held hers. "You, however, have been nothing but intelligent. Cautious, even, despite your unfortunate habit of befriending strangers on Halloween."
"That was one time," she protested weakly.
"And I made sure you got home safely, didn't I?" He released her glass, taking a small step back to give her breathing room. "I even left a note so you wouldn't think you'd been compromised in any way. Which, I might add, is far more consideration than most men would show."
"Most men aren't thousand-year-old vampires who can compel tailors and leave designer dresses on doorsteps."
A smile tugged at his lips.
"True. Most men are terribly boring." He glanced around the gallery with casual interest, as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation at a perfectly normal event. "You've done lovely work with the exhibition, by the way. The lighting on the Caravaggio is particularly well done."
Y/N blinked at the sudden shift in topic.
"The...what?"
"The Caravaggio," he repeated patiently, gesturing toward a painting across the room. "The Denial of Saint Peter. Seventeenth century. I knew the man, actually. Temperamental artist. Brilliant, but absolutely terrible at staying out of trouble."
"You knew Caravaggio," Y/N repeated flatly.
"Briefly. Before he killed a man in a bar fight and had to flee Rome." Klaus's expression turned nostalgic. "He painted me once, though I'm afraid the piece was lost in a fire some centuries ago. Pity. It was quite good."
This was insane. She was standing in a museum, at a professional event, discussing Renaissance painters with a vampire who claimed to have known them personally. And the truly insane part was that she believed him.
A couple drifted past them, champagne glasses in hand, completely oblivious to the supernatural creature in their midst. Klaus smiled at them politely, every inch the cultured gentleman.
"You're blending in," Y/N observed, her voice still unsteady.
"I've had considerable practice," he replied. "A millennium teaches one how to move through human society without causing alarm. Though I must say, it's refreshing to have a conversation with someone who knows what I am. The pretense does get exhausting."
She should walk away. Make an excuse, find Dr. Roussel, lose herself in the crowd. Every survival instinct she possessed was screaming at her to put distance between herself and this dangerous, impossible man.
Instead, she heard herself ask:
"Why the dress? Why the painting? Why any of this?"
Klaus was quiet for a moment, his blue-green eyes searching her face.
"Because you were refreshingly honest," he said finally. "You looked at me, at someone you thought was just a man in a costume, and told me exactly what you thought. No fear, no deference, just genuine critique of my accent and my knowledge of Renaissance art." He smiled, and there was something almost vulnerable in it. "Do you have any idea how rare that is? How exhausting it is to be surrounded by people who either fear you or want something from you?"
"And that warranted a painting worth hundreds of thousands of dollars?"
"I have seventeen houses across three continents and more money than I could spend in several lifetimes," Klaus said with a shrug. "The painting was gathering dust in storage. Better it should be here, where people like you can appreciate it properly."
He paused, his expression turning more serious.
"As for the dress—that was an apology. I may have gotten a bit...overzealous in ensuring you wouldn't wear that peach monstrosity. Compelling your tailor was perhaps a step too far."
"You think?" Y/N's fear was starting to give way to indignation. "You literally erased someone's memory so I'd be forced to accept your gift."
"Yes, well." He had the grace to look somewhat sheepish. "I did say I wasn't known for doing things normally. And in my defense, you do look stunning in burgundy. Far better than peach."
Before she could respond, Dr. Roussel's voice called out from across the gallery:
"Y/N! Could you come explain the provenance on the portrait? We have some interested buyers."
Klaus's attention sharpened.
"Buyers?" His tone had gone cool. "For which portrait?"
Y/N didn't need to answer. They both knew which one.
"It's not for sale," she said quickly. "Dr. Roussel is just...she likes to talk about the pieces even when they're not on the market."
But Klaus was already moving, his hand settling lightly on the small of her back as he guided her toward where Dr. Roussel stood with a well-dressed couple near the mysterious portrait.
"Come along then, love," he murmured. "Let's go ensure that particular piece stays exactly where it is."
And despite everything, despite the fear, the confusion, the absolute insanity of the situation, Y/N found herself walking beside him, acutely aware of his hand on her back and the fact that her life had just become infinitely more complicated.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
Klaus had attended more of these events than he cared to count over the centuries. Gallery openings, museum galas, private showings for collectors with more money than taste. They all blurred together after a while with the same pretentious conversations, the same superficial observations about technique and composition from people who wouldn't know a genuine Rembrandt from a competent forgery.
But watching Y/N explain the intricacies of a 15th-century altarpiece to a rapt audience of donors was...different.
Klaus stood slightly apart from the gathered crowd, champagne glass held loosely in one hand, his attention fixed entirely on her. She'd moved past her initial fear, or at least buried it beneath layers of professional competence, and had fallen into the rhythm of what she clearly loved.
"The use of gold leaf here isn't merely decorative," she was explaining, gesturing to a panel depicting the Annunciation. "It serves a theological purpose. The gold represents divine light, the presence of the sacred breaking into the mundane world. See how the artist has positioned it around the angel's wings and the Virgin's halo? It's meant to catch the light, to literally illuminate the moment of revelation."
Her hands moved as she spoke, tracing the lines of composition in the air, and Klaus found himself genuinely captivated. Not by the painting as he'd seen countless similar works in his lifetime, but by her enthusiasm. The way her entire face lit up when she talked about something she understood on a level that went beyond mere academic knowledge.
This was someone who truly saw art the way he did. Not as investment pieces or status symbols, but as windows into human experience, into the minds and souls of people long dead.
"You can actually see where the artist made changes," Y/N continued, pulling a small penlight from her clutch and carefully illuminating a section of the panel. "There's an underdrawing beneath the paint. You can just make it out here in the angel's drapery. The composition shifted during the painting process."
An older gentleman in the crowd, one of the museum's major donors, if Klaus remembered correctly, leaned forward with interest.
"How can you tell?"
"Training," Y/N replied with a modest smile. "And a lot of time spent staring at these pieces under different lighting conditions. Once you know what to look for, you start seeing the artist's hand beneath the finished work. It's like...reading someone's rough draft instead of their final manuscript."
Klaus saw his opening. He stepped forward, seamlessly inserting himself into the gathered group.
"What about the perspective?" he asked, his tone carefully calibrated to sound like genuine curiosity rather than a test. "The architectural elements in the background. They seem slightly off compared to what we'd expect from this period."
Y/N's eyes found his, and he saw the flash of recognition. She knew what he was doing. But after a moment's hesitation, she played along.
"You have a good eye," she said. "This piece predates the full development of linear perspective as codified by Brunelleschi and Alberti. The artist is using what's called intuitive perspective. They're creating depth, but not according to strict mathematical principles. You'll notice the orthogonals don't quite converge on a single vanishing point."
She moved closer to the painting, and the crowd shifted with her, hanging on her words.
"But that's actually part of what makes these transitional pieces so fascinating. You can see the artist grappling with how to represent three-dimensional space on a two-dimensional surface. They're working toward something they can feel is right but don't yet have the theoretical framework to fully execute."
Dr. Roussel had joined the group now, and Klaus could see the pleased surprise on her face as she watched her junior curator command the room's attention.
"Ms. Y/N is being modest," Klaus interjected smoothly. "I'd wager she could write an entire dissertation on the evolution of spatial representation in Quattrocento altar pieces."
Y/N shot him a look that was half-gratitude, half-warning to not overdo it.
"I'm more interested in the symbolism than the technical aspects," she deflected. "These pieces were designed to be read, like visual texts. Every element means something."
The group had grown larger now, other guests drifting over to hear what had captured everyone's attention. Klaus stepped back slightly, content to watch as Y/N fielded questions with increasing confidence.
She was in her element, and it showed. The nervousness from earlier had evaporated, replaced by the assured presence of someone who knew her subject matter inside and out. She made complex ideas accessible without being condescending, engaged with questions thoughtfully, and clearly loved every moment of sharing her knowledge.
"The use of tempera versus oil paint in this period is also significant," she was saying in response to another question. "Tempera dries quickly, which means less time for blending but more precision in detail work. You can see it in the fine gold lines here. Those would be nearly impossible to achieve with the slower-drying oils that became popular later."
Klaus caught Dr. Roussel's eye and saw the older woman was practically beaming. This was exactly the kind of engagement that brought donors back, that made museums vital rather than dusty repositories.
And Y/N was making it happen naturally, without any of the forced enthusiasm or dumbed-down explanations that so often characterized these events.
After nearly twenty minutes, the crowd began to disperse, moving on to other pieces or refilling their champagne glasses. Dr. Roussel touched Y/N's arm briefly.
"Beautifully done, my dear. Simply wonderful." She glanced at Klaus with polite interest. "I don't believe we've met. Are you a collector?"
Klaus offered his most charming smile.
"In a manner of speaking. Klaus Mikaelson. I have some pieces in storage that might be of interest to the museum."
"Any relation to the donor of our recent portrait acquisition?" Dr. Roussel asked.
"Distant cousin," Klaus lied smoothly. "Family holdings, you understand. Scattered across various estates."
Dr. Roussel's eyes lit up with the particular gleam of a museum director scenting potential donations.
"Well, we would love to discuss that further. Y/N, perhaps you could exchange information with Mr. Mikaelson? Given your expertise in Renaissance pieces, you'd be the perfect person to evaluate anything he might want to loan or donate."
Klaus saw Y/N's jaw tighten almost imperceptibly, but she maintained her professional smile.
"Of course, Dr. Roussel."
"Excellent! Now if you'll excuse me, I see the Prescotts have arrived. Y/N, I'll leave you to it."
Dr. Roussel swept away, leaving them alone—or as alone as one could be in a crowded gallery.
Klaus turned to Y/N, his expression one of innocent inquiry.
"Shall we continue the tour, love? I believe you were about to explain the symbolism in that rather dramatic Judith and Holofernes in the corner."
Y/N crossed her arms, the professional mask slipping slightly.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Guilty," Klaus admitted without shame. "Though in my defense, you are genuinely brilliant when you talk about art. I haven't heard someone analyze the theological implications of pigment choices in at least two centuries."
"Two centuries," she repeated weakly.
"Give or take. I met a Franciscan monk in the 1820s who had some interesting theories about color symbolism in medieval manuscripts. Bit obsessive, but thoroughly knowledgeable." He paused. "You remind me of him, actually. The passion for the subject matter, the way you see layers of meaning others miss."
Y/N stared at him.
"You can't just casually mention knowing people from two hundred years ago."
"Why not? It's true." Klaus took a sip of his champagne. "Though I suppose it must be disorienting. My apologies. I forget sometimes that my frame of reference is rather different from most people's."
She was quiet for a moment, clearly processing. Then:
"The Judith and Holofernes isn't symbolism. It's just violent."
Klaus laughed, genuine and delighted.
"Oh, I do like you. Come, walk with me. Show me what else your museum has acquired, and I promise to only make moderately unsettling references to my advanced age."
He offered his arm, the gesture old-fashioned but somehow fitting. After a long moment, Y/N took it, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow.
"This is insane," she muttered.
"Undoubtedly," Klaus agreed cheerfully. "But you're still here, aren't you?"
She didn't have an answer for that. Or perhaps the answer was in the fact that she was indeed still there, walking beside him through the gallery, pointing out paintings and sculptures while he asked questions designed to make her shine.
And Klaus, who had long ago stopped being surprised by much of anything, found himself surprised by how much he was enjoying a simple museum gala in the company of a woman who saw beauty in gilded altarpieces and wasn't afraid to tell a thousand-year-old vampire that his accent needed work.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
Y/N had fully intended to maintain her professional distance. To treat Klaus Mikaelson like any other wealthy patron with potential donations to discuss. To absolutely not let her guard down around a literal vampire who could probably snap her neck without breaking a sweat.
That plan lasted approximately fifteen minutes.
"You cannot be serious," she said, trying and failing to suppress a smile as they stood before a marble bust of some forgotten Roman senator.
"Completely serious," Klaus insisted, his eyes dancing with mischief. "The sculptor absolutely despised his subject. Look at the ears. They're intentionally asymmetrical. And the nose? Far too prominent. It's a subtle insult rendered in stone."
"How would you even know that?"
"Because I knew the sculptor. Dreadful man, terrible gambling habit. He lost a fortune on chariot races and had to take commissions from senators he couldn't stand." Klaus leaned in conspiratorially. "He told me once that he made all his least favorite clients look slightly cross-eyed. You have to get quite close to notice, but once you see it..."
Y/N leaned forward, squinting at the ancient marble face. And then…damn him, she saw it. The eyes didn't quite track the same direction.
She burst out laughing, then immediately tried to stifle it, glancing around to make sure no other guests were watching.
"That's terrible!"
"That's art, love," Klaus corrected, and when he smiled, really smiled, not the polite version he'd been giving other guests, a dimple appeared in his left cheek that had absolutely no business being that charming.
She looked away quickly, focusing on the sculpture.
They moved through the gallery together, and despite herself, Y/N found her careful walls crumbling. He was just so...easy to talk to. Yes, he was impossibly old and casually mentioned knowing Renaissance painters like other people mentioned their college professors, but he listened when she spoke. Actually listened, asked thoughtful questions, offered perspectives she'd never considered.
"The thing about Caravaggio's Judith," she was explaining as they finally reached the painting she'd dismissed earlier, "is that it's not just violent for shock value. It's about female agency in a time when women had almost none. Judith is the hero of her own story, and she's absolutely unflinching about what needs to be done."
"You sound like you approve," Klaus observed.
"I approve of the artistry," Y/N corrected. "The way he captures the moment of action, the psychological complexity in Judith's face. She's determined but not enjoying it. Her handmaid is horrified but loyal. And Holofernes is caught in that terrible moment of realization that he's been outwitted."
"Hmm." Klaus studied the painting with the air of someone genuinely reconsidering it. "I always thought it was rather gratuitous, but you make a fair point about the psychology."
"You've seen the original?" Y/N asked, then immediately regretted the question. "Right. Of course you have. You probably watched Caravaggio paint it."
"Sadly, no. I was in France at the time, dealing with some rather tedious family drama. My brother Kol has always had a gift for creating complicated situations." He said it lightly, but something in his expression shifted. A brief shadow that was gone almost before she registered it.
Before she could probe further, the string quartet in the corner shifted from their background music to something more structured. A waltz, she realized. And several couples were moving toward the cleared space in the center of the gallery.
Klaus turned to her, and that dimpled smile was back.
"I believe you owe me a dance, love."
Y/N's stomach did an involuntary flip.
"I never actually agreed to that."
"No, but you didn't refuse either," he pointed out. "And I did specifically request you save me one. It would be terribly rude to renege now."
"I'm not a great dancer," she warned, even as he was already guiding her toward the dance floor with a hand at the small of her back.
"Then it's fortunate I am," Klaus replied. "A thousand years provides ample opportunity to master the waltz."
Before she could protest further, they were among the other couples. Klaus took her right hand in his left, his other hand settling at her waist with a confidence that suggested he'd done this about ten thousand times before.
"Just follow my lead," he murmured, and then they were moving.
Y/N had taken exactly one semester of ballroom dance in college to fulfill an elective requirement, and she'd been mediocre at best. But Klaus moved with such certainty, such natural grace, that she found herself following without thinking about it. He guided her through the turns with the slightest pressure of his hand, kept her in perfect time with the music, made her feel like she actually knew what she was doing.
"See?" he said softly. "You're doing wonderfully."
"You're doing all the work," she countered, but she was smiling.
"Leadership and partnership aren't mutually exclusive, love."
They swept past Dr. Roussel, who gave Y/N an approving nod. Past the couple who'd been interested in buying the portrait, Klaus's hand tightened fractionally at his waist when they passed them, she noticed. Past clusters of other guests who watched with polite interest.
"You're staring," Klaus observed, and Y/N realized she'd been looking at his face instead of watching where they were going.
"Sorry. I'm just trying to reconcile the vampire thing with the..." she gestured vaguely, "all of this."
"All of what?"
"The charm. The wit. The dancing." She paused. "You're not what I expected."
"And what did you expect? Coffins and capes? An aversion to garlic?"
She laughed despite herself.
"Maybe not that ridiculous, but...I don't know. Something darker, I guess. More dangerous."
Klaus's expression shifted, becoming more serious without losing its warmth.
"Oh, I am dangerous, Y/N. Make no mistake about that." His voice was quiet enough that only she could hear. "I've done things that would give you nightmares. Hurt people who threatened what was mine. I'm not a good man by any conventional measure."
Her breath caught, but he continued before she could respond.
"But I'm also capable of appreciating beauty. Of valuing intelligence and passion. Of enjoying a waltz with someone who sees a Caravaggio and understands the artist's intent rather than just the price tag." Those blue-green eyes held hers. "Vampires aren't simple creatures, love. We contain multitudes, just like everyone else. We just have considerably more time to accumulate them."
The music swelled toward its conclusion, and Klaus spun her one final time before bringing them to a graceful stop as the last notes faded.
Other couples were breaking apart, heading back to the champagne and conversations. But Klaus kept his hand at her waist a moment longer.
"Thank you for the dance," he said formally, but that dimple was showing again.
"You're welcome," Y/N heard herself say, slightly breathless and not entirely from the exertion of dancing.
This was bad. This was very, very bad. Because somewhere between the jokes about asymmetrical Roman ears and the surprising grace of the waltz, she'd started forgetting to be afraid.
And she suspected that was exactly what he'd intended.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
"Y/N, could you help Mrs. Chen with the insurance documentation for the Flemish landscape? She's interested in discussing a loan agreement."
Dr. Roussel's request came just as Klaus was beginning to tell her something about a particularly scandalous incident involving a Medici and a forged Botticelli. Y/N felt an absurd stab of disappointment.
"Of course," she said, professionally polite, before turning back to Klaus. "I'm sorry, I have to—"
"Go," he said easily, that damned dimple making another appearance. "Duty calls. I'll be here."
Except he wasn't.
By the time Y/N had finished explaining provenance documentation, authentication processes, and insurance requirements to Mrs. Chen, a conversation that took nearly forty-five minutes, the gallery had emptied considerably. The quartet had packed up their instruments. The catering staff was clearing away champagne flutes and half-eaten canapés. Most of the guests had filtered out into the warm New Orleans night.
She scanned the remaining clusters of people. A few board members talking near the entrance. Dr. Roussel saying goodbye to a donor by the coat check. Some stragglers examining the gift shop.
No tall figure with dirty blonde hair and a perfectly tailored suit.
He'd left.
Y/N told herself the sinking feeling in her chest was relief. This was better. Safer. She could go back to her normal life, her normal job, without thousand-year-old vampires asking her to dance and making her laugh with stories about petty Roman sculptors.
She should be grateful he'd lost interest and moved on.
So why did she feel so disappointed?
"Excuse me, sweetheart."
Y/N turned to find a man in his fifties swaying slightly on his feet, his bow tie askew and his breath reeking of the open bar that had closed an hour ago. She recognized him vaguely…one of the minor donors, maybe? Someone's plus-one?
"Can I help you?" she asked, stepping back slightly.
"You sure can," he said, his words slurring together. "You were talking about that painting. The one with the lady. Very passionate. Very...articulate." His eyes traveled down her dress in a way that made her skin crawl. "Always had a thing for smart girls."
"I'm glad you enjoyed the presentation," Y/N said firmly, "but I really need to finish closing up. If you have questions about any of the pieces, you can email the museum—"
"Don't be like that," he interrupted, moving closer. "Just wanted to ask a few questions. Private-like."
He reached for her arm and Y/N dodged, walking quickly toward the employee corridor. Maybe if she could get to the staff area, lose him in the administrative offices—
But he followed, his footsteps uneven but determined behind her.
"Hey, I'm talking to you!"
The employee section was dimly lit, most of the overhead lights turned off for the night. Y/N's heart was pounding as she fumbled for her ID badge to swipe into the restricted area.
His hand closed around her wrist before she could reach the card reader.
"Not very friendly, are you?" he said, breath hot against her ear as he crowded her against the wall. "After I donated all that money to this place—"
The hand vanished from her wrist so suddenly she stumbled.
There was a sickening crack—like green wood breaking—and the man screamed.
Klaus Mikaelson stood between her and the drunk patron, holding the man's hand at an angle that was absolutely wrong. Three of his fingers bent in directions fingers weren't meant to bend.
"I believe the lady asked you to leave," Klaus said, his voice perfectly calm, perfectly pleasant, and somehow more terrifying than if he'd been shouting. "Now, you're going to go find security, tell them you fell and injured yourself, and seek medical attention. And you will never—" his grip tightened and the man whimpered, "—come near her again. In fact, you'll find yourself seized by an inexplicable urge to leave New Orleans entirely. Perhaps try Baton Rouge. I hear it's lovely this time of year."
The man's eyes went glassy, unfocused.
"I'll…I'll go to Baton Rouge," he repeated dully.
"Excellent decision." Klaus released him and the man stumbled away, cradling his mangled hand, walking toward the main gallery without looking back.
Klaus turned to Y/N, and his expression shifted from cold fury to concern in an instant.
"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"
"Klaus!" Y/N found her voice, though it came out higher than normal. "Why'd you break his fingers!?"
Klaus's jaw tightened.
"Believe me, love, I wanted to break much more than that."
"You can't just—" Y/N gestured helplessly at the corridor where the man had disappeared. "He was drunk and handsy, yes, but breaking bones? Compelling him to leave the city?"
"He put his hands on you," Klaus said, and there was something razor-sharp beneath the cultured accent now. "He cornered you in a darkened hallway when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him. Did you expect me to politely ask him to stop?"
"I expected you to not assault someone!"
"I showed remarkable restraint, actually." Klaus stepped closer, and Y/N realized his hands were trembling slightly and not with fear, but with barely suppressed rage. "Do you have any idea what I wanted to do when I saw him touch you? When I heard the fear in your heartbeat?"
Y/N swallowed hard.
"I thought you'd left."
"I was in the sculpture garden. Getting some air. Trying to give you space to work without hovering." His voice softened fractionally. "I heard you walking quickly. Heard him following. Heard—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching. "Three fingers is mercy, Y/N. Three fingers is me being civilized."
She should be horrified. Should be calling security, putting distance between herself and someone who'd just casually broken a man's hand like it was nothing.
Instead she heard herself ask:
"You were listening for me? The whole time?"
Klaus had the grace to look slightly abashed.
"Old habits. When I'm interested in someone's wellbeing, I tend to be...aware of them. Their location, their heart rate, any signs of distress." He paused. "It's protective, not predatory, if that's what you're worried about."
"That's exactly what I should be worried about," Y/N said weakly. "You just demonstrated that you can break someone without even trying."
"I can do considerably worse than break fingers," Klaus agreed. "But I won't. Not to you. Never to you."
The conviction in his voice was absolute.
Footsteps echoed from the main gallery. Security making their rounds, probably responding to the drunk patron's story about falling.
Klaus glanced toward the sound, then back at Y/N.
"I should go. Let you handle the aftermath without complicating things." He started to turn away, then hesitated. "For what it's worth, I'm not sorry. I'd do it again. Worse, probably, if anyone else tried to hurt you."
"That's not reassuring," Y/N managed.
"No," Klaus agreed. "But it's honest."
He was halfway down the corridor when Y/N called out:
"Klaus?"
He stopped, looking back over his shoulder.
"Thank you. For...you know. Being there."
That dimpled smile appeared again, softer this time.
"Always, love. Whether you see me or not."
And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the employee corridor like he'd never been there at all.
Y/N leaned against the wall, her heart still racing, trying to process what had just happened.
A vampire had broken a man's fingers for touching her. Had been listening for signs of her distress all evening. Had looked at her with those impossibly old eyes and promised he'd never hurt her.
And the truly terrifying part?
She believed him.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
The walk back to her apartment should have been nerve-wracking. New Orleans at night wasn't exactly the safest place for a woman alone, even in the better neighborhoods. But Y/N found herself strangely calm as she navigated the familiar streets, her heels clicking against the pavement.
She didn't look over her shoulder once.
Somehow, she just knew nothing would touch her tonight. Whether it was Klaus still watching from whatever shadows he'd disappeared into, or simply the lingering effect of his presence, she felt...protected. Safe in a way that should probably worry her more than it did.
Her apartment was blessedly quiet when she let herself in. No roommate drama, no unexpected visitors. Just the familiar comfort of her own space. She kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief, leaving them by the door as she headed toward her bedroom.
The envelope on her bed stopped her in her tracks.
It was cream-colored, expensive paper. Her name written across the front in elegant script that looked like it belonged in a museum display case rather than on modern stationery.
Y/N picked it up with trembling fingers. There was no way it had been there when she'd left for the gala. Which meant someone had been in her apartment. Had walked through her home, into her bedroom, and left this for her to find.
She should call the police. Should be terrified.
Instead, she broke the wax seal, actual wax, pressed with what looked like an ornate 'M', and pulled out the contents.
The drawing slid out first, and Y/N's breath caught.
It was her. Rendered in charcoal or pencil, she couldn't quite tell which, but executed with such skill that it looked almost photographic. Her head was tilted back slightly, mouth open mid-laugh, one hand raised as if gesturing while explaining something. Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, alive in a way that made her chest tighten.
This was how he'd seen her tonight. Not just the physical features, but the emotion, the moment of genuine joy captured in graphite and paper.
The letter was folded beneath the drawing. Same expensive paper, same elegant handwriting.
My dearest little angel,
Forgive the intrusion into your home as I know it's rather forward, but I wanted to ensure this reached you directly rather than risk the uncertainties of the postal service.
I sketched this during Mrs. Chen's rather lengthy discussion about insurance policies. You were explaining something about Byzantine iconography to a couple near the Caravaggio, completely absorbed in the subject matter. I'm afraid I wasn't listening to Mrs. Chen at all which is a terrible breach of etiquette, but you were far more interesting.
I realize this evening may have ended on a somewhat dramatic note. I apologize if my response to that unfortunate situation alarmed you. I'm not always good at calibrating appropriate reactions, especially when someone I care about is threatened. The fingers will heal. His pride, perhaps less so.
I'm writing primarily to extend an invitation: Thanksgiving dinner at the Mikaelson compound, Thursday evening. My family makes rather a production of it. My brother Elijah insists on maintaining certain traditions despite our complicated relationship with gratitude and mortality. There will be entirely too much food, questionable wine choices (my brother Kol has terrible taste), and probably at least one argument about something that happened three centuries ago.
I realize meeting my family might seem daunting, given that we're all supernatural beings with varying degrees of homicidal tendencies and impulse control issues. But I find myself wanting you there. Wanting you to see this part of my life, strange as it may be. Wanting to continue our conversation about art and faith and the theological implications of pigment choices.
Also, my sister Rebekah has been insufferable about wanting to meet you ever since I mentioned that someone had called my British accent "sexy." No pressure, of course. If you'd prefer to maintain a professional distance—or any distance at all—after tonight's events, I'll respect that. Though I'll be disappointed. You're the first person in a very long time who's made me remember why I fell in love with art in the first place. Why I wanted to create things, preserve beautiful moments, capture fleeting expressions on paper before they disappeared forever.
Dinner is at seven. The address is below. Come hungry as Elijah takes his hosting duties very seriously and will be personally offended if you don't try at least three different dishes.
And if you decide not to come? I'll understand. But I'll miss you, little angel. More than I probably should after just one evening.
Yours (if you'll have me),
Klaus
P.S. - I'm having something delivered to the museum tomorrow. A small token of appreciation for your expertise tonight. Don't let Roussel claim it for the permanent collection—it's specifically for you.
· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·
Y/N read the letter three times, her heart doing complicated gymnastics in her chest.
He'd been in her apartment. Inher space, the intimate details of her life. Should be creepy. Was definitely creepy.
Except it wasn't. Not quite. Or maybe she was just too far gone to care anymore.
She looked at the drawing again. At the joy captured there, the passion for something she loved rendered in careful strokes. He'd drawn her the way she saw herself in her best moments—alive, engaged, fully present.
Thanksgiving with a family of vampires. Meeting Klaus's siblings. Sitting at a table with people who'd lived through actual history rather than just studying it.
It was insane.
It was dangerous.
It was exactly what she shouldn't do.
Y/N set the letter on her nightstand and pulled out her phone. She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then she opened her email and started typing.
"Dr. Roussel - I'll need Thursday evening off for Thanksgiving. Family commitment. Hope that's alright. - Y/N"
She hit send before she could reconsider.
Then she picked up the drawing again, studying the careful lines, the way he'd captured the curve of her smile, the light in her eyes.
"You're being an idiot," she told her reflection in the bedroom mirror.
The woman looking back from the reflection was vibrant and ready for the future, a striking resemblance to the subject of Klaus's sketch. She was excited and alive. Even if what came next was dinner with a family of immortal beings who could probably kill her without breaking a sweat.
The drawing went on her dresser, propped against the mirror where she'd see it every morning.
And Y/N fell asleep, dreaming of dimpled smiles and waltzes that never ended and a voice with a British accent calling her "little angel" while teaching her to see the world through eyes that had witnessed a thousand years of beauty and horror in equal measure.
a/n: I know I didn't take that art history class for nothing *pats myself on the back*. Thank you so much for reading and I hope it was worth the wait. Any feedback is appreciated. Do we want part 3?
One shot | Halloween Special | Smut | Masterlist | WC: 5.8K
Summary: Klaus is not a fan of what you decide to wear for Halloween
["Absolutely not," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You're not going out in that."]
The French Quarter hummed with energy as twilight descended on All Hallows' Eve. Revelers in elaborate costumes filled the streets, music spilled from every doorway, and the air buzzed with supernatural energy that even humans could sense without understanding its source.
Inside the Mikaelson compound, Rebekah was putting the finishing touches on her Marie Antoinette costume, complete with an extravagant powdered wig and beauty mark. Kol had opted for a pirate captain ensemble, which he insisted was "historically accurate" based on a particularly bloodthirsty buccaneer he'd known in the 1700s. Even Elijah had made a concession to the holiday with a subtle Phantom of the Opera mask to accompany his impeccable tuxedo.
Klaus, however, had refused to dress up, claiming the entire concept was "beneath him." He wore his usual dark henley and jeans, though he'd allowed Rebekah to convince him to at least accompany them to the festivities in the Quarter.
"Where's Y/N?" Kol asked, adjusting his eye patch. "We're going to miss the parade if she doesn't hurry."
"Still getting ready," Rebekah replied with a knowing smile.
Klaus raised an eyebrow at his sister’s expression. "What exactly does that mean?"
Before Rebekah could answer, the sound of heels on the staircase drew everyone's attention. Klaus turned, then went completely still, his expression shifting from casual interest to shock in an instant.
Y/N descended the stairs in a costume that left little to the imagination. She was dressed as a sultry she-devil, in a crimson corset that accentuated her figure, paired with a matching skirt that showcased her long legs. Fishnet stockings disappeared into thigh-high boots, and small red horns peeked out from her hair, which fell in loose waves around her shoulders. A delicate tail curled behind her, attached to the back of her skirt.
She'd gone all-in on the makeup as well. Smoky eyes, blood-red lips, and what appeared to be a dusting of glitter across her collarbones.
"What do you think?" she asked, giving a little twirl when she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Kol whistled appreciatively. "I think my brother might be having a stroke."
Klaus hadn't moved, his jaw clenched tight, eyes locked on Y/N with an intensity that made the temperature in the room seem to drop several degrees.
Y/N's smile faltered slightly. "Klaus? Is something wrong?"
In a blur of movement, Klaus was suddenly beside her, his hand closing firmly around her upper arm.
"Absolutely not," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You're not going out in that."
Before Y/N could protest, before anyone could react, Klaus had flashed them both upstairs and into their bedroom, the door slamming behind them with supernatural force.
"What the hell, Klaus?!" Y/N demanded, yanking her arm free the moment they stopped moving. "You can't just—"
"I can and I will," he interrupted, eyes flashing yellow for a brief second. "You are not parading through the Quarter dressed like that. Not tonight. Not ever."
Y/N's shock quickly gave way to anger, her cheeks flushing nearly as red as her costume.
"Excuse me?" she said, her voice rising. "Who exactly do you think you are to tell me what I can and cannot wear?"
"The man who knows exactly what thoughts will be running through every man's mind when they see you," Klaus shot back, gesturing at her outfit. "The man who will have to restrain himself from ripping out throats all evening."
Y/N crossed her arms, which only served to enhance her cleavage in the corset. A fact that Klaus's narrowed eyes didn't miss.
"It's Halloween, Klaus. Everyone dresses up. Everyone wears costumes. This is New Orleans, for god's sake! Half the women out there will be wearing less than I am."
"They aren't mine," he growled, stepping closer. "They aren't walking around with my scent on their skin, tempting every supernatural creature in the Quarter."
Y/N's eyes widened slightly at his possessive tone, but she stood her ground.
"I am not your property," she said evenly. "And I spent weeks planning this costume. Rebekah helped me pick it out. I'm wearing it."
She turned toward the door, but Klaus was in front of her in an instant, blocking her path.
"Y/N," he said, her name a plea and a warning all at once.
"Move, Klaus," she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.
Something shifted in Klaus's expression then a calculation, a change in strategy. The hard lines of his face softened into something more seductive, his lips curving into that smile that never failed to make her heart beat faster.
"What's the rush, love?" he murmured, stepping closer rather than away. "The night is young. Perhaps we could...start our own celebration. Here."
His hands settled on her waist, thumbs brushing over the boned corset in a way that sent shivers up her spine despite her anger.
"You think you can just seduce me and I'll forget that you were being a controlling ass?" Y/N asked, though she didn't pull away from his touch.
"I think," Klaus replied, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that always affected her, "that there are better ways to spend Halloween than sharing you with the masses."
His lips found her neck, pressing hot kisses along the column of her throat. Y/N's eyes fluttered closed briefly before she caught herself, remembering her indignation.
"Nice try," she said, pushing against his chest. "But I spent too much time on this costume to waste it staying in."
Klaus didn't relent, his hands sliding down to her hips as he walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of their bed.
"The costume is magnificent," he conceded, his eyes darkening with desire. "But I'm afraid there's a problem with it."
Despite herself, Y/N felt curiosity win out over anger.
"What problem?"
"You can't wear it," he stated simply, maneuvering her down onto the mattress and following her down, his body a warm weight above hers.
"Why not?" she challenged, even as her body responded to his proximity.
A wicked gleam entered his eyes. Without warning, he moved down her body, his face level with her thigh. Before she could question what he was doing, Klaus's fangs extended and he deliberately bit into the fishnet stocking, tearing a hole in the delicate material.
"Because it's ripped," he said with mock innocence, looking up at her with a self-satisfied expression.
Y/N stared at him in disbelief, her mouth falling open.
"You did not just—"
Klaus smirked, his finger tracing the newly created tear. "I believe I did."
The sheer audacity of it, the childish possessive gesture, was so unexpected that Y/N found herself speechless for a moment. And then, to both their surprise, she started laughing. It began as a small chuckle and quickly grew into full-bodied laughter that shook the bed.
"You—" she gasped between laughs, "you actually tore my stockings like some jealous teenager!"
Klaus looked momentarily confused by her reaction, clearly having expected continued anger rather than amusement.
"I fail to see what's so humorous about protecting what's mine," he said stiffly, though his lips twitched slightly at the corners.
Y/N's laughter subsided to occasional giggles as she propped herself up on her elbows to look at him properly.
"I see how women look at you all the time, Klaus," she said, her tone softening despite the challenge in her words. "How they flirt with you right in front of me. But I don't rip their throats out, do I?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Perhaps you should," he suggested, only half-joking. "I'd find it rather attractive."
Y/N rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress her smile.
"Of course you would, you bloodthirsty maniac."
Klaus's smile widened as he moved back up her body, caging her between his arms.
"Only for you, love," he murmured, his lips hovering just above hers.
“I guess I'll just have to go out without the stockings” she teases against his lips
Klaus's eyes darkened at her words, his body going perfectly still above hers. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft.
"You're testing my patience, sweetheart."
Y/N met his gaze unflinchingly, a mischievous smile playing at her crimson-painted lips. She knew she was pushing him, and part of her, the part that thrived on challenging his control, enjoyed it immensely.
"Am I?" she asked innocently, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders. "I'm just being practical. You ruined my stockings, so I'll have to go without. The rest of the costume is still perfectly intact."
In one fluid motion, Klaus captured both her wrists and pinned them above her head, his face mere inches from hers.
"You think this is a game?" he questioned, his accent thickening as it always did when his emotions ran high.
Y/N arched an eyebrow, refusing to be intimidated despite the delicious shiver that ran down her spine at his possessive words.
"We could compromise," she suggested, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "I'll wear the costume out...and you can take it off me when we get home."
Klaus's grip on her wrists loosened slightly as he considered her words, his eyes traveling slowly down the length of her body before returning to her face.
"A compromise," he repeated, testing the word as if it were foreign to his tongue. "How very diplomatic of you."
Despite his sarcastic tone, Y/N could see the calculation in his eyes. He was weighing his possessiveness against her independence, his desire to keep her hidden away against her clear excitement for the evening ahead.
"I thought you might appreciate the offer," she said, using his momentary consideration to free one of her hands. She brought it to his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with her fingertips. "Besides, don't you want everyone to see that the devil on your arm belongs to you?"
Something darkened in his gaze at her choice of words, belongs to you, and Y/N knew she'd struck the right chord. For all his talk of control and protection, Klaus Mikaelson was fundamentally driven by pride and possession. The idea of parading her through the Quarter, claiming her publicly as his, held undeniable appeal.
"And what else does this compromise entail?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that she could feel against her palm.
Y/N smiled up at him, sensing victory.
"You stay by my side all night," she said. "No disappearing to handle business or terrorize the locals. Just you and me, celebrating Halloween like a normal couple."
Klaus snorted at that. "Normal is hardly a word I'd use to describe us, love."
"As normal as an Original hybrid and his human girlfriend can be," she amended with a roll of her eyes. "What do you say? Do we have a deal?"
Klaus studied her for a long moment, then surprised her by dipping his head to capture her lips in a searing kiss that left her breathless. When he pulled back, his pupils were dilated, a hint of amber rimming the blue-green of his irises.
"On one condition," he said, his free hand sliding down to rest possessively on her hip.
Y/N bit her lower lip, both wary and intrigued. "Which is?"
"When I decide it's time to leave," Klaus stated, his tone making it clear this wasn't negotiable, "we leave. No arguments, no 'just one more drink.' When I say we're done, the night is over."
Y/N considered this for a moment. It wasn't ideal, she hated being told what to do, but she recognized the concession he was making. And truthfully, the thought of ending the night with Klaus tearing off her costume held its own appeal.
"Deal," she agreed, sealing it with another kiss.
Klaus released her wrists completely then, sitting back on his heels to survey the damage he'd done to her stockings. His expression shifted to something almost sheepish. As close to embarrassed as Klaus Mikaelson ever got.
"I may have been...hasty," he admitted, fingering the torn fishnet.
Y/N couldn't help but laugh at his expression. "You think?"
"In my defense," he said, his hand sliding up her thigh in a way that made her breath catch, "you look absolutely ravishing. I'm merely acting on instinct."
"Your instincts need better impulse control," she teased, sitting up and adjusting her corset. "Luckily for you, I packed a spare pair. Rebekah warned me that accidents happen."
Klaus's eyes narrowed slightly at that. "My sister seems to have anticipated my reaction rather well."
"She said, and I quote, 'Nik will either tear them off you himself or tear off the head of anyone who looks at you in them. Best be prepared for either scenario.'"
A reluctant smile tugged at Klaus's lips. "Wise advice."
Y/N slid off the bed, moving to her closet where she retrieved a fresh pair of fishnet stockings. Klaus watched her with hooded eyes as she sat on the edge of the bed and began rolling them up her legs with deliberate slowness.
"You're enjoying this," he accused, though there was no real heat in his words.
"Immensely," she confirmed with a wicked smile, smoothing the stocking up her thigh. "Consider it payback for your little display of caveman behavior."
Klaus moved behind her on the bed, his chest pressing against her back as his arms encircled her waist. His lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear.
"If I'm to be accused of being a caveman," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin, "I might as well earn the title properly."
His hand slid up to cup her breast through the corset, and Y/N leaned back into him, momentarily forgetting about the party waiting downstairs.
"Klaus," she sighed, her eyes fluttering closed. "They're waiting for us."
"Let them wait," he growled, his other hand finding the zipper of her skirt.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted them, followed by Kol's amused voice.
"If you two are quite finished with whatever deviant activities you're engaged in, the rest of us would like to actually enjoy the festivities before midnight. Elijah is beginning to look particularly constipated with impatience."
Klaus growled in frustration, his forehead dropping to rest on Y/N's shoulder.
"I'm going to dagger him. Again."
Y/N laughed, turning in his arms to press a quick kiss to his lips.
"Later," she promised, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Right now, I have a devil costume to show off, and you have a deal to honor."
Klaus sighed dramatically, but released her with one final, possessive squeeze.
"Very well. But remember our agreement, love. When I say it's time to go..."
"We go," Y/N finished for him, standing and adjusting her costume one last time. "I remember. Now come on, your Majesty. Your kingdom awaits."
She had all night to test just how far his newfound patience would stretch. And if the heated look in his eyes was any indication, the devil on her shoulder wasn't the only one with wicked intentions for the evening ahead.
The Quarter was alive with magic and mayhem, the veil between worlds growing thinner as midnight approached. Bourbon Street had transformed into a carnival. Fire dancers twirled flaming batons, tarot readers beckoned from shadowy doorways, and music pulsed from every establishment, spilling revelers onto the crowded streets.
Klaus had kept his word, remaining by Y/N's side throughout the evening. Though his hand never strayed far from her waist, his touch possessive and constant, he'd allowed her to enjoy the festivities. Having drinks at Rousseau's, dancing at several clubs, even indulging her request to have their fortunes told by a witch in Jackson Square (whose eyes had widened in recognition when Klaus approached, her hands trembling slightly as she shuffled her cards).
For her part, Y/N had been mindful of his tolerance, tempering her natural exuberance with occasional reassuring touches and private smiles meant only for him. She'd noticed his jaw tightening whenever other men's gazes lingered too long on her costume, but to his credit, Klaus had restrained himself to mere glares rather than violence.
Until now.
They'd ended up at a crowded nightclub in the heart of the Quarter, where the Halloween festivities had reached a fever pitch. The music was deafening, the dance floor packed with bodies in various states of costumed undress. Rebekah and Kol had disappeared into the crowd, while Elijah had excused himself hours ago, claiming the noise gave him a headache.
Klaus had been tolerating the club scene with remarkable patience, nursing a bourbon at the edge of the dance floor while keeping his eyes fixed on Y/N. She'd been dancing with a group of girls, her movements becoming increasingly uninhibited as the night wore on and the drinks flowed freely.
It was when the DJ switched to a pulsing, bass-heavy remix that things escalated. The crowd roared in approval, and before Klaus could intervene, Y/N had been lifted onto a table by her new friends, the spotlight catching the glitter on her skin as she began to dance above the crowd.
Klaus froze, his glass halting halfway to his lips as he watched her. Y/N moved with natural grace, her body swaying to the hypnotic beat, arms raised above her head. The red corset caught the light, her skin gleaming with a fine sheen of perspiration, her hair wild around her flushed face. She looked like sin incarnate and every eye in the club was on her.
Including those of a group of young vampires Klaus had been watching warily all evening. He recognized them as part of Marcel's newer recruits. Barely a decade into their immortality, still drunk on power and bloodlust. Their leader, a tall vampire with tribal tattoos snaking up his neck, was now moving toward Y/N's table, his intent clear in his hungry expression.
Klaus was across the room in an instant, moving with supernatural speed that would have been noticeable if anyone had been sober enough to pay attention. He materialized at the edge of the table just as the tattooed vampire reached up to offer Y/N his hand.
"The lady is otherwise engaged," Klaus said, his voice deceptively pleasant despite the lethal look in his eyes.
The younger vampire turned, recognition dawning on his face as he realized who he was dealing with.
"Klaus Mikaelson," he acknowledged, dropping his hand but not backing away. "No disrespect intended. Just offering the pretty devil a drink."
"How thoughtful," Klaus replied, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Unfortunately, we were just leaving."
Above them, Y/N continued dancing, either unaware of the tense exchange or deliberately ignoring it. The spotlight caught the curve of her hip as she turned, the small devil tail attached to her skirt swaying with her movements.
Klaus's patience, already stretched thin, finally snapped. Without further preamble, he reached up and wrapped his hands around Y/N's waist, lifting her effortlessly from the table and setting her on her feet beside him.
"Time to go, love," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument despite the endearment.
Y/N blinked up at him, her eyes bright with alcohol and adrenaline.
"But the night's just getting started," she protested, her hands coming to rest on his chest. "One more dance?"
Klaus leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke low enough that only she could hear.
"Our deal, sweetheart. I say when we leave. And we're leaving. Now."
Something in his tone must have penetrated the haze of her excitement, because Y/N's playful expression shifted, her eyes darkening as she registered the barely contained desire in his gaze. She glanced at the tattooed vampire still hovering nearby, then back to Klaus, understanding dawning on her flushed face.
"Jealous?" she whispered, a small smile playing at her lips.
Klaus's hand tightened on her waist, his fingertips pressing into the soft flesh exposed between her corset and skirt.
"Beyond measure," he admitted, his voice rough. "And rapidly losing what little restraint I have left."
Y/N studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, her own desire evident in the way her pulse quickened beneath his touch.
"Lead the way," she conceded, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in a gesture that tested Klaus's already fragile control.
Without another word, Klaus guided her through the crowded club, his hand a possessive brand against her lower back. He didn't bother saying goodbye to Rebekah or Kol. They'd find their own way home, and he had more pressing matters to attend to.
The cool night air hit them as they stepped onto the street, a welcome relief after the stifling heat of the club. Klaus immediately pulled Y/N into a shadowed alcove, pressing her against the brick wall with his body.
"Do you have any idea," he growled, his hands framing her face, "how close I came to tearing out that vampire's throat?"
Y/N's breath caught, her pupils dilating as she stared up at him.
"He was just being friendly," she said, though there was no real defense in her tone. Only a desire to push him further.
"He wanted to drain you dry," Klaus corrected, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Or worse."
"But you wouldn't let him," she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest to link behind his neck. "Because I'm yours."
The possessive pronoun ignited something in Klaus. His mouth crashed down on hers, the kiss brutal and claiming. Y/N responded with equal fervor, her body arching into his, all traces of teasing gone as desire took over.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard, Y/N's lipstick smeared across both their mouths like blood.
"Home," Klaus managed, his voice strained. "Now."
He didn't wait for her agreement, simply scooped her into his arms and flashed away from the crowded streets, moving at supernatural speed through the shadows of the French Quarter. The journey that would have taken twenty minutes on foot was over in seconds, the compound's gates slamming shut behind them as Klaus carried Y/N straight up to their bedroom.
The door had barely closed behind them when Klaus had her pinned against it, his hands everywhere at once, greedy and demanding.
"All night," he growled between kisses, "watching you in this costume. Watching others watch you."
Y/N gasped as his teeth scraped down her neck, not breaking the skin but leaving a trail of sensation that made her knees weak.
"You could have stopped me," she breathed, her hands fisting in his shirt.
"And deprive you of your fun?" Klaus pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his own dark with desire. "Never. But now it's my turn."
In one swift motion, he spun her around to face the door, his body pressed against her back, one hand splayed possessively across her stomach while the other gathered her wrists and pinned them above her head.
"Now," he whispered, his lips at her ear, "I believe we had an agreement about what happens to this costume when we got home."
Y/N smiled against the wooden door, anticipation coursing through her veins as she felt Klaus's hands begin to work on the laces of her corset.
"Show me," she challenged softly. "Show me who I belong to."
Klaus's restraint vanished entirely. With deft fingers that betrayed centuries of experience, he attacked the laces of Y/N's corset, his movements urgent and possessive.
"Too many layers between us," he growled against her neck, yanking at the strings until the garment loosened enough for him to peel it away from her body.
Y/N gasped as the cool air hit her exposed skin, but had no time to adjust before Klaus spun her around to face him. His eyes raked over her hungrily, taking in the sight of her bare torso, the red skirt riding low on her hips, and the fishnet stockings that had caused so much contention earlier.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "But still overdressed."
Without warning, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her skirt and ripped it clean off her body, the sound of tearing fabric filling the room. The fishnets followed, shredded beneath his impatient hands until Y/N stood before him in nothing but the small red horns perched atop her tousled hair.
"The horns stay," Klaus decided with a dark smile, his eyes glinting dangerously. "Fitting for what I'm about to do to you."
Y/N's breath quickened, her body responding to the intensity of his gaze. She reached for him, her fingers working at the buttons of his henley.
"You're still fully dressed," she complained, tugging impatiently at the fabric. "Hardly seems fair."
Klaus caught her wrists, stilling her movements with a firm grip.
"Patience, love," he admonished, backing her toward the bed. "Tonight isn't about fair. It's about reminding you exactly who you belong to."
When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, Klaus gave her a gentle push that sent her sprawling onto the bed. Before she could recover, he was on her, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss that left a smear of crimson lipstick across his lips. Y/N smiled against his mouth, deliberately pressing harder, marking him with the vivid red that had drawn his eye all evening.
"Marking your territory?" he asked when he pulled back, one eyebrow raised as his thumb traced the lipstick now smudged across her chin.
"Just evening the score," she replied, her eyes challenging despite her vulnerable position beneath him.
Something dangerous flashed in Klaus's expression. In one fluid movement, he flipped her onto her stomach, his hand coming down on her bare bottom with a sharp slap that echoed in the quiet room.
Y/N gasped, more in surprise than pain, her body jerking beneath him.
"Klaus!"
"That's for the table dancing," he informed her, his palm soothing over the reddened skin before delivering another stinging slap. "And that's for letting that vampire look at you like you were his next meal."
The third slap drew a moan from Y/N, the sensation dancing on the knife's edge between pleasure and pain. Heat bloomed across her skin, radiating outward until her entire body felt flushed with desire.
"And this," Klaus continued, his hand sliding between her legs to find her already wet and wanting, "is for teasing me all night in that devil costume."
His fingers slipped inside her with practiced ease, curling to find the spot that made her arch and cry out his name. Y/N pressed back against his hand, seeking more friction, but Klaus withdrew just as pleasure began to build, leaving her gasping and frustrated.
"Klaus," she pleaded, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. "Don't tease."
His smile was wicked as he leaned down to press a kiss to her shoulder blade.
"But you've been teasing me all night, sweetheart," he reminded her, his fingers returning to trace light circles that never quite gave her what she needed. "Turnabout is fair play."
Again and again he brought her to the edge, his skilled fingers working her body like an instrument he'd spent years learning to play. Each time she approached climax, he would slow or stop entirely, keeping her suspended in a state of desperate need until Y/N was practically sobbing with frustration.
"Please," she finally begged, her pride forgotten in the face of overwhelming desire. "I need you. I need your cock inside me. Please, Klaus."
The sound of his name, broken and desperate on her lips, snapped the last thread of Klaus's control. He shed his clothes in record time, his own need evident in the urgency of his movements. When he finally positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, they both groaned at the contact.
"Tell me who you belong to," Klaus demanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Say it."
"You," Y/N gasped, pushing back against him impatiently. "I'm yours, Klaus. Only yours."
With a growl of satisfaction, Klaus thrust into her in one powerful movement, burying himself to the hilt. Y/N cried out, her body stretching to accommodate him, pleasure washing through her in waves as he set a relentless pace.
The bed frame creaked beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust. Klaus's hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place as he claimed her with a ferocity that bordered on feral.
Just as Y/N felt herself approaching the peak he'd denied her earlier, Klaus suddenly withdrew completely. Before she could protest, he flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and entered her again in one smooth motion.
"I want to see your face when you come," he explained, his voice rough with exertion. "Want to see those pretty eyes when you shatter for me."
Y/N reached up to pull him down for a kiss, deliberately smearing more of her lipstick across his mouth, down his jaw, marking a trail along his throat. The sight of her crimson print on his skin sent a thrill through her. Her own form of possession.
The new angle allowed Klaus to drive deeper, hitting spots that made stars explode behind Y/N's eyelids. She felt her climax building rapidly, unstoppable this time as Klaus maintained his punishing rhythm.
"Klaus," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me, love," he commanded, his own control slipping as he felt her tighten around him. "Let go."
Y/N's orgasm crashed through her with an intensity that bordered on painful, her body arching off the bed as she cried out his name. Klaus watched her face with hungry satisfaction, his pace never faltering as he worked her through the waves of pleasure.
Before she'd fully recovered, he was moving again, lifting her effortlessly from the bed and carrying her to the nearest wall. Y/N instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the cool surface, his cock still buried deep inside her.
"Again," he growled against her throat, his hips driving upward with supernatural strength. "I want to feel you come apart around me again."
The change in position, the solid wall at her back and Klaus's unyielding body at her front, created a delicious friction that had Y/N spiraling toward another peak embarrassingly quickly. Her head fell back against the wall, exposing the column of her throat to Klaus's hungry mouth.
His lips and teeth worked the sensitive skin there, careful not to break the surface despite the temptation of her pulse throbbing just beneath. When he felt her beginning to tighten around him again, Klaus increased his pace, driving into her with an intensity that would have been impossible for a human lover.
"That's it," he encouraged as she shuddered against him, her second orgasm washing through her with almost painful intensity. "So perfect. So mine."
Klaus's own control was slipping, his rhythm becoming erratic as he chased his release. Y/N, sensing his approaching climax, tightened her legs around him and whispered in his ear.
"Let me ride you," she requested, her voice hoarse from crying out. "Let me make you come."
Something in her words must have appealed to him, because Klaus immediately carried her to the armchair in the corner of the room, sitting down with her still impaled on his length. Y/N adjusted her position, her knees on either side of his hips, giving her the leverage to set her own pace.
She started slow, rising and falling on his cock with deliberate movements that made them both gasp. Her hands braced on his shoulders, the little red horns still perched somewhat crookedly in her tangled hair, giving her a debauched appearance that made Klaus's eyes darken with renewed hunger.
"You look absolutely wicked," he told her, his hands guiding her hips as she rode him. "My beautiful little devil."
Y/N smiled down at him, deliberately smearing more lipstick across his jawline as she leaned in to kiss him deeply. By now, the crimson was a mess across both their faces, a visual testament to their passion.
"Only for you," she promised, picking up her pace as she felt him hardening further inside her. "Always for you."
Klaus's hands tightened on her hips, helping her move faster as his own control began to slip. Y/N could feel her third orgasm building, impossibly, the overstimulation bordering on too much but too good to stop.
"Come with me," she urged, grinding down against him in a way that made them both gasp. "Together."
Klaus's restraint finally shattered. With a groan that sounded almost pained, he thrust upward as Y/N came down, their bodies meeting with enough force to make the chair creak beneath them. His release triggered her own, and they clung to each other as pleasure washed through them both, their bodies shuddering in unison.
Afterward, they remained entangled in the chair, Y/N's head resting on Klaus's shoulder as they both struggled to catch their breath. The red horns had finally fallen off, landing somewhere on the floor beside them, and lipstick was smeared across both their faces and bodies like war paint.
"I should make you jealous more often," Y/N murmured against his neck, her voice drowsy with satisfaction.
Klaus's arms tightened around her, his lips pressing against her temple in a surprisingly tender gesture given the ferocity of their lovemaking.
"There are less dangerous ways to get my attention, love," he replied, though there was no real admonishment in his tone. Only contentment.
Y/N lifted her head to look at him, taking in the mess of lipstick across his face with a small smile of satisfaction.
"But none quite so effective," she pointed out, tracing a finger along a particularly vibrant streak of red on his collarbone. "Besides, I rather like seeing you marked by me for a change."
Klaus caught her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that was gentle compared to their earlier passion.
"I've been marked by you since the day we met," he admitted, the rare vulnerability in his voice making Y/N's heart skip a beat. "The lipstick is merely decorative."
Y/N smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly, adding one final smear of crimson to the collection already adorning his face.
"Happy Halloween, Klaus."
His answering smile was equal parts tender and possessive as he pulled her closer against his chest.
"Indeed it is, love. Indeed it is."
🏷️: @ariesandwolves @idontknowwhatimdoinginiife
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One shot | Halloween Special | Masterlist | WC: 3.6K
Summary: Klaus encounters a drunk angel in the quarter, taking her home
The French Quarter pulsed with Halloween energy, the narrow streets filled with revelers in costumes ranging from the predictable to the bizarre. String lights crisscrossed overhead, casting a warm glow on the cobblestones below, while jazz music spilled from open doorways, competing with the laughter and chatter of the crowd.
Klaus Mikaelson moved through this chaos with practiced ease, his expression one of detached amusement as he observed the humans around him. He hadn't bothered with a costume. What was the point when most of the monsters these people dressed as were pale imitations of creatures he'd encountered over his long life?
He paused at the corner of Bourbon Street, considering his options for the evening. He could join his siblings at Rousseau's, where Rebekah had organized some sort of Halloween gathering, or he could find more entertaining prey elsewhere.
His decision was made for him when something, or rather someone, collided with his chest, nearly toppling backward before his reflexes kicked in. His hands shot out automatically, steadying the young woman who had quite literally fallen into his arms.
"Careful, love," he advised, his accent flowing smoothly as he kept her upright. "These streets can be treacherous, especially in those heels."
The woman blinked up at him, her eyes struggling to focus. She was clearly intoxicated, swaying slightly even with his support. Her costume, some sort of golden-winged angel with a flowing white dress, was slightly disheveled, one wing bent at an awkward angle from their collision.
"Oh," she said, her voice carrying the distinctive slur of someone who'd had several drinks too many. "Sorry 'bout that. I didn't see you there."
She made no immediate move to extract herself from his grip, instead tilting her head to study his face with exaggerated concentration. A small furrow appeared between her brows as she squinted up at him.
"Are you supposed to be dressed as Klaus Mikaelson?" she asked suddenly, the question so unexpected that Klaus actually blinked in surprise.
"I beg your pardon?" he responded, genuinely caught off guard—a rare occurrence for the Original hybrid.
The young woman nodded sagely, as if confirming her own suspicion.
"The vampire from the quarter," she elaborated, gesturing vaguely around them. "The Original hybrid. You've got the look down, but..." She leaned in conspiratorially, nearly losing her balance again. "I don't know, you should work on your accent more. It's not quite right."
For a moment, Klaus simply stared at her, torn between amusement and irritation. Then, despite himself, his lips curved into a smile that held genuine humor—another rarity.
"Is that so?" he asked, deliberately emphasizing his accent. "And what, pray tell, is wrong with my accent?"
The woman waved her hand dismissively, oblivious to the fact that she was criticizing the very person she thought he was impersonating.
"It's too... I dunno, forced? Like you're trying too hard." She patted his chest sympathetically. "But the rest is pretty good! The necklaces are a nice touch. Very authentic."
Klaus found himself unexpectedly charmed by her brazen critique and complete lack of self-preservation instincts. Most humans in the Quarter had at least heard rumors about him—enough to give him a wide berth, especially after dark.
"Perhaps I should practice more," he suggested, playing along. "What's your name, angel?"
"Y/N," she replied, attempting a small curtsy that nearly sent her tumbling again. "And I'm not really an angel. It's just a costume."
"I gathered as much," Klaus replied dryly, steadying her once more. "Real angels are far less entertaining."
Y/N's eyes widened comically.
"You've met real angels?" she asked, clearly impressed by his commitment to the role. "Wow, you're really in character. That's dedication."
Before Klaus could respond, Y/N suddenly lurched to the side, her face paling alarmingly.
"Oh no," she mumbled, pressing a hand to her mouth. "I think I'm gonna be—"
With vampire speed that she was too intoxicated to register, Klaus guided her to a nearby alley, just in time for her to empty the contents of her stomach against the brick wall. He grimaced but didn't leave, instead pulling her hair back from her face with unexpected gentleness.
"There, there," he murmured, his tone caught between disgust and reluctant sympathy. "Better out than in, as they say."
When she'd finished, Y/N straightened up shakily, looking mortified despite her drunken state.
"Oh god," she groaned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I just threw up in front of Klaus Mikaelson. Or, you know, a really good cosplayer. Either way, super embarrassing."
Klaus couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here he was, one of the most feared creatures in New Orleans, holding back a drunk woman's hair while she vomited in an alley—and she thought he was in costume.
"I think we can safely say I've seen worse in my thousand years," he assured her, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her.
Y/N accepted it gratefully, dabbing at her mouth.
"Thanks," she mumbled, then added with a weak laugh, "A thousand years, huh? You don't look a day over 900."
Despite himself, Klaus found his smile widening. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him with such unguarded candor, without fear or ulterior motives.
"Where are your friends, Y/N?" he asked, glancing around the empty alley. "Surely you're not wandering the Quarter alone in this state?"
Y/N's face fell, and she leaned back against the wall, suddenly looking very young and vulnerable.
"They left," she admitted, her voice small. "We had a fight. Something stupid about... I don't even remember now. But they went to another bar and I stayed behind, and then I decided I'd show them I could have fun without them, so I had a few more drinks, and..." She gestured helplessly at herself. "Here I am. Angel with vomit on her dress. Super dignified."
Klaus felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy. He knew all too well what it was like to be abandoned, even if the circumstances were vastly different.
"Well, you can't stay here," he decided, taking in her disheveled appearance and unsteady stance. "Where are you staying? I'll escort you back."
Y/N looked up at him with wide, grateful eyes that made something in Klaus's chest tighten uncomfortably.
"The Hotel Monteleone," she said, then added with a hiccup, "But you don't have to. I'm sure fake Klaus Mikaelson has better things to do on Halloween than babysit a drunk girl."
Klaus offered his arm with a slight bow, his expression a mixture of amusement and something more difficult to define.
"As it happens, I find myself at loose ends this evening," he told her. "And it would be remiss of me to leave a lady in distress, especially one who's offered such helpful critique of my accent."
Y/N giggled, linking her arm through his with more force than necessary as she pushed away from the wall.
"My hero," she declared dramatically, then promptly stumbled again. "Oops. The ground is very...tilty tonight."
"Indeed it is," Klaus agreed solemnly, supporting more of her weight than she probably realized. "Perhaps we should find you some water before we continue. Sobriety is generally helpful when navigating tilty ground."
As they emerged from the alley back onto the crowded street, Klaus found himself strangely protective of the inebriated woman on his arm. It was an unusual feeling. He was far more accustomed to being the predator than the protector.
The walk back from the French Quarter was anything but direct. Y/N weaved unsteadily along the sidewalk, occasionally stopping to admire Halloween decorations or wave at passing revelers, all while maintaining a steady stream of conversation that jumped between topics with dizzying speed. It was an exercise in patience for Klaus, who found himself slowing his pace to accommodate her unsteady gait.
"You know," she announced as they turned onto a quieter residential street, her voice carrying in the night air, "I actually read about you. Or, well, the real Klaus. Not that you're not real! You're just...you know what I mean."
Klaus arched an eyebrow, genuinely curious despite himself.
"Is that so? And what exactly have you read about me—or rather, him?"
"Mmm, lots of things," Y/N nodded sagely, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk before Klaus steadied her. "He's supposed to be this super powerful hybrid. Half vampire, half werewolf. First of his kind."
She looked up at him with wide, earnest eyes.
"But the thing is, everyone talks about how dangerous he is. How scary. But I think..." she lowered her voice to a stage whisper that was likely audible half a block away, "I think he's probably just lonely. I mean, who wouldn't be after a thousand years? Everyone you love either dies or betrays you eventually."
Klaus's steps faltered slightly, caught off guard by her unexpected insight.
"That's...an interesting perspective," he managed, his tone carefully neutral. "Most people focus on the more violent aspects of his reputation."
"Well, yeah," Y/N waved her free hand dismissively, "but that's boring. Bad guy does bad things, news at eleven. I'm more interested in the why. No one just wakes up and decides to be the villain, you know? Something makes them that way."
She stumbled again, and Klaus tightened his grip on her arm to keep her upright.
"Careful, love," he murmured, the endearment slipping out automatically.
"See! That's good," Y/N exclaimed, brightening. "The 'love' thing. Very Klaus-like. You're getting better at this."
Klaus couldn't help the genuine laugh that escaped him.
"I'm pleased to have your approval," he said dryly. "I do strive for authenticity."
Before Klaus could respond to this observation, Y/N suddenly changed course, tugging him down a side street.
"This way," she announced. "I don't actually live at the Monteleone. That's just where my friends are staying. I have an apartment over on Dauphine. It's not far."
Klaus raised an eyebrow but allowed himself to be redirected.
"And you thought it wise to give a stranger, one dressed as a notorious vampire no less, your actual address?" he asked, genuinely curious about her reasoning.
Y/N waved dismissively, nearly hitting a streetlamp in the process.
"You're not a stranger anymore," she declared with drunk logic. "We've been talking for like...forever. Plus, you held my hair while I threw up. That's basically a friendship blood oath."
"A friendship blood oath," Klaus repeated, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. "I suppose by that standard, we're practically family."
"Exactly!" Y/N beamed up at him, her smile bright enough that it momentarily distracted from her smudged makeup and disheveled costume."Besides, I'm an excellent judge of character. You might be dressed as the scariest vampire in New Orleans, but you're actually nice."
Something flickered in Klaus's eyes at that. A brief unreadable expression that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"Am I now?" he asked softly. "You might be the first person in centuries to think so."
"It's this building," Y/N announced suddenly, gesturing to a three-story brick apartment building with a small stoop. "Second floor, apartment 2B. For 'Bee,' because I keep telling my roommate we should get a pet bee, but she says that's not a thing people do."
"A wise decision on her part," Klaus commented, helping her up the steps. "Bees generally prefer the company of other bees."
"You're smart," Y/N informed him solemnly as she fumbled in her small purse for her keys. "I like smart people. Everyone thinks I'm just a pretty face, you know? But I'm getting my master's in art history. Focusing on Renaissance portraiture. That's actually why I know about Klaus. There are rumors he was a patron of several Italian artists."
This revelation genuinely surprised Klaus. Most humans who knew of him focused solely on the supernatural aspects of his existence, not his contributions to art history.
"Is that right?" he asked, watching as she finally extracted her keys with a triumphant "Aha!"
"Mm-hmm," she confirmed, struggling to fit the key into the lock until Klaus gently took it from her hand and did it for her. "There are these paintings from the 1500s that some people think he commissioned. The brushwork is incredible. I'd love to see them someday."
Klaus turned the key, a strange warmth spreading through his chest at her words. Those paintings were currently hanging in the east wing of the Mikaelson compound, away from the prying eyes of visitors.
"Perhaps you will," he said softly, more to himself than to her.
The door swung open, and Y/N immediately kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief, wobbling slightly as she stepped into the apartment.
"Home sweet home," she declared, flicking on the lights to reveal a cozy, if somewhat cluttered, living space. Books were stacked on nearly every surface, and the walls were covered with art prints and photographs. "My roommate's out of town for the weekend. Visiting her boyfriend in Atlanta."
She turned back, confusion crossing her face when she realized Klaus was still standing in the doorway, one hand resting against an invisible barrier that prevented him from entering.
"What are you doing?" she asked, tilting her head in puzzlement. "Aren't you coming in?"
Klaus maintained his position, a small smile playing at his lips.
"I'm waiting to be invited," he explained, his tone deliberately light. "It's only proper."
Y/N stared at him for a moment before understanding dawned on her face, followed by a delighted giggle.
"Oh my god," she laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Wow, you're really committing to this vampire bit, aren't you? That's dedication to the costume."
She made an exaggerated sweeping gesture toward the interior of the apartment.
"Please, come in, Mr. Mikaelson," she invited with mock formality, adding a wobbly curtsy for good measure. "My humble abode is yours to enter."
Klaus stepped across the threshold with measured steps, his eyes briefly scanning the apartment for threats out of long-established habit.
"Thank you for your hospitality," he replied, matching her formal tone with a slight bow that made her giggle again.
"You're funny," she informed him, swaying slightly where she stood. "I didn't expect Klaus Mikaelson to be funny. In the stories, he's always so serious and murdery."
"Perhaps the stories don't tell the whole truth," Klaus suggested, closing the door behind him. ""Let me get you some water," Klaus said, spotting the kitchenette and moving toward it. "You'll thank me in the morning."
Y/N waved a hand dismissively but didn't protest, instead making her way to the couch where she collapsed with a dramatic sigh.
"My wings are killing me," she complained, reaching awkwardly behind her back to try and unfasten the now-bedraggled angel wings.
Klaus returned with a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table before moving to help her with the troublesome costume piece.
"Allow me," he offered, deftly unfastening the harness that held the wings in place.
"My hero," Y/N sighed, relief evident in her voice as the cumbersome accessory was removed. "Those things are way heavier than they look."
She accepted the water when Klaus handed it to her again, taking a few reluctant sips before setting it aside. When she looked up at him, her expression had shifted, a hint of something warmer in her gaze.
"You know," she said, patting the spot beside her on the couch, "you're really handsome. Has anyone ever told you that you look like the real thing?"
Klaus sat beside her, maintaining a respectful distance that Y/N immediately eliminated by scooting closer.
"The real thing?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well what she meant.
"Klaus Mikaelson," she clarified, reaching out to touch one of his necklaces."The actual vampire. Not that anyone knows what he really looks like, I guess. But the stories all say he's hot."
A smirk tugged at the corner of Klaus's mouth.
"Do they now?" he asked, genuinely amused by this revelation. "And what other insights do these stories provide about the fearsome Original hybrid?"
Y/N's fingers moved from his necklace to trace along his jawline, her inhibitions clearly lowered by the alcohol still coursing through her system.
"They say he's dangerous," she murmured, her voice dropping to what she probably intended to be a seductive whisper. "Powerful. That he's lived for a thousand years and seen everything. Done everything."
Her hand slid to his chest, her intentions becoming increasingly obvious.
"But I bet there are still some things that would surprise him," she added with a clumsy attempt at a wink.
Klaus caught her wrist gently, stilling her wandering hand.
"Y/N," he said softly, his accent wrapping around her name in a way that made her shiver despite his rebuff, "you're in no state for the kind of surprise you're suggesting."
She pouted, the expression making her look even younger than she was.
"I'm not that drunk," she protested, the slur in her words contradicting her claim. "And you're hot, and it's Halloween, and—" She yawned suddenly, the action seemingly taking her by surprise. "And I'm...actually really tired."
Klaus chuckled, releasing her wrist to brush a strand of hair from her face.
"I believe that's my cue to help you to bed," he said, standing and offering her his hand. "To sleep," he added firmly when her expression brightened.
Y/N sighed dramatically but accepted his help, swaying slightly as she got to her feet.
"You're no fun," she complained, even as she leaned heavily against him. "But fine. Bedroom's through there."
She pointed toward a door off the main living area, and Klaus guided her toward it with gentle efficiency. The bedroom was small but neat, with a double bed covered in an array of pillows and a colorful quilt.
"I should change," Y/N mumbled, looking down at her costume with a frown. "Can't sleep in this."
Before Klaus could suggest he wait outside, she reached behind herself for the zipper of her dress, struggling with it for several seconds before looking at him with pleading eyes.
"Help?" she asked, turning to present her back to him.
Klaus hesitated briefly before stepping forward to assist, carefully lowering the zipper only as far as necessary for her to manage the rest herself.
"There you are," he said, stepping back immediately. "I'll wait outside while you change."
Y/N turned back to face him, holding the front of her dress in place with one hand while the other reached for him.
"Or you could stay," she suggested, her attempt at a sultry look somewhat undermined by another massive yawn. "Help me out of this dress properly..."
Klaus took her hand and placed a gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Another time, perhaps," he said smoothly. "When you're less likely to fall asleep mid-seduction."
As if to prove his point, Y/N's eyelids drooped heavily, and she swayed on her feet.
"I'm not going to fall asleep," she protested, even as she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "I'm just resting my eyes for a second."
Klaus smiled, shaking his head slightly as he backed toward the door.
"Of course," he agreed. "Just call when you're changed."
He closed the bedroom door behind him, listening with enhanced hearing as Y/N mumbled to herself while presumably attempting to change. There was a thud, likely her dropping something, followed by a soft curse, then the unmistakable sound of her collapsing onto the bed.
After a minute of silence, Klaus knocked gently on the door.
"Y/N?" he called softly. "Are you decent?"
When no response came, he eased the door open to find her sprawled across the bed, still partially in her costume but with a t-shirt haphazardly pulled over the top, fast asleep. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing deep and even, her earlier seduction attempt clearly forgotten.
Klaus couldn't help but laugh softly at the sight. He moved quietly into the room, carefully removing her remaining shoes and pulling the quilt over her sleeping form. He placed a glass of water and some pain relievers he found in her bathroom on the nightstand that she would undoubtedly need them in the morning.
As he straightened, his gaze caught on a sketchbook lying open on her desk. Curiosity piqued, he moved closer, examining the drawing that was visible. It was a surprisingly skilled rendition of the French Quarter at sunset, the detail impressive even to his discerning eye.
"Talented little thing, aren't you?" he murmured, glancing back at her sleeping form.
Y/N stirred slightly but didn't wake, her breathing already deepening into the rhythm of sleep. Klaus watched her for a moment longer, an unfamiliar protective instinct stirring in his chest.
He should leave now. He'd done his good deed for the decade, escorting a drunk human safely home. There was no reason to linger.
Yet something compelled him to take a piece of paper from her desk and scribble a brief note, which he left propped against the water glass he placed on her nightstand, alongside two more aspirin.
With one last look at her peaceful face, Klaus slipped silently from the room and out of the apartment, closing the door securely behind him. The night was still young, and he had his own affairs to attend to.
But as he walked away, he found himself smiling at the thought of Y/N waking tomorrow, reading his note, and realizing that perhaps her "fake Klaus Mikaelson" hadn't been so fake after all.
The note read simply:
Y/N,
Your critique of my accent has been duly noted. Perhaps next time we meet, I'll have improved it to your satisfaction. Until then, drink water, take the aspirin, and do try to be more careful about who you stumble into on Halloween night. Not everyone in the Quarter is as gentlemanly as I.
One shot | Halloween Special | Smut | Masterlist | WC: 5.8K
Summary: Klaus is not a fan of what you decide to wear for Halloween
["Absolutely not," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You're not going out in that."]
The French Quarter hummed with energy as twilight descended on All Hallows' Eve. Revelers in elaborate costumes filled the streets, music spilled from every doorway, and the air buzzed with supernatural energy that even humans could sense without understanding its source.
Inside the Mikaelson compound, Rebekah was putting the finishing touches on her Marie Antoinette costume, complete with an extravagant powdered wig and beauty mark. Kol had opted for a pirate captain ensemble, which he insisted was "historically accurate" based on a particularly bloodthirsty buccaneer he'd known in the 1700s. Even Elijah had made a concession to the holiday with a subtle Phantom of the Opera mask to accompany his impeccable tuxedo.
Klaus, however, had refused to dress up, claiming the entire concept was "beneath him." He wore his usual dark henley and jeans, though he'd allowed Rebekah to convince him to at least accompany them to the festivities in the Quarter.
"Where's Y/N?" Kol asked, adjusting his eye patch. "We're going to miss the parade if she doesn't hurry."
"Still getting ready," Rebekah replied with a knowing smile.
Klaus raised an eyebrow at his sister’s expression. "What exactly does that mean?"
Before Rebekah could answer, the sound of heels on the staircase drew everyone's attention. Klaus turned, then went completely still, his expression shifting from casual interest to shock in an instant.
Y/N descended the stairs in a costume that left little to the imagination. She was dressed as a sultry she-devil, in a crimson corset that accentuated her figure, paired with a matching skirt that showcased her long legs. Fishnet stockings disappeared into thigh-high boots, and small red horns peeked out from her hair, which fell in loose waves around her shoulders. A delicate tail curled behind her, attached to the back of her skirt.
She'd gone all-in on the makeup as well. Smoky eyes, blood-red lips, and what appeared to be a dusting of glitter across her collarbones.
"What do you think?" she asked, giving a little twirl when she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Kol whistled appreciatively. "I think my brother might be having a stroke."
Klaus hadn't moved, his jaw clenched tight, eyes locked on Y/N with an intensity that made the temperature in the room seem to drop several degrees.
Y/N's smile faltered slightly. "Klaus? Is something wrong?"
In a blur of movement, Klaus was suddenly beside her, his hand closing firmly around her upper arm.
"Absolutely not," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You're not going out in that."
Before Y/N could protest, before anyone could react, Klaus had flashed them both upstairs and into their bedroom, the door slamming behind them with supernatural force.
"What the hell, Klaus?!" Y/N demanded, yanking her arm free the moment they stopped moving. "You can't just—"
"I can and I will," he interrupted, eyes flashing yellow for a brief second. "You are not parading through the Quarter dressed like that. Not tonight. Not ever."
Y/N's shock quickly gave way to anger, her cheeks flushing nearly as red as her costume.
"Excuse me?" she said, her voice rising. "Who exactly do you think you are to tell me what I can and cannot wear?"
"The man who knows exactly what thoughts will be running through every man's mind when they see you," Klaus shot back, gesturing at her outfit. "The man who will have to restrain himself from ripping out throats all evening."
Y/N crossed her arms, which only served to enhance her cleavage in the corset. A fact that Klaus's narrowed eyes didn't miss.
"It's Halloween, Klaus. Everyone dresses up. Everyone wears costumes. This is New Orleans, for god's sake! Half the women out there will be wearing less than I am."
"They aren't mine," he growled, stepping closer. "They aren't walking around with my scent on their skin, tempting every supernatural creature in the Quarter."
Y/N's eyes widened slightly at his possessive tone, but she stood her ground.
"I am not your property," she said evenly. "And I spent weeks planning this costume. Rebekah helped me pick it out. I'm wearing it."
She turned toward the door, but Klaus was in front of her in an instant, blocking her path.
"Y/N," he said, her name a plea and a warning all at once.
"Move, Klaus," she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.
Something shifted in Klaus's expression then a calculation, a change in strategy. The hard lines of his face softened into something more seductive, his lips curving into that smile that never failed to make her heart beat faster.
"What's the rush, love?" he murmured, stepping closer rather than away. "The night is young. Perhaps we could...start our own celebration. Here."
His hands settled on her waist, thumbs brushing over the boned corset in a way that sent shivers up her spine despite her anger.
"You think you can just seduce me and I'll forget that you were being a controlling ass?" Y/N asked, though she didn't pull away from his touch.
"I think," Klaus replied, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that always affected her, "that there are better ways to spend Halloween than sharing you with the masses."
His lips found her neck, pressing hot kisses along the column of her throat. Y/N's eyes fluttered closed briefly before she caught herself, remembering her indignation.
"Nice try," she said, pushing against his chest. "But I spent too much time on this costume to waste it staying in."
Klaus didn't relent, his hands sliding down to her hips as he walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of their bed.
"The costume is magnificent," he conceded, his eyes darkening with desire. "But I'm afraid there's a problem with it."
Despite herself, Y/N felt curiosity win out over anger.
"What problem?"
"You can't wear it," he stated simply, maneuvering her down onto the mattress and following her down, his body a warm weight above hers.
"Why not?" she challenged, even as her body responded to his proximity.
A wicked gleam entered his eyes. Without warning, he moved down her body, his face level with her thigh. Before she could question what he was doing, Klaus's fangs extended and he deliberately bit into the fishnet stocking, tearing a hole in the delicate material.
"Because it's ripped," he said with mock innocence, looking up at her with a self-satisfied expression.
Y/N stared at him in disbelief, her mouth falling open.
"You did not just—"
Klaus smirked, his finger tracing the newly created tear. "I believe I did."
The sheer audacity of it, the childish possessive gesture, was so unexpected that Y/N found herself speechless for a moment. And then, to both their surprise, she started laughing. It began as a small chuckle and quickly grew into full-bodied laughter that shook the bed.
"You—" she gasped between laughs, "you actually tore my stockings like some jealous teenager!"
Klaus looked momentarily confused by her reaction, clearly having expected continued anger rather than amusement.
"I fail to see what's so humorous about protecting what's mine," he said stiffly, though his lips twitched slightly at the corners.
Y/N's laughter subsided to occasional giggles as she propped herself up on her elbows to look at him properly.
"I see how women look at you all the time, Klaus," she said, her tone softening despite the challenge in her words. "How they flirt with you right in front of me. But I don't rip their throats out, do I?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Perhaps you should," he suggested, only half-joking. "I'd find it rather attractive."
Y/N rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress her smile.
"Of course you would, you bloodthirsty maniac."
Klaus's smile widened as he moved back up her body, caging her between his arms.
"Only for you, love," he murmured, his lips hovering just above hers.
“I guess I'll just have to go out without the stockings” she teases against his lips
Klaus's eyes darkened at her words, his body going perfectly still above hers. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft.
"You're testing my patience, sweetheart."
Y/N met his gaze unflinchingly, a mischievous smile playing at her crimson-painted lips. She knew she was pushing him, and part of her, the part that thrived on challenging his control, enjoyed it immensely.
"Am I?" she asked innocently, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders. "I'm just being practical. You ruined my stockings, so I'll have to go without. The rest of the costume is still perfectly intact."
In one fluid motion, Klaus captured both her wrists and pinned them above her head, his face mere inches from hers.
"You think this is a game?" he questioned, his accent thickening as it always did when his emotions ran high.
Y/N arched an eyebrow, refusing to be intimidated despite the delicious shiver that ran down her spine at his possessive words.
"We could compromise," she suggested, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "I'll wear the costume out...and you can take it off me when we get home."
Klaus's grip on her wrists loosened slightly as he considered her words, his eyes traveling slowly down the length of her body before returning to her face.
"A compromise," he repeated, testing the word as if it were foreign to his tongue. "How very diplomatic of you."
Despite his sarcastic tone, Y/N could see the calculation in his eyes. He was weighing his possessiveness against her independence, his desire to keep her hidden away against her clear excitement for the evening ahead.
"I thought you might appreciate the offer," she said, using his momentary consideration to free one of her hands. She brought it to his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with her fingertips. "Besides, don't you want everyone to see that the devil on your arm belongs to you?"
Something darkened in his gaze at her choice of words, belongs to you, and Y/N knew she'd struck the right chord. For all his talk of control and protection, Klaus Mikaelson was fundamentally driven by pride and possession. The idea of parading her through the Quarter, claiming her publicly as his, held undeniable appeal.
"And what else does this compromise entail?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that she could feel against her palm.
Y/N smiled up at him, sensing victory.
"You stay by my side all night," she said. "No disappearing to handle business or terrorize the locals. Just you and me, celebrating Halloween like a normal couple."
Klaus snorted at that. "Normal is hardly a word I'd use to describe us, love."
"As normal as an Original hybrid and his human girlfriend can be," she amended with a roll of her eyes. "What do you say? Do we have a deal?"
Klaus studied her for a long moment, then surprised her by dipping his head to capture her lips in a searing kiss that left her breathless. When he pulled back, his pupils were dilated, a hint of amber rimming the blue-green of his irises.
"On one condition," he said, his free hand sliding down to rest possessively on her hip.
Y/N bit her lower lip, both wary and intrigued. "Which is?"
"When I decide it's time to leave," Klaus stated, his tone making it clear this wasn't negotiable, "we leave. No arguments, no 'just one more drink.' When I say we're done, the night is over."
Y/N considered this for a moment. It wasn't ideal, she hated being told what to do, but she recognized the concession he was making. And truthfully, the thought of ending the night with Klaus tearing off her costume held its own appeal.
"Deal," she agreed, sealing it with another kiss.
Klaus released her wrists completely then, sitting back on his heels to survey the damage he'd done to her stockings. His expression shifted to something almost sheepish. As close to embarrassed as Klaus Mikaelson ever got.
"I may have been...hasty," he admitted, fingering the torn fishnet.
Y/N couldn't help but laugh at his expression. "You think?"
"In my defense," he said, his hand sliding up her thigh in a way that made her breath catch, "you look absolutely ravishing. I'm merely acting on instinct."
"Your instincts need better impulse control," she teased, sitting up and adjusting her corset. "Luckily for you, I packed a spare pair. Rebekah warned me that accidents happen."
Klaus's eyes narrowed slightly at that. "My sister seems to have anticipated my reaction rather well."
"She said, and I quote, 'Nik will either tear them off you himself or tear off the head of anyone who looks at you in them. Best be prepared for either scenario.'"
A reluctant smile tugged at Klaus's lips. "Wise advice."
Y/N slid off the bed, moving to her closet where she retrieved a fresh pair of fishnet stockings. Klaus watched her with hooded eyes as she sat on the edge of the bed and began rolling them up her legs with deliberate slowness.
"You're enjoying this," he accused, though there was no real heat in his words.
"Immensely," she confirmed with a wicked smile, smoothing the stocking up her thigh. "Consider it payback for your little display of caveman behavior."
Klaus moved behind her on the bed, his chest pressing against her back as his arms encircled her waist. His lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear.
"If I'm to be accused of being a caveman," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin, "I might as well earn the title properly."
His hand slid up to cup her breast through the corset, and Y/N leaned back into him, momentarily forgetting about the party waiting downstairs.
"Klaus," she sighed, her eyes fluttering closed. "They're waiting for us."
"Let them wait," he growled, his other hand finding the zipper of her skirt.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted them, followed by Kol's amused voice.
"If you two are quite finished with whatever deviant activities you're engaged in, the rest of us would like to actually enjoy the festivities before midnight. Elijah is beginning to look particularly constipated with impatience."
Klaus growled in frustration, his forehead dropping to rest on Y/N's shoulder.
"I'm going to dagger him. Again."
Y/N laughed, turning in his arms to press a quick kiss to his lips.
"Later," she promised, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Right now, I have a devil costume to show off, and you have a deal to honor."
Klaus sighed dramatically, but released her with one final, possessive squeeze.
"Very well. But remember our agreement, love. When I say it's time to go..."
"We go," Y/N finished for him, standing and adjusting her costume one last time. "I remember. Now come on, your Majesty. Your kingdom awaits."
She had all night to test just how far his newfound patience would stretch. And if the heated look in his eyes was any indication, the devil on her shoulder wasn't the only one with wicked intentions for the evening ahead.
The Quarter was alive with magic and mayhem, the veil between worlds growing thinner as midnight approached. Bourbon Street had transformed into a carnival. Fire dancers twirled flaming batons, tarot readers beckoned from shadowy doorways, and music pulsed from every establishment, spilling revelers onto the crowded streets.
Klaus had kept his word, remaining by Y/N's side throughout the evening. Though his hand never strayed far from her waist, his touch possessive and constant, he'd allowed her to enjoy the festivities. Having drinks at Rousseau's, dancing at several clubs, even indulging her request to have their fortunes told by a witch in Jackson Square (whose eyes had widened in recognition when Klaus approached, her hands trembling slightly as she shuffled her cards).
For her part, Y/N had been mindful of his tolerance, tempering her natural exuberance with occasional reassuring touches and private smiles meant only for him. She'd noticed his jaw tightening whenever other men's gazes lingered too long on her costume, but to his credit, Klaus had restrained himself to mere glares rather than violence.
Until now.
They'd ended up at a crowded nightclub in the heart of the Quarter, where the Halloween festivities had reached a fever pitch. The music was deafening, the dance floor packed with bodies in various states of costumed undress. Rebekah and Kol had disappeared into the crowd, while Elijah had excused himself hours ago, claiming the noise gave him a headache.
Klaus had been tolerating the club scene with remarkable patience, nursing a bourbon at the edge of the dance floor while keeping his eyes fixed on Y/N. She'd been dancing with a group of girls, her movements becoming increasingly uninhibited as the night wore on and the drinks flowed freely.
It was when the DJ switched to a pulsing, bass-heavy remix that things escalated. The crowd roared in approval, and before Klaus could intervene, Y/N had been lifted onto a table by her new friends, the spotlight catching the glitter on her skin as she began to dance above the crowd.
Klaus froze, his glass halting halfway to his lips as he watched her. Y/N moved with natural grace, her body swaying to the hypnotic beat, arms raised above her head. The red corset caught the light, her skin gleaming with a fine sheen of perspiration, her hair wild around her flushed face. She looked like sin incarnate and every eye in the club was on her.
Including those of a group of young vampires Klaus had been watching warily all evening. He recognized them as part of Marcel's newer recruits. Barely a decade into their immortality, still drunk on power and bloodlust. Their leader, a tall vampire with tribal tattoos snaking up his neck, was now moving toward Y/N's table, his intent clear in his hungry expression.
Klaus was across the room in an instant, moving with supernatural speed that would have been noticeable if anyone had been sober enough to pay attention. He materialized at the edge of the table just as the tattooed vampire reached up to offer Y/N his hand.
"The lady is otherwise engaged," Klaus said, his voice deceptively pleasant despite the lethal look in his eyes.
The younger vampire turned, recognition dawning on his face as he realized who he was dealing with.
"Klaus Mikaelson," he acknowledged, dropping his hand but not backing away. "No disrespect intended. Just offering the pretty devil a drink."
"How thoughtful," Klaus replied, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Unfortunately, we were just leaving."
Above them, Y/N continued dancing, either unaware of the tense exchange or deliberately ignoring it. The spotlight caught the curve of her hip as she turned, the small devil tail attached to her skirt swaying with her movements.
Klaus's patience, already stretched thin, finally snapped. Without further preamble, he reached up and wrapped his hands around Y/N's waist, lifting her effortlessly from the table and setting her on her feet beside him.
"Time to go, love," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument despite the endearment.
Y/N blinked up at him, her eyes bright with alcohol and adrenaline.
"But the night's just getting started," she protested, her hands coming to rest on his chest. "One more dance?"
Klaus leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke low enough that only she could hear.
"Our deal, sweetheart. I say when we leave. And we're leaving. Now."
Something in his tone must have penetrated the haze of her excitement, because Y/N's playful expression shifted, her eyes darkening as she registered the barely contained desire in his gaze. She glanced at the tattooed vampire still hovering nearby, then back to Klaus, understanding dawning on her flushed face.
"Jealous?" she whispered, a small smile playing at her lips.
Klaus's hand tightened on her waist, his fingertips pressing into the soft flesh exposed between her corset and skirt.
"Beyond measure," he admitted, his voice rough. "And rapidly losing what little restraint I have left."
Y/N studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, her own desire evident in the way her pulse quickened beneath his touch.
"Lead the way," she conceded, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in a gesture that tested Klaus's already fragile control.
Without another word, Klaus guided her through the crowded club, his hand a possessive brand against her lower back. He didn't bother saying goodbye to Rebekah or Kol. They'd find their own way home, and he had more pressing matters to attend to.
The cool night air hit them as they stepped onto the street, a welcome relief after the stifling heat of the club. Klaus immediately pulled Y/N into a shadowed alcove, pressing her against the brick wall with his body.
"Do you have any idea," he growled, his hands framing her face, "how close I came to tearing out that vampire's throat?"
Y/N's breath caught, her pupils dilating as she stared up at him.
"He was just being friendly," she said, though there was no real defense in her tone. Only a desire to push him further.
"He wanted to drain you dry," Klaus corrected, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Or worse."
"But you wouldn't let him," she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest to link behind his neck. "Because I'm yours."
The possessive pronoun ignited something in Klaus. His mouth crashed down on hers, the kiss brutal and claiming. Y/N responded with equal fervor, her body arching into his, all traces of teasing gone as desire took over.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard, Y/N's lipstick smeared across both their mouths like blood.
"Home," Klaus managed, his voice strained. "Now."
He didn't wait for her agreement, simply scooped her into his arms and flashed away from the crowded streets, moving at supernatural speed through the shadows of the French Quarter. The journey that would have taken twenty minutes on foot was over in seconds, the compound's gates slamming shut behind them as Klaus carried Y/N straight up to their bedroom.
The door had barely closed behind them when Klaus had her pinned against it, his hands everywhere at once, greedy and demanding.
"All night," he growled between kisses, "watching you in this costume. Watching others watch you."
Y/N gasped as his teeth scraped down her neck, not breaking the skin but leaving a trail of sensation that made her knees weak.
"You could have stopped me," she breathed, her hands fisting in his shirt.
"And deprive you of your fun?" Klaus pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his own dark with desire. "Never. But now it's my turn."
In one swift motion, he spun her around to face the door, his body pressed against her back, one hand splayed possessively across her stomach while the other gathered her wrists and pinned them above her head.
"Now," he whispered, his lips at her ear, "I believe we had an agreement about what happens to this costume when we got home."
Y/N smiled against the wooden door, anticipation coursing through her veins as she felt Klaus's hands begin to work on the laces of her corset.
"Show me," she challenged softly. "Show me who I belong to."
Klaus's restraint vanished entirely. With deft fingers that betrayed centuries of experience, he attacked the laces of Y/N's corset, his movements urgent and possessive.
"Too many layers between us," he growled against her neck, yanking at the strings until the garment loosened enough for him to peel it away from her body.
Y/N gasped as the cool air hit her exposed skin, but had no time to adjust before Klaus spun her around to face him. His eyes raked over her hungrily, taking in the sight of her bare torso, the red skirt riding low on her hips, and the fishnet stockings that had caused so much contention earlier.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "But still overdressed."
Without warning, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her skirt and ripped it clean off her body, the sound of tearing fabric filling the room. The fishnets followed, shredded beneath his impatient hands until Y/N stood before him in nothing but the small red horns perched atop her tousled hair.
"The horns stay," Klaus decided with a dark smile, his eyes glinting dangerously. "Fitting for what I'm about to do to you."
Y/N's breath quickened, her body responding to the intensity of his gaze. She reached for him, her fingers working at the buttons of his henley.
"You're still fully dressed," she complained, tugging impatiently at the fabric. "Hardly seems fair."
Klaus caught her wrists, stilling her movements with a firm grip.
"Patience, love," he admonished, backing her toward the bed. "Tonight isn't about fair. It's about reminding you exactly who you belong to."
When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, Klaus gave her a gentle push that sent her sprawling onto the bed. Before she could recover, he was on her, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss that left a smear of crimson lipstick across his lips. Y/N smiled against his mouth, deliberately pressing harder, marking him with the vivid red that had drawn his eye all evening.
"Marking your territory?" he asked when he pulled back, one eyebrow raised as his thumb traced the lipstick now smudged across her chin.
"Just evening the score," she replied, her eyes challenging despite her vulnerable position beneath him.
Something dangerous flashed in Klaus's expression. In one fluid movement, he flipped her onto her stomach, his hand coming down on her bare bottom with a sharp slap that echoed in the quiet room.
Y/N gasped, more in surprise than pain, her body jerking beneath him.
"Klaus!"
"That's for the table dancing," he informed her, his palm soothing over the reddened skin before delivering another stinging slap. "And that's for letting that vampire look at you like you were his next meal."
The third slap drew a moan from Y/N, the sensation dancing on the knife's edge between pleasure and pain. Heat bloomed across her skin, radiating outward until her entire body felt flushed with desire.
"And this," Klaus continued, his hand sliding between her legs to find her already wet and wanting, "is for teasing me all night in that devil costume."
His fingers slipped inside her with practiced ease, curling to find the spot that made her arch and cry out his name. Y/N pressed back against his hand, seeking more friction, but Klaus withdrew just as pleasure began to build, leaving her gasping and frustrated.
"Klaus," she pleaded, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. "Don't tease."
His smile was wicked as he leaned down to press a kiss to her shoulder blade.
"But you've been teasing me all night, sweetheart," he reminded her, his fingers returning to trace light circles that never quite gave her what she needed. "Turnabout is fair play."
Again and again he brought her to the edge, his skilled fingers working her body like an instrument he'd spent years learning to play. Each time she approached climax, he would slow or stop entirely, keeping her suspended in a state of desperate need until Y/N was practically sobbing with frustration.
"Please," she finally begged, her pride forgotten in the face of overwhelming desire. "I need you. I need your cock inside me. Please, Klaus."
The sound of his name, broken and desperate on her lips, snapped the last thread of Klaus's control. He shed his clothes in record time, his own need evident in the urgency of his movements. When he finally positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, they both groaned at the contact.
"Tell me who you belong to," Klaus demanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Say it."
"You," Y/N gasped, pushing back against him impatiently. "I'm yours, Klaus. Only yours."
With a growl of satisfaction, Klaus thrust into her in one powerful movement, burying himself to the hilt. Y/N cried out, her body stretching to accommodate him, pleasure washing through her in waves as he set a relentless pace.
The bed frame creaked beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust. Klaus's hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place as he claimed her with a ferocity that bordered on feral.
Just as Y/N felt herself approaching the peak he'd denied her earlier, Klaus suddenly withdrew completely. Before she could protest, he flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and entered her again in one smooth motion.
"I want to see your face when you come," he explained, his voice rough with exertion. "Want to see those pretty eyes when you shatter for me."
Y/N reached up to pull him down for a kiss, deliberately smearing more of her lipstick across his mouth, down his jaw, marking a trail along his throat. The sight of her crimson print on his skin sent a thrill through her. Her own form of possession.
The new angle allowed Klaus to drive deeper, hitting spots that made stars explode behind Y/N's eyelids. She felt her climax building rapidly, unstoppable this time as Klaus maintained his punishing rhythm.
"Klaus," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me, love," he commanded, his own control slipping as he felt her tighten around him. "Let go."
Y/N's orgasm crashed through her with an intensity that bordered on painful, her body arching off the bed as she cried out his name. Klaus watched her face with hungry satisfaction, his pace never faltering as he worked her through the waves of pleasure.
Before she'd fully recovered, he was moving again, lifting her effortlessly from the bed and carrying her to the nearest wall. Y/N instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the cool surface, his cock still buried deep inside her.
"Again," he growled against her throat, his hips driving upward with supernatural strength. "I want to feel you come apart around me again."
The change in position, the solid wall at her back and Klaus's unyielding body at her front, created a delicious friction that had Y/N spiraling toward another peak embarrassingly quickly. Her head fell back against the wall, exposing the column of her throat to Klaus's hungry mouth.
His lips and teeth worked the sensitive skin there, careful not to break the surface despite the temptation of her pulse throbbing just beneath. When he felt her beginning to tighten around him again, Klaus increased his pace, driving into her with an intensity that would have been impossible for a human lover.
"That's it," he encouraged as she shuddered against him, her second orgasm washing through her with almost painful intensity. "So perfect. So mine."
Klaus's own control was slipping, his rhythm becoming erratic as he chased his release. Y/N, sensing his approaching climax, tightened her legs around him and whispered in his ear.
"Let me ride you," she requested, her voice hoarse from crying out. "Let me make you come."
Something in her words must have appealed to him, because Klaus immediately carried her to the armchair in the corner of the room, sitting down with her still impaled on his length. Y/N adjusted her position, her knees on either side of his hips, giving her the leverage to set her own pace.
She started slow, rising and falling on his cock with deliberate movements that made them both gasp. Her hands braced on his shoulders, the little red horns still perched somewhat crookedly in her tangled hair, giving her a debauched appearance that made Klaus's eyes darken with renewed hunger.
"You look absolutely wicked," he told her, his hands guiding her hips as she rode him. "My beautiful little devil."
Y/N smiled down at him, deliberately smearing more lipstick across his jawline as she leaned in to kiss him deeply. By now, the crimson was a mess across both their faces, a visual testament to their passion.
"Only for you," she promised, picking up her pace as she felt him hardening further inside her. "Always for you."
Klaus's hands tightened on her hips, helping her move faster as his own control began to slip. Y/N could feel her third orgasm building, impossibly, the overstimulation bordering on too much but too good to stop.
"Come with me," she urged, grinding down against him in a way that made them both gasp. "Together."
Klaus's restraint finally shattered. With a groan that sounded almost pained, he thrust upward as Y/N came down, their bodies meeting with enough force to make the chair creak beneath them. His release triggered her own, and they clung to each other as pleasure washed through them both, their bodies shuddering in unison.
Afterward, they remained entangled in the chair, Y/N's head resting on Klaus's shoulder as they both struggled to catch their breath. The red horns had finally fallen off, landing somewhere on the floor beside them, and lipstick was smeared across both their faces and bodies like war paint.
"I should make you jealous more often," Y/N murmured against his neck, her voice drowsy with satisfaction.
Klaus's arms tightened around her, his lips pressing against her temple in a surprisingly tender gesture given the ferocity of their lovemaking.
"There are less dangerous ways to get my attention, love," he replied, though there was no real admonishment in his tone. Only contentment.
Y/N lifted her head to look at him, taking in the mess of lipstick across his face with a small smile of satisfaction.
"But none quite so effective," she pointed out, tracing a finger along a particularly vibrant streak of red on his collarbone. "Besides, I rather like seeing you marked by me for a change."
Klaus caught her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that was gentle compared to their earlier passion.
"I've been marked by you since the day we met," he admitted, the rare vulnerability in his voice making Y/N's heart skip a beat. "The lipstick is merely decorative."
Y/N smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly, adding one final smear of crimson to the collection already adorning his face.
"Happy Halloween, Klaus."
His answering smile was equal parts tender and possessive as he pulled her closer against his chest.
"Indeed it is, love. Indeed it is."
🏷️: @ariesandwolves @idontknowwhatimdoinginiife
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One shot | Halloween Special | Smut | Masterlist | WC: 5.8K
Summary: Klaus is not a fan of what you decide to wear for Halloween
["Absolutely not," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You're not going out in that."]
The French Quarter hummed with energy as twilight descended on All Hallows' Eve. Revelers in elaborate costumes filled the streets, music spilled from every doorway, and the air buzzed with supernatural energy that even humans could sense without understanding its source.
Inside the Mikaelson compound, Rebekah was putting the finishing touches on her Marie Antoinette costume, complete with an extravagant powdered wig and beauty mark. Kol had opted for a pirate captain ensemble, which he insisted was "historically accurate" based on a particularly bloodthirsty buccaneer he'd known in the 1700s. Even Elijah had made a concession to the holiday with a subtle Phantom of the Opera mask to accompany his impeccable tuxedo.
Klaus, however, had refused to dress up, claiming the entire concept was "beneath him." He wore his usual dark henley and jeans, though he'd allowed Rebekah to convince him to at least accompany them to the festivities in the Quarter.
"Where's Y/N?" Kol asked, adjusting his eye patch. "We're going to miss the parade if she doesn't hurry."
"Still getting ready," Rebekah replied with a knowing smile.
Klaus raised an eyebrow at his sister’s expression. "What exactly does that mean?"
Before Rebekah could answer, the sound of heels on the staircase drew everyone's attention. Klaus turned, then went completely still, his expression shifting from casual interest to shock in an instant.
Y/N descended the stairs in a costume that left little to the imagination. She was dressed as a sultry she-devil, in a crimson corset that accentuated her figure, paired with a matching skirt that showcased her long legs. Fishnet stockings disappeared into thigh-high boots, and small red horns peeked out from her hair, which fell in loose waves around her shoulders. A delicate tail curled behind her, attached to the back of her skirt.
She'd gone all-in on the makeup as well. Smoky eyes, blood-red lips, and what appeared to be a dusting of glitter across her collarbones.
"What do you think?" she asked, giving a little twirl when she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Kol whistled appreciatively. "I think my brother might be having a stroke."
Klaus hadn't moved, his jaw clenched tight, eyes locked on Y/N with an intensity that made the temperature in the room seem to drop several degrees.
Y/N's smile faltered slightly. "Klaus? Is something wrong?"
In a blur of movement, Klaus was suddenly beside her, his hand closing firmly around her upper arm.
"Absolutely not," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You're not going out in that."
Before Y/N could protest, before anyone could react, Klaus had flashed them both upstairs and into their bedroom, the door slamming behind them with supernatural force.
"What the hell, Klaus?!" Y/N demanded, yanking her arm free the moment they stopped moving. "You can't just—"
"I can and I will," he interrupted, eyes flashing yellow for a brief second. "You are not parading through the Quarter dressed like that. Not tonight. Not ever."
Y/N's shock quickly gave way to anger, her cheeks flushing nearly as red as her costume.
"Excuse me?" she said, her voice rising. "Who exactly do you think you are to tell me what I can and cannot wear?"
"The man who knows exactly what thoughts will be running through every man's mind when they see you," Klaus shot back, gesturing at her outfit. "The man who will have to restrain himself from ripping out throats all evening."
Y/N crossed her arms, which only served to enhance her cleavage in the corset. A fact that Klaus's narrowed eyes didn't miss.
"It's Halloween, Klaus. Everyone dresses up. Everyone wears costumes. This is New Orleans, for god's sake! Half the women out there will be wearing less than I am."
"They aren't mine," he growled, stepping closer. "They aren't walking around with my scent on their skin, tempting every supernatural creature in the Quarter."
Y/N's eyes widened slightly at his possessive tone, but she stood her ground.
"I am not your property," she said evenly. "And I spent weeks planning this costume. Rebekah helped me pick it out. I'm wearing it."
She turned toward the door, but Klaus was in front of her in an instant, blocking her path.
"Y/N," he said, her name a plea and a warning all at once.
"Move, Klaus," she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.
Something shifted in Klaus's expression then a calculation, a change in strategy. The hard lines of his face softened into something more seductive, his lips curving into that smile that never failed to make her heart beat faster.
"What's the rush, love?" he murmured, stepping closer rather than away. "The night is young. Perhaps we could...start our own celebration. Here."
His hands settled on her waist, thumbs brushing over the boned corset in a way that sent shivers up her spine despite her anger.
"You think you can just seduce me and I'll forget that you were being a controlling ass?" Y/N asked, though she didn't pull away from his touch.
"I think," Klaus replied, his voice dropping to that low, rough register that always affected her, "that there are better ways to spend Halloween than sharing you with the masses."
His lips found her neck, pressing hot kisses along the column of her throat. Y/N's eyes fluttered closed briefly before she caught herself, remembering her indignation.
"Nice try," she said, pushing against his chest. "But I spent too much time on this costume to waste it staying in."
Klaus didn't relent, his hands sliding down to her hips as he walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of their bed.
"The costume is magnificent," he conceded, his eyes darkening with desire. "But I'm afraid there's a problem with it."
Despite herself, Y/N felt curiosity win out over anger.
"What problem?"
"You can't wear it," he stated simply, maneuvering her down onto the mattress and following her down, his body a warm weight above hers.
"Why not?" she challenged, even as her body responded to his proximity.
A wicked gleam entered his eyes. Without warning, he moved down her body, his face level with her thigh. Before she could question what he was doing, Klaus's fangs extended and he deliberately bit into the fishnet stocking, tearing a hole in the delicate material.
"Because it's ripped," he said with mock innocence, looking up at her with a self-satisfied expression.
Y/N stared at him in disbelief, her mouth falling open.
"You did not just—"
Klaus smirked, his finger tracing the newly created tear. "I believe I did."
The sheer audacity of it, the childish possessive gesture, was so unexpected that Y/N found herself speechless for a moment. And then, to both their surprise, she started laughing. It began as a small chuckle and quickly grew into full-bodied laughter that shook the bed.
"You—" she gasped between laughs, "you actually tore my stockings like some jealous teenager!"
Klaus looked momentarily confused by her reaction, clearly having expected continued anger rather than amusement.
"I fail to see what's so humorous about protecting what's mine," he said stiffly, though his lips twitched slightly at the corners.
Y/N's laughter subsided to occasional giggles as she propped herself up on her elbows to look at him properly.
"I see how women look at you all the time, Klaus," she said, her tone softening despite the challenge in her words. "How they flirt with you right in front of me. But I don't rip their throats out, do I?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Perhaps you should," he suggested, only half-joking. "I'd find it rather attractive."
Y/N rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress her smile.
"Of course you would, you bloodthirsty maniac."
Klaus's smile widened as he moved back up her body, caging her between his arms.
"Only for you, love," he murmured, his lips hovering just above hers.
“I guess I'll just have to go out without the stockings” she teases against his lips
Klaus's eyes darkened at her words, his body going perfectly still above hers. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively soft.
"You're testing my patience, sweetheart."
Y/N met his gaze unflinchingly, a mischievous smile playing at her crimson-painted lips. She knew she was pushing him, and part of her, the part that thrived on challenging his control, enjoyed it immensely.
"Am I?" she asked innocently, running her hands up his arms to his shoulders. "I'm just being practical. You ruined my stockings, so I'll have to go without. The rest of the costume is still perfectly intact."
In one fluid motion, Klaus captured both her wrists and pinned them above her head, his face mere inches from hers.
"You think this is a game?" he questioned, his accent thickening as it always did when his emotions ran high.
Y/N arched an eyebrow, refusing to be intimidated despite the delicious shiver that ran down her spine at his possessive words.
"We could compromise," she suggested, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "I'll wear the costume out...and you can take it off me when we get home."
Klaus's grip on her wrists loosened slightly as he considered her words, his eyes traveling slowly down the length of her body before returning to her face.
"A compromise," he repeated, testing the word as if it were foreign to his tongue. "How very diplomatic of you."
Despite his sarcastic tone, Y/N could see the calculation in his eyes. He was weighing his possessiveness against her independence, his desire to keep her hidden away against her clear excitement for the evening ahead.
"I thought you might appreciate the offer," she said, using his momentary consideration to free one of her hands. She brought it to his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with her fingertips. "Besides, don't you want everyone to see that the devil on your arm belongs to you?"
Something darkened in his gaze at her choice of words, belongs to you, and Y/N knew she'd struck the right chord. For all his talk of control and protection, Klaus Mikaelson was fundamentally driven by pride and possession. The idea of parading her through the Quarter, claiming her publicly as his, held undeniable appeal.
"And what else does this compromise entail?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that she could feel against her palm.
Y/N smiled up at him, sensing victory.
"You stay by my side all night," she said. "No disappearing to handle business or terrorize the locals. Just you and me, celebrating Halloween like a normal couple."
Klaus snorted at that. "Normal is hardly a word I'd use to describe us, love."
"As normal as an Original hybrid and his human girlfriend can be," she amended with a roll of her eyes. "What do you say? Do we have a deal?"
Klaus studied her for a long moment, then surprised her by dipping his head to capture her lips in a searing kiss that left her breathless. When he pulled back, his pupils were dilated, a hint of amber rimming the blue-green of his irises.
"On one condition," he said, his free hand sliding down to rest possessively on her hip.
Y/N bit her lower lip, both wary and intrigued. "Which is?"
"When I decide it's time to leave," Klaus stated, his tone making it clear this wasn't negotiable, "we leave. No arguments, no 'just one more drink.' When I say we're done, the night is over."
Y/N considered this for a moment. It wasn't ideal, she hated being told what to do, but she recognized the concession he was making. And truthfully, the thought of ending the night with Klaus tearing off her costume held its own appeal.
"Deal," she agreed, sealing it with another kiss.
Klaus released her wrists completely then, sitting back on his heels to survey the damage he'd done to her stockings. His expression shifted to something almost sheepish. As close to embarrassed as Klaus Mikaelson ever got.
"I may have been...hasty," he admitted, fingering the torn fishnet.
Y/N couldn't help but laugh at his expression. "You think?"
"In my defense," he said, his hand sliding up her thigh in a way that made her breath catch, "you look absolutely ravishing. I'm merely acting on instinct."
"Your instincts need better impulse control," she teased, sitting up and adjusting her corset. "Luckily for you, I packed a spare pair. Rebekah warned me that accidents happen."
Klaus's eyes narrowed slightly at that. "My sister seems to have anticipated my reaction rather well."
"She said, and I quote, 'Nik will either tear them off you himself or tear off the head of anyone who looks at you in them. Best be prepared for either scenario.'"
A reluctant smile tugged at Klaus's lips. "Wise advice."
Y/N slid off the bed, moving to her closet where she retrieved a fresh pair of fishnet stockings. Klaus watched her with hooded eyes as she sat on the edge of the bed and began rolling them up her legs with deliberate slowness.
"You're enjoying this," he accused, though there was no real heat in his words.
"Immensely," she confirmed with a wicked smile, smoothing the stocking up her thigh. "Consider it payback for your little display of caveman behavior."
Klaus moved behind her on the bed, his chest pressing against her back as his arms encircled her waist. His lips found the sensitive spot just below her ear.
"If I'm to be accused of being a caveman," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin, "I might as well earn the title properly."
His hand slid up to cup her breast through the corset, and Y/N leaned back into him, momentarily forgetting about the party waiting downstairs.
"Klaus," she sighed, her eyes fluttering closed. "They're waiting for us."
"Let them wait," he growled, his other hand finding the zipper of her skirt.
A sharp knock on the door interrupted them, followed by Kol's amused voice.
"If you two are quite finished with whatever deviant activities you're engaged in, the rest of us would like to actually enjoy the festivities before midnight. Elijah is beginning to look particularly constipated with impatience."
Klaus growled in frustration, his forehead dropping to rest on Y/N's shoulder.
"I'm going to dagger him. Again."
Y/N laughed, turning in his arms to press a quick kiss to his lips.
"Later," she promised, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Right now, I have a devil costume to show off, and you have a deal to honor."
Klaus sighed dramatically, but released her with one final, possessive squeeze.
"Very well. But remember our agreement, love. When I say it's time to go..."
"We go," Y/N finished for him, standing and adjusting her costume one last time. "I remember. Now come on, your Majesty. Your kingdom awaits."
She had all night to test just how far his newfound patience would stretch. And if the heated look in his eyes was any indication, the devil on her shoulder wasn't the only one with wicked intentions for the evening ahead.
The Quarter was alive with magic and mayhem, the veil between worlds growing thinner as midnight approached. Bourbon Street had transformed into a carnival. Fire dancers twirled flaming batons, tarot readers beckoned from shadowy doorways, and music pulsed from every establishment, spilling revelers onto the crowded streets.
Klaus had kept his word, remaining by Y/N's side throughout the evening. Though his hand never strayed far from her waist, his touch possessive and constant, he'd allowed her to enjoy the festivities. Having drinks at Rousseau's, dancing at several clubs, even indulging her request to have their fortunes told by a witch in Jackson Square (whose eyes had widened in recognition when Klaus approached, her hands trembling slightly as she shuffled her cards).
For her part, Y/N had been mindful of his tolerance, tempering her natural exuberance with occasional reassuring touches and private smiles meant only for him. She'd noticed his jaw tightening whenever other men's gazes lingered too long on her costume, but to his credit, Klaus had restrained himself to mere glares rather than violence.
Until now.
They'd ended up at a crowded nightclub in the heart of the Quarter, where the Halloween festivities had reached a fever pitch. The music was deafening, the dance floor packed with bodies in various states of costumed undress. Rebekah and Kol had disappeared into the crowd, while Elijah had excused himself hours ago, claiming the noise gave him a headache.
Klaus had been tolerating the club scene with remarkable patience, nursing a bourbon at the edge of the dance floor while keeping his eyes fixed on Y/N. She'd been dancing with a group of girls, her movements becoming increasingly uninhibited as the night wore on and the drinks flowed freely.
It was when the DJ switched to a pulsing, bass-heavy remix that things escalated. The crowd roared in approval, and before Klaus could intervene, Y/N had been lifted onto a table by her new friends, the spotlight catching the glitter on her skin as she began to dance above the crowd.
Klaus froze, his glass halting halfway to his lips as he watched her. Y/N moved with natural grace, her body swaying to the hypnotic beat, arms raised above her head. The red corset caught the light, her skin gleaming with a fine sheen of perspiration, her hair wild around her flushed face. She looked like sin incarnate and every eye in the club was on her.
Including those of a group of young vampires Klaus had been watching warily all evening. He recognized them as part of Marcel's newer recruits. Barely a decade into their immortality, still drunk on power and bloodlust. Their leader, a tall vampire with tribal tattoos snaking up his neck, was now moving toward Y/N's table, his intent clear in his hungry expression.
Klaus was across the room in an instant, moving with supernatural speed that would have been noticeable if anyone had been sober enough to pay attention. He materialized at the edge of the table just as the tattooed vampire reached up to offer Y/N his hand.
"The lady is otherwise engaged," Klaus said, his voice deceptively pleasant despite the lethal look in his eyes.
The younger vampire turned, recognition dawning on his face as he realized who he was dealing with.
"Klaus Mikaelson," he acknowledged, dropping his hand but not backing away. "No disrespect intended. Just offering the pretty devil a drink."
"How thoughtful," Klaus replied, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Unfortunately, we were just leaving."
Above them, Y/N continued dancing, either unaware of the tense exchange or deliberately ignoring it. The spotlight caught the curve of her hip as she turned, the small devil tail attached to her skirt swaying with her movements.
Klaus's patience, already stretched thin, finally snapped. Without further preamble, he reached up and wrapped his hands around Y/N's waist, lifting her effortlessly from the table and setting her on her feet beside him.
"Time to go, love," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument despite the endearment.
Y/N blinked up at him, her eyes bright with alcohol and adrenaline.
"But the night's just getting started," she protested, her hands coming to rest on his chest. "One more dance?"
Klaus leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke low enough that only she could hear.
"Our deal, sweetheart. I say when we leave. And we're leaving. Now."
Something in his tone must have penetrated the haze of her excitement, because Y/N's playful expression shifted, her eyes darkening as she registered the barely contained desire in his gaze. She glanced at the tattooed vampire still hovering nearby, then back to Klaus, understanding dawning on her flushed face.
"Jealous?" she whispered, a small smile playing at her lips.
Klaus's hand tightened on her waist, his fingertips pressing into the soft flesh exposed between her corset and skirt.
"Beyond measure," he admitted, his voice rough. "And rapidly losing what little restraint I have left."
Y/N studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, her own desire evident in the way her pulse quickened beneath his touch.
"Lead the way," she conceded, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in a gesture that tested Klaus's already fragile control.
Without another word, Klaus guided her through the crowded club, his hand a possessive brand against her lower back. He didn't bother saying goodbye to Rebekah or Kol. They'd find their own way home, and he had more pressing matters to attend to.
The cool night air hit them as they stepped onto the street, a welcome relief after the stifling heat of the club. Klaus immediately pulled Y/N into a shadowed alcove, pressing her against the brick wall with his body.
"Do you have any idea," he growled, his hands framing her face, "how close I came to tearing out that vampire's throat?"
Y/N's breath caught, her pupils dilating as she stared up at him.
"He was just being friendly," she said, though there was no real defense in her tone. Only a desire to push him further.
"He wanted to drain you dry," Klaus corrected, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Or worse."
"But you wouldn't let him," she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest to link behind his neck. "Because I'm yours."
The possessive pronoun ignited something in Klaus. His mouth crashed down on hers, the kiss brutal and claiming. Y/N responded with equal fervor, her body arching into his, all traces of teasing gone as desire took over.
When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard, Y/N's lipstick smeared across both their mouths like blood.
"Home," Klaus managed, his voice strained. "Now."
He didn't wait for her agreement, simply scooped her into his arms and flashed away from the crowded streets, moving at supernatural speed through the shadows of the French Quarter. The journey that would have taken twenty minutes on foot was over in seconds, the compound's gates slamming shut behind them as Klaus carried Y/N straight up to their bedroom.
The door had barely closed behind them when Klaus had her pinned against it, his hands everywhere at once, greedy and demanding.
"All night," he growled between kisses, "watching you in this costume. Watching others watch you."
Y/N gasped as his teeth scraped down her neck, not breaking the skin but leaving a trail of sensation that made her knees weak.
"You could have stopped me," she breathed, her hands fisting in his shirt.
"And deprive you of your fun?" Klaus pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his own dark with desire. "Never. But now it's my turn."
In one swift motion, he spun her around to face the door, his body pressed against her back, one hand splayed possessively across her stomach while the other gathered her wrists and pinned them above her head.
"Now," he whispered, his lips at her ear, "I believe we had an agreement about what happens to this costume when we got home."
Y/N smiled against the wooden door, anticipation coursing through her veins as she felt Klaus's hands begin to work on the laces of her corset.
"Show me," she challenged softly. "Show me who I belong to."
Klaus's restraint vanished entirely. With deft fingers that betrayed centuries of experience, he attacked the laces of Y/N's corset, his movements urgent and possessive.
"Too many layers between us," he growled against her neck, yanking at the strings until the garment loosened enough for him to peel it away from her body.
Y/N gasped as the cool air hit her exposed skin, but had no time to adjust before Klaus spun her around to face him. His eyes raked over her hungrily, taking in the sight of her bare torso, the red skirt riding low on her hips, and the fishnet stockings that had caused so much contention earlier.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "But still overdressed."
Without warning, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her skirt and ripped it clean off her body, the sound of tearing fabric filling the room. The fishnets followed, shredded beneath his impatient hands until Y/N stood before him in nothing but the small red horns perched atop her tousled hair.
"The horns stay," Klaus decided with a dark smile, his eyes glinting dangerously. "Fitting for what I'm about to do to you."
Y/N's breath quickened, her body responding to the intensity of his gaze. She reached for him, her fingers working at the buttons of his henley.
"You're still fully dressed," she complained, tugging impatiently at the fabric. "Hardly seems fair."
Klaus caught her wrists, stilling her movements with a firm grip.
"Patience, love," he admonished, backing her toward the bed. "Tonight isn't about fair. It's about reminding you exactly who you belong to."
When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, Klaus gave her a gentle push that sent her sprawling onto the bed. Before she could recover, he was on her, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss that left a smear of crimson lipstick across his lips. Y/N smiled against his mouth, deliberately pressing harder, marking him with the vivid red that had drawn his eye all evening.
"Marking your territory?" he asked when he pulled back, one eyebrow raised as his thumb traced the lipstick now smudged across her chin.
"Just evening the score," she replied, her eyes challenging despite her vulnerable position beneath him.
Something dangerous flashed in Klaus's expression. In one fluid movement, he flipped her onto her stomach, his hand coming down on her bare bottom with a sharp slap that echoed in the quiet room.
Y/N gasped, more in surprise than pain, her body jerking beneath him.
"Klaus!"
"That's for the table dancing," he informed her, his palm soothing over the reddened skin before delivering another stinging slap. "And that's for letting that vampire look at you like you were his next meal."
The third slap drew a moan from Y/N, the sensation dancing on the knife's edge between pleasure and pain. Heat bloomed across her skin, radiating outward until her entire body felt flushed with desire.
"And this," Klaus continued, his hand sliding between her legs to find her already wet and wanting, "is for teasing me all night in that devil costume."
His fingers slipped inside her with practiced ease, curling to find the spot that made her arch and cry out his name. Y/N pressed back against his hand, seeking more friction, but Klaus withdrew just as pleasure began to build, leaving her gasping and frustrated.
"Klaus," she pleaded, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. "Don't tease."
His smile was wicked as he leaned down to press a kiss to her shoulder blade.
"But you've been teasing me all night, sweetheart," he reminded her, his fingers returning to trace light circles that never quite gave her what she needed. "Turnabout is fair play."
Again and again he brought her to the edge, his skilled fingers working her body like an instrument he'd spent years learning to play. Each time she approached climax, he would slow or stop entirely, keeping her suspended in a state of desperate need until Y/N was practically sobbing with frustration.
"Please," she finally begged, her pride forgotten in the face of overwhelming desire. "I need you. I need your cock inside me. Please, Klaus."
The sound of his name, broken and desperate on her lips, snapped the last thread of Klaus's control. He shed his clothes in record time, his own need evident in the urgency of his movements. When he finally positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, they both groaned at the contact.
"Tell me who you belong to," Klaus demanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Say it."
"You," Y/N gasped, pushing back against him impatiently. "I'm yours, Klaus. Only yours."
With a growl of satisfaction, Klaus thrust into her in one powerful movement, burying himself to the hilt. Y/N cried out, her body stretching to accommodate him, pleasure washing through her in waves as he set a relentless pace.
The bed frame creaked beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust. Klaus's hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place as he claimed her with a ferocity that bordered on feral.
Just as Y/N felt herself approaching the peak he'd denied her earlier, Klaus suddenly withdrew completely. Before she could protest, he flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and entered her again in one smooth motion.
"I want to see your face when you come," he explained, his voice rough with exertion. "Want to see those pretty eyes when you shatter for me."
Y/N reached up to pull him down for a kiss, deliberately smearing more of her lipstick across his mouth, down his jaw, marking a trail along his throat. The sight of her crimson print on his skin sent a thrill through her. Her own form of possession.
The new angle allowed Klaus to drive deeper, hitting spots that made stars explode behind Y/N's eyelids. She felt her climax building rapidly, unstoppable this time as Klaus maintained his punishing rhythm.
"Klaus," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me, love," he commanded, his own control slipping as he felt her tighten around him. "Let go."
Y/N's orgasm crashed through her with an intensity that bordered on painful, her body arching off the bed as she cried out his name. Klaus watched her face with hungry satisfaction, his pace never faltering as he worked her through the waves of pleasure.
Before she'd fully recovered, he was moving again, lifting her effortlessly from the bed and carrying her to the nearest wall. Y/N instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the cool surface, his cock still buried deep inside her.
"Again," he growled against her throat, his hips driving upward with supernatural strength. "I want to feel you come apart around me again."
The change in position, the solid wall at her back and Klaus's unyielding body at her front, created a delicious friction that had Y/N spiraling toward another peak embarrassingly quickly. Her head fell back against the wall, exposing the column of her throat to Klaus's hungry mouth.
His lips and teeth worked the sensitive skin there, careful not to break the surface despite the temptation of her pulse throbbing just beneath. When he felt her beginning to tighten around him again, Klaus increased his pace, driving into her with an intensity that would have been impossible for a human lover.
"That's it," he encouraged as she shuddered against him, her second orgasm washing through her with almost painful intensity. "So perfect. So mine."
Klaus's own control was slipping, his rhythm becoming erratic as he chased his release. Y/N, sensing his approaching climax, tightened her legs around him and whispered in his ear.
"Let me ride you," she requested, her voice hoarse from crying out. "Let me make you come."
Something in her words must have appealed to him, because Klaus immediately carried her to the armchair in the corner of the room, sitting down with her still impaled on his length. Y/N adjusted her position, her knees on either side of his hips, giving her the leverage to set her own pace.
She started slow, rising and falling on his cock with deliberate movements that made them both gasp. Her hands braced on his shoulders, the little red horns still perched somewhat crookedly in her tangled hair, giving her a debauched appearance that made Klaus's eyes darken with renewed hunger.
"You look absolutely wicked," he told her, his hands guiding her hips as she rode him. "My beautiful little devil."
Y/N smiled down at him, deliberately smearing more lipstick across his jawline as she leaned in to kiss him deeply. By now, the crimson was a mess across both their faces, a visual testament to their passion.
"Only for you," she promised, picking up her pace as she felt him hardening further inside her. "Always for you."
Klaus's hands tightened on her hips, helping her move faster as his own control began to slip. Y/N could feel her third orgasm building, impossibly, the overstimulation bordering on too much but too good to stop.
"Come with me," she urged, grinding down against him in a way that made them both gasp. "Together."
Klaus's restraint finally shattered. With a groan that sounded almost pained, he thrust upward as Y/N came down, their bodies meeting with enough force to make the chair creak beneath them. His release triggered her own, and they clung to each other as pleasure washed through them both, their bodies shuddering in unison.
Afterward, they remained entangled in the chair, Y/N's head resting on Klaus's shoulder as they both struggled to catch their breath. The red horns had finally fallen off, landing somewhere on the floor beside them, and lipstick was smeared across both their faces and bodies like war paint.
"I should make you jealous more often," Y/N murmured against his neck, her voice drowsy with satisfaction.
Klaus's arms tightened around her, his lips pressing against her temple in a surprisingly tender gesture given the ferocity of their lovemaking.
"There are less dangerous ways to get my attention, love," he replied, though there was no real admonishment in his tone. Only contentment.
Y/N lifted her head to look at him, taking in the mess of lipstick across his face with a small smile of satisfaction.
"But none quite so effective," she pointed out, tracing a finger along a particularly vibrant streak of red on his collarbone. "Besides, I rather like seeing you marked by me for a change."
Klaus caught her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that was gentle compared to their earlier passion.
"I've been marked by you since the day we met," he admitted, the rare vulnerability in his voice making Y/N's heart skip a beat. "The lipstick is merely decorative."
Y/N smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly, adding one final smear of crimson to the collection already adorning his face.
"Happy Halloween, Klaus."
His answering smile was equal parts tender and possessive as he pulled her closer against his chest.
"Indeed it is, love. Indeed it is."
🏷️: @ariesandwolves @idontknowwhatimdoinginiife
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One shot | Halloween Special | Masterlist | WC: 3.6K
Summary: Klaus encounters a drunk angel in the quarter, taking her home
The French Quarter pulsed with Halloween energy, the narrow streets filled with revelers in costumes ranging from the predictable to the bizarre. String lights crisscrossed overhead, casting a warm glow on the cobblestones below, while jazz music spilled from open doorways, competing with the laughter and chatter of the crowd.
Klaus Mikaelson moved through this chaos with practiced ease, his expression one of detached amusement as he observed the humans around him. He hadn't bothered with a costume. What was the point when most of the monsters these people dressed as were pale imitations of creatures he'd encountered over his long life?
He paused at the corner of Bourbon Street, considering his options for the evening. He could join his siblings at Rousseau's, where Rebekah had organized some sort of Halloween gathering, or he could find more entertaining prey elsewhere.
His decision was made for him when something, or rather someone, collided with his chest, nearly toppling backward before his reflexes kicked in. His hands shot out automatically, steadying the young woman who had quite literally fallen into his arms.
"Careful, love," he advised, his accent flowing smoothly as he kept her upright. "These streets can be treacherous, especially in those heels."
The woman blinked up at him, her eyes struggling to focus. She was clearly intoxicated, swaying slightly even with his support. Her costume, some sort of golden-winged angel with a flowing white dress, was slightly disheveled, one wing bent at an awkward angle from their collision.
"Oh," she said, her voice carrying the distinctive slur of someone who'd had several drinks too many. "Sorry 'bout that. I didn't see you there."
She made no immediate move to extract herself from his grip, instead tilting her head to study his face with exaggerated concentration. A small furrow appeared between her brows as she squinted up at him.
"Are you supposed to be dressed as Klaus Mikaelson?" she asked suddenly, the question so unexpected that Klaus actually blinked in surprise.
"I beg your pardon?" he responded, genuinely caught off guard—a rare occurrence for the Original hybrid.
The young woman nodded sagely, as if confirming her own suspicion.
"The vampire from the quarter," she elaborated, gesturing vaguely around them. "The Original hybrid. You've got the look down, but..." She leaned in conspiratorially, nearly losing her balance again. "I don't know, you should work on your accent more. It's not quite right."
For a moment, Klaus simply stared at her, torn between amusement and irritation. Then, despite himself, his lips curved into a smile that held genuine humor—another rarity.
"Is that so?" he asked, deliberately emphasizing his accent. "And what, pray tell, is wrong with my accent?"
The woman waved her hand dismissively, oblivious to the fact that she was criticizing the very person she thought he was impersonating.
"It's too... I dunno, forced? Like you're trying too hard." She patted his chest sympathetically. "But the rest is pretty good! The necklaces are a nice touch. Very authentic."
Klaus found himself unexpectedly charmed by her brazen critique and complete lack of self-preservation instincts. Most humans in the Quarter had at least heard rumors about him—enough to give him a wide berth, especially after dark.
"Perhaps I should practice more," he suggested, playing along. "What's your name, angel?"
"Y/N," she replied, attempting a small curtsy that nearly sent her tumbling again. "And I'm not really an angel. It's just a costume."
"I gathered as much," Klaus replied dryly, steadying her once more. "Real angels are far less entertaining."
Y/N's eyes widened comically.
"You've met real angels?" she asked, clearly impressed by his commitment to the role. "Wow, you're really in character. That's dedication."
Before Klaus could respond, Y/N suddenly lurched to the side, her face paling alarmingly.
"Oh no," she mumbled, pressing a hand to her mouth. "I think I'm gonna be—"
With vampire speed that she was too intoxicated to register, Klaus guided her to a nearby alley, just in time for her to empty the contents of her stomach against the brick wall. He grimaced but didn't leave, instead pulling her hair back from her face with unexpected gentleness.
"There, there," he murmured, his tone caught between disgust and reluctant sympathy. "Better out than in, as they say."
When she'd finished, Y/N straightened up shakily, looking mortified despite her drunken state.
"Oh god," she groaned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I just threw up in front of Klaus Mikaelson. Or, you know, a really good cosplayer. Either way, super embarrassing."
Klaus couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here he was, one of the most feared creatures in New Orleans, holding back a drunk woman's hair while she vomited in an alley—and she thought he was in costume.
"I think we can safely say I've seen worse in my thousand years," he assured her, producing a handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her.
Y/N accepted it gratefully, dabbing at her mouth.
"Thanks," she mumbled, then added with a weak laugh, "A thousand years, huh? You don't look a day over 900."
Despite himself, Klaus found his smile widening. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him with such unguarded candor, without fear or ulterior motives.
"Where are your friends, Y/N?" he asked, glancing around the empty alley. "Surely you're not wandering the Quarter alone in this state?"
Y/N's face fell, and she leaned back against the wall, suddenly looking very young and vulnerable.
"They left," she admitted, her voice small. "We had a fight. Something stupid about... I don't even remember now. But they went to another bar and I stayed behind, and then I decided I'd show them I could have fun without them, so I had a few more drinks, and..." She gestured helplessly at herself. "Here I am. Angel with vomit on her dress. Super dignified."
Klaus felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy. He knew all too well what it was like to be abandoned, even if the circumstances were vastly different.
"Well, you can't stay here," he decided, taking in her disheveled appearance and unsteady stance. "Where are you staying? I'll escort you back."
Y/N looked up at him with wide, grateful eyes that made something in Klaus's chest tighten uncomfortably.
"The Hotel Monteleone," she said, then added with a hiccup, "But you don't have to. I'm sure fake Klaus Mikaelson has better things to do on Halloween than babysit a drunk girl."
Klaus offered his arm with a slight bow, his expression a mixture of amusement and something more difficult to define.
"As it happens, I find myself at loose ends this evening," he told her. "And it would be remiss of me to leave a lady in distress, especially one who's offered such helpful critique of my accent."
Y/N giggled, linking her arm through his with more force than necessary as she pushed away from the wall.
"My hero," she declared dramatically, then promptly stumbled again. "Oops. The ground is very...tilty tonight."
"Indeed it is," Klaus agreed solemnly, supporting more of her weight than she probably realized. "Perhaps we should find you some water before we continue. Sobriety is generally helpful when navigating tilty ground."
As they emerged from the alley back onto the crowded street, Klaus found himself strangely protective of the inebriated woman on his arm. It was an unusual feeling. He was far more accustomed to being the predator than the protector.
The walk back from the French Quarter was anything but direct. Y/N weaved unsteadily along the sidewalk, occasionally stopping to admire Halloween decorations or wave at passing revelers, all while maintaining a steady stream of conversation that jumped between topics with dizzying speed. It was an exercise in patience for Klaus, who found himself slowing his pace to accommodate her unsteady gait.
"You know," she announced as they turned onto a quieter residential street, her voice carrying in the night air, "I actually read about you. Or, well, the real Klaus. Not that you're not real! You're just...you know what I mean."
Klaus arched an eyebrow, genuinely curious despite himself.
"Is that so? And what exactly have you read about me—or rather, him?"
"Mmm, lots of things," Y/N nodded sagely, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk before Klaus steadied her. "He's supposed to be this super powerful hybrid. Half vampire, half werewolf. First of his kind."
She looked up at him with wide, earnest eyes.
"But the thing is, everyone talks about how dangerous he is. How scary. But I think..." she lowered her voice to a stage whisper that was likely audible half a block away, "I think he's probably just lonely. I mean, who wouldn't be after a thousand years? Everyone you love either dies or betrays you eventually."
Klaus's steps faltered slightly, caught off guard by her unexpected insight.
"That's...an interesting perspective," he managed, his tone carefully neutral. "Most people focus on the more violent aspects of his reputation."
"Well, yeah," Y/N waved her free hand dismissively, "but that's boring. Bad guy does bad things, news at eleven. I'm more interested in the why. No one just wakes up and decides to be the villain, you know? Something makes them that way."
She stumbled again, and Klaus tightened his grip on her arm to keep her upright.
"Careful, love," he murmured, the endearment slipping out automatically.
"See! That's good," Y/N exclaimed, brightening. "The 'love' thing. Very Klaus-like. You're getting better at this."
Klaus couldn't help the genuine laugh that escaped him.
"I'm pleased to have your approval," he said dryly. "I do strive for authenticity."
Before Klaus could respond to this observation, Y/N suddenly changed course, tugging him down a side street.
"This way," she announced. "I don't actually live at the Monteleone. That's just where my friends are staying. I have an apartment over on Dauphine. It's not far."
Klaus raised an eyebrow but allowed himself to be redirected.
"And you thought it wise to give a stranger, one dressed as a notorious vampire no less, your actual address?" he asked, genuinely curious about her reasoning.
Y/N waved dismissively, nearly hitting a streetlamp in the process.
"You're not a stranger anymore," she declared with drunk logic. "We've been talking for like...forever. Plus, you held my hair while I threw up. That's basically a friendship blood oath."
"A friendship blood oath," Klaus repeated, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. "I suppose by that standard, we're practically family."
"Exactly!" Y/N beamed up at him, her smile bright enough that it momentarily distracted from her smudged makeup and disheveled costume."Besides, I'm an excellent judge of character. You might be dressed as the scariest vampire in New Orleans, but you're actually nice."
Something flickered in Klaus's eyes at that. A brief unreadable expression that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"Am I now?" he asked softly. "You might be the first person in centuries to think so."
"It's this building," Y/N announced suddenly, gesturing to a three-story brick apartment building with a small stoop. "Second floor, apartment 2B. For 'Bee,' because I keep telling my roommate we should get a pet bee, but she says that's not a thing people do."
"A wise decision on her part," Klaus commented, helping her up the steps. "Bees generally prefer the company of other bees."
"You're smart," Y/N informed him solemnly as she fumbled in her small purse for her keys. "I like smart people. Everyone thinks I'm just a pretty face, you know? But I'm getting my master's in art history. Focusing on Renaissance portraiture. That's actually why I know about Klaus. There are rumors he was a patron of several Italian artists."
This revelation genuinely surprised Klaus. Most humans who knew of him focused solely on the supernatural aspects of his existence, not his contributions to art history.
"Is that right?" he asked, watching as she finally extracted her keys with a triumphant "Aha!"
"Mm-hmm," she confirmed, struggling to fit the key into the lock until Klaus gently took it from her hand and did it for her. "There are these paintings from the 1500s that some people think he commissioned. The brushwork is incredible. I'd love to see them someday."
Klaus turned the key, a strange warmth spreading through his chest at her words. Those paintings were currently hanging in the east wing of the Mikaelson compound, away from the prying eyes of visitors.
"Perhaps you will," he said softly, more to himself than to her.
The door swung open, and Y/N immediately kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief, wobbling slightly as she stepped into the apartment.
"Home sweet home," she declared, flicking on the lights to reveal a cozy, if somewhat cluttered, living space. Books were stacked on nearly every surface, and the walls were covered with art prints and photographs. "My roommate's out of town for the weekend. Visiting her boyfriend in Atlanta."
She turned back, confusion crossing her face when she realized Klaus was still standing in the doorway, one hand resting against an invisible barrier that prevented him from entering.
"What are you doing?" she asked, tilting her head in puzzlement. "Aren't you coming in?"
Klaus maintained his position, a small smile playing at his lips.
"I'm waiting to be invited," he explained, his tone deliberately light. "It's only proper."
Y/N stared at him for a moment before understanding dawned on her face, followed by a delighted giggle.
"Oh my god," she laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Wow, you're really committing to this vampire bit, aren't you? That's dedication to the costume."
She made an exaggerated sweeping gesture toward the interior of the apartment.
"Please, come in, Mr. Mikaelson," she invited with mock formality, adding a wobbly curtsy for good measure. "My humble abode is yours to enter."
Klaus stepped across the threshold with measured steps, his eyes briefly scanning the apartment for threats out of long-established habit.
"Thank you for your hospitality," he replied, matching her formal tone with a slight bow that made her giggle again.
"You're funny," she informed him, swaying slightly where she stood. "I didn't expect Klaus Mikaelson to be funny. In the stories, he's always so serious and murdery."
"Perhaps the stories don't tell the whole truth," Klaus suggested, closing the door behind him. ""Let me get you some water," Klaus said, spotting the kitchenette and moving toward it. "You'll thank me in the morning."
Y/N waved a hand dismissively but didn't protest, instead making her way to the couch where she collapsed with a dramatic sigh.
"My wings are killing me," she complained, reaching awkwardly behind her back to try and unfasten the now-bedraggled angel wings.
Klaus returned with a glass of water, setting it on the coffee table before moving to help her with the troublesome costume piece.
"Allow me," he offered, deftly unfastening the harness that held the wings in place.
"My hero," Y/N sighed, relief evident in her voice as the cumbersome accessory was removed. "Those things are way heavier than they look."
She accepted the water when Klaus handed it to her again, taking a few reluctant sips before setting it aside. When she looked up at him, her expression had shifted, a hint of something warmer in her gaze.
"You know," she said, patting the spot beside her on the couch, "you're really handsome. Has anyone ever told you that you look like the real thing?"
Klaus sat beside her, maintaining a respectful distance that Y/N immediately eliminated by scooting closer.
"The real thing?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well what she meant.
"Klaus Mikaelson," she clarified, reaching out to touch one of his necklaces."The actual vampire. Not that anyone knows what he really looks like, I guess. But the stories all say he's hot."
A smirk tugged at the corner of Klaus's mouth.
"Do they now?" he asked, genuinely amused by this revelation. "And what other insights do these stories provide about the fearsome Original hybrid?"
Y/N's fingers moved from his necklace to trace along his jawline, her inhibitions clearly lowered by the alcohol still coursing through her system.
"They say he's dangerous," she murmured, her voice dropping to what she probably intended to be a seductive whisper. "Powerful. That he's lived for a thousand years and seen everything. Done everything."
Her hand slid to his chest, her intentions becoming increasingly obvious.
"But I bet there are still some things that would surprise him," she added with a clumsy attempt at a wink.
Klaus caught her wrist gently, stilling her wandering hand.
"Y/N," he said softly, his accent wrapping around her name in a way that made her shiver despite his rebuff, "you're in no state for the kind of surprise you're suggesting."
She pouted, the expression making her look even younger than she was.
"I'm not that drunk," she protested, the slur in her words contradicting her claim. "And you're hot, and it's Halloween, and—" She yawned suddenly, the action seemingly taking her by surprise. "And I'm...actually really tired."
Klaus chuckled, releasing her wrist to brush a strand of hair from her face.
"I believe that's my cue to help you to bed," he said, standing and offering her his hand. "To sleep," he added firmly when her expression brightened.
Y/N sighed dramatically but accepted his help, swaying slightly as she got to her feet.
"You're no fun," she complained, even as she leaned heavily against him. "But fine. Bedroom's through there."
She pointed toward a door off the main living area, and Klaus guided her toward it with gentle efficiency. The bedroom was small but neat, with a double bed covered in an array of pillows and a colorful quilt.
"I should change," Y/N mumbled, looking down at her costume with a frown. "Can't sleep in this."
Before Klaus could suggest he wait outside, she reached behind herself for the zipper of her dress, struggling with it for several seconds before looking at him with pleading eyes.
"Help?" she asked, turning to present her back to him.
Klaus hesitated briefly before stepping forward to assist, carefully lowering the zipper only as far as necessary for her to manage the rest herself.
"There you are," he said, stepping back immediately. "I'll wait outside while you change."
Y/N turned back to face him, holding the front of her dress in place with one hand while the other reached for him.
"Or you could stay," she suggested, her attempt at a sultry look somewhat undermined by another massive yawn. "Help me out of this dress properly..."
Klaus took her hand and placed a gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Another time, perhaps," he said smoothly. "When you're less likely to fall asleep mid-seduction."
As if to prove his point, Y/N's eyelids drooped heavily, and she swayed on her feet.
"I'm not going to fall asleep," she protested, even as she sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "I'm just resting my eyes for a second."
Klaus smiled, shaking his head slightly as he backed toward the door.
"Of course," he agreed. "Just call when you're changed."
He closed the bedroom door behind him, listening with enhanced hearing as Y/N mumbled to herself while presumably attempting to change. There was a thud, likely her dropping something, followed by a soft curse, then the unmistakable sound of her collapsing onto the bed.
After a minute of silence, Klaus knocked gently on the door.
"Y/N?" he called softly. "Are you decent?"
When no response came, he eased the door open to find her sprawled across the bed, still partially in her costume but with a t-shirt haphazardly pulled over the top, fast asleep. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing deep and even, her earlier seduction attempt clearly forgotten.
Klaus couldn't help but laugh softly at the sight. He moved quietly into the room, carefully removing her remaining shoes and pulling the quilt over her sleeping form. He placed a glass of water and some pain relievers he found in her bathroom on the nightstand that she would undoubtedly need them in the morning.
As he straightened, his gaze caught on a sketchbook lying open on her desk. Curiosity piqued, he moved closer, examining the drawing that was visible. It was a surprisingly skilled rendition of the French Quarter at sunset, the detail impressive even to his discerning eye.
"Talented little thing, aren't you?" he murmured, glancing back at her sleeping form.
Y/N stirred slightly but didn't wake, her breathing already deepening into the rhythm of sleep. Klaus watched her for a moment longer, an unfamiliar protective instinct stirring in his chest.
He should leave now. He'd done his good deed for the decade, escorting a drunk human safely home. There was no reason to linger.
Yet something compelled him to take a piece of paper from her desk and scribble a brief note, which he left propped against the water glass he placed on her nightstand, alongside two more aspirin.
With one last look at her peaceful face, Klaus slipped silently from the room and out of the apartment, closing the door securely behind him. The night was still young, and he had his own affairs to attend to.
But as he walked away, he found himself smiling at the thought of Y/N waking tomorrow, reading his note, and realizing that perhaps her "fake Klaus Mikaelson" hadn't been so fake after all.
The note read simply:
Y/N,
Your critique of my accent has been duly noted. Perhaps next time we meet, I'll have improved it to your satisfaction. Until then, drink water, take the aspirin, and do try to be more careful about who you stumble into on Halloween night. Not everyone in the Quarter is as gentlemanly as I.
