Klaus Mikaelson Finding Out You Are His Mate After Unleashing His Hybris Curse But You Are Apart Of Elena’s Group

❥ WARNINGS: fluff, angst, betrayal, mate, werewolf themes, supernatural themes, errors I missed.

Summary: Y/N was with her brother Stefan during the 1920s and fell for Klaus easily. For the first time in a long time, Klaus felt more than just lust. But all of that had to be forgotten when Mikael came. Still, Y/N can feel the bond when he returns to Mystic Falls.

One shot | Established Relationship | Fluff | Masterlist | WC: 5K

Summary: You have a tradition of writing letters to your loved ones on New Years Eve. Klaus did not expect to recieve one.

a/n: Technically could be part 4 to Angel but could also be a one shot :)

Enjoy and Happy New Years!

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚

The alley reeked of garbage and fear.

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.

until you feel again | k.m

⎯⎯“I’d give you my centuries if it meant I could hear that sound again. Just once.”

warnings: desperate!klaus, turned-off humanity, angst with comfort, grief, emotional detachment, self-destructive behavior,

The rain had been falling for hours — not in torrents, but in the kind of steady, mournful rhythm that blurred the line between time and stillness. Outside, the city exhaled through the storm, the glow of streetlamps fractured by the downpour, their light spilling like gold across the flooded cobblestones.

Inside, the house was dark.

Not the peaceful kind of dark — but the hollow kind. The kind that swallowed the sound of clocks and footsteps and laughter, the kind that made the walls feel too far apart, as if everything inside had forgotten how to breathe.

She sat where she had been for days — in the armchair by the window, unmoving, unmoved. The curtains were half-drawn, rainlight flickering faintly across her face, catching on skin that looked almost carved from stone. Her eyes were open, but empty. No tears. No tremor of breath. The world had gone colorless. Her veins felt full of still water.

Once, she had been warmth and motion, laughter spilling over like wine. Now, she was silence.

Klaus stood in the doorway, watching her.

He had seen devastation before — the kind that leveled villages and burned cities to ash — but nothing compared to this quiet, this unbearable vacancy that had stolen her away from him.

“Love,” he said softly, voice cutting through the quiet like candlelight through fog.

No response. Not even a blink.

He tried again, stepping closer this time. “It’s late. You should rest.”

The words fell flat, small against the enormity of the stillness.

He crossed the room slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace she had built around her grief. The fire had burned out long ago, leaving the hearth cold and gray. A single candle still struggled on the table beside her, its wax pooled and dripping over the silver holder like melted bone.

Klaus stopped just beside her chair. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He only looked at her — the curve of her face, the faint flicker of her lashes, the emptiness in her eyes.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her temple. She didn’t move.

“Please,” he whispered, voice breaking on the edge of something raw. “Say something.”

Nothing.

It was like calling into a void and hearing your own voice come back.

He crouched beside her then, his knees pressing into the rug, the flickering candlelight catching on the gold of his hair. He searched her face for any sign — a twitch, a breath, a heartbeat that remembered how to ache.

But there was only silence.

And so he whispered her name. Once. Twice. Again. Each time softer, until it barely left his lips — a prayer, a plea, a memory of sound meant for someone who could no longer hear it.

Outside, thunder rolled low and distant, echoing like grief through the bones of the house.

And still, she did not answer.

༊*·˚

The days that followed were colorless. The light through the windows had lost its warmth, the gold turned to ash. Even the air inside the mansion had changed — it no longer carried the scent of old books and candle smoke and her perfume, only stillness. The kind of stillness that clings. That haunts.

Klaus had stopped counting the hours. The sun rose and fell, the moon replaced it, and still she wandered. Barefoot sometimes. Silent always.

She didn’t sleep anymore. Didn’t read, didn’t hum, didn’t reach for him in the way she used to. She simply drifted from room to room as if retracing the shape of a life she no longer lived.

The first time she fed, he pretended not to notice. It was late — the smell of blood laced faintly through the hall when she returned, her sleeves rolled up, her hair slightly undone. He said nothing, only watched her pass.

But then it happened again. And again.

The killings weren’t messy, not exactly. They were deliberate, methodical — as if she were cleaning something, wiping away a stain no one else could see. She fed without hunger. She killed without pleasure. It was function, not feeling. And that, somehow, was worse.

When he found her one night in an alley off Royal Street, the world around her looked like a painting drained of pigment. The cobblestones slick with rain, the body at her feet still warm. She stood in the middle of it all — beautiful, silent, and utterly indifferent. The blood on her hands glistened black beneath the gaslight.

Klaus stepped closer, his boots breaking the puddles, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “Enough.”

She didn’t even look up at first. Only tilted her head slightly, as if the command were a noise she couldn’t quite place. “I’m fine,” she murmured.

“You’re not,” he said, sharper now. “You’re lost.”

“I’m not lost,” she corrected him, finally lifting her gaze. Her eyes were like glass — no reflection, no warmth, just the faintest flicker of something cold. “I just stopped pretending.”

His jaw tightened. “Pretending to what?”

“To care.”

The words hung in the air, flat and unburdened. No cruelty in them, no emotion at all. That was what made them monstrous.

Klaus moved toward her, the rain catching in his hair, his coat heavy with it. He wanted to shake her, to pull her out of this stillness, to make her feel something — anger, grief, anything. But her body did not flinch when he reached for her arm.

“Come home,” he said instead. His voice softened. “Please. Let me take care of you.”

Her face remained blank, her eyes drifting past him toward nothing. “Why?”

“Because I love you.”

She blinked once, slowly. “Then stop.”

It was not meant to wound — there was no intent left in her. She spoke like one describing the weather.

The glass in his hand shattered against the wall before he realized he’d thrown it. Whiskey ran in rivers down the plaster, pooling darkly at the baseboards.

The silence afterward was absolute.

Klaus stood there, chest heaving, hand bloodied from the shards. For a moment, he hated the sound of his own breath — the proof that he was still alive, still feeling, when she wasn’t.

When he looked back at her, the fury was gone. What remained was ruin. “Do you think I haven’t lost, too?” His voice broke mid-sentence. “Do you think you’re the only one who bleeds for what’s gone?”

She only stared. Unblinking. Detached. The candlelight flickered in her eyes, but nothing lived behind it.

And he knew then — the cruelty of it — that she wasn’t punishing him. She simply wasn’t there.

It was the quietest kind of horror, watching the woman he loved still standing, still breathing, but emptied of everything that made her human.

And as she turned to leave, her silhouette disappearing into the long, cold hall, he realized what frightened him most wasn’t that she’d stopped feeling.

It was that she might never want to start again.

༊*·˚

He waited until the sky softened — until dawn stretched pale and aching across New Orleans, the mist still clinging to the river like breath that refused to fade. It was the hour when even the city seemed to hold its pulse, when the living slept and the dead remembered.

That was when Klaus brought her there.

To the place that had once been theirs.

The lake lay beyond the edge of the Quarter, still and silver in the early light. The air smelled of damp earth and cypress, the scent of memory buried beneath the fog. He remembered the first time he had brought her here — how she had laughed when the wind caught her hair, how she had traced shapes in the water with her fingers, claiming the reflection of the moon as her own.

Now, she stood beside him, silent and unseeing, the hem of her dress brushing against the reeds. Her reflection wavered on the surface — perfect and hollow, like a ghost.

Klaus said nothing for a long time. The quiet between them felt sacred, brittle. He didn’t want to shatter it, but silence had never saved anyone.

“Do you remember this place?” he asked finally, his voice barely more than a breath.

Her eyes shifted toward the water but gave nothing away. “It’s a lake.”

He swallowed hard. “It’s our lake, love.”

No reaction.

He tried again, stepping closer, his hands deep in his coat pockets as if to keep them from trembling. “You came here one night in the middle of winter. Said you wanted to see if the moon could freeze.”

Still nothing. Just the wind.

He laughed softly — not because it was funny, but because it hurt. “You told me you thought it looked lonely. The moon, I mean. ‘All that light,’ you said, ‘and no one to share it with.’”

The corner of her mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. A ghost of something.

He pressed on. “You used to hum here. Some little tune I never could place. You’d get angry when I tried to guess it wrong on purpose.”

Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing as if reaching through the fog in her own mind.

“I remember,” she said at last, the words faint and distant, as though she were speaking through glass.

Klaus turned to her, hope flickering in his chest like a dying candle. “What do you remember?”

Her brows drew together. “Not much. Just… the sound. The water.” She paused, the faintest crease appearing between her eyes. “I think… I laughed.”

He exhaled shakily, the sound catching somewhere between a sob and a sigh.

“You did,” he said softly. “You laughed until you cried. You told me you hadn’t felt that free in years.” His throat tightened, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I’d give you my centuries if it meant I could hear that sound again. Just once.”

For a moment, she looked at him — really looked — her expression caught somewhere between confusion and recognition. The smallest tremor passed through her, as though the weight of what he said had brushed against something deep inside her chest.

Her gaze dropped to the water, where their reflections stood side by side — his dark and steady, hers faint, like the memory of light.

Something shifted then. Not much. But enough.

When the wind passed over the surface of the lake, she blinked, and for just an instant, the ache in her eyes was real. Not feeling — not yet — but the echo of it. A remembering.

Klaus saw it. He felt it. And for the first time in weeks, hope didn’t feel like a cruelty.

༊*·˚

The night had turned colder. Clouds drifted low and heavy across the moon, shrouding the lake in shades of iron and ash. The air was sharp enough to bite, carrying the scent of rain, of earth, of something ending.

She stood at the edge of the water, her reflection fractured in its surface — a woman divided between being and not. Her face was serene, unnervingly so, untouched by the tremor of the wind or the ache that threaded through the world around her. Even her stillness felt wrong, like an echo that had forgotten the sound it came from.

Klaus lingered a few steps behind her, his breath uneven, his eyes hollow with sleeplessness. The edges of him were frayed — tie loosened, shirt untucked, the faintest smear of blood along his wrist where glass had once broken. He looked like a man coming apart at the seams, but quietly, as if afraid that making a sound might break her further.

He had been patient. He had begged in whispers and in silence. He had tried gentleness and fury alike. But nothing reached her.

“Do you remember,” he began, his voice low and careful, “how you used to say the night felt like a heartbeat?”

She did not turn.

“You said the darkness was alive — that it wasn’t absence but rhythm. That it was the sound of the world breathing.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the water. “That sounds like something foolish I would have said.”

“It wasn’t foolish,” he said softly, almost to himself. “It was… beautiful.”

He stepped closer, the gravel crunching faintly beneath his boots. “You saw things as they were meant to be seen. You found beauty in ruin. You—” He stopped, breath catching. “You made all of this mean something.”

A pause. Then her voice, smooth and empty: “Meaning is overrated.”

The words struck like frost.

Klaus’s jaw tensed, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He took another step forward, until the reflection of his figure merged with hers in the water. “Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Erase yourself.” His tone frayed on the edges — neither command nor plea, but something desperate between. “You think if you stop caring, you’ll stop hurting. But it doesn’t work like that.”

Her head tilted, almost curious. “You’d know.”

He let out a sound — not quite a laugh, too bitter to be one. “Aye. I’d know.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “You think turning it off makes you untouchable. But I can see it, love. The cracks. The way you can’t look at me for too long. The way your hands still shake when you think I’m not watching.”

She finally turned, her expression unreadable. “What do you want from me, Klaus?”

The question broke something in him.

The answer came not as words but as movement. He stepped forward — two strides, maybe three — until he was right before her, close enough that her cold breath mingled with his. “I want you,” he said, voice low, frayed, trembling despite his restraint. “I want the sound of your laugh, the warmth in your eyes, the part of you that made me believe in something better than this endless, bloody world.”

Her silence was worse than anger.

“You were the only thing that ever made eternity bearable,” he whispered. “And now you’re gone, but you’re still here, and I—”

The words cut off. His composure faltered.

Klaus’s knees hit the wet earth before he even realized he’d fallen. Mud stained the fabric of his trousers, cold seeping into him, but he didn’t care. He reached for her hands, holding them as though anchoring himself to something that might vanish if he let go.

“If you’re gone,” he said, voice cracking, “then what am I supposed to be, love?”

She stood motionless, her gaze on him — not cruel, not tender, simply vacant.

He swallowed hard, tears bright in his eyes, though they refused to fall. “You made me more than this—don’t you remember?” His words broke apart like glass underfoot. “You made me want to be more. You made this wretched existence mean something.”

Still, nothing.

And so he bowed his head. His hands, once unyielding, trembled as he pressed his forehead against her palm — then lower, to her chest, where her heart beat slow and unfeeling beneath his lips.

“Come back to me,” he breathed. “Please. Come back.”

The world went silent. Even the wind stopped.

Klaus could hear only the sound of his own breath — ragged and broken — and the lake’s slow rhythm against the shore. The silence that followed stretched thin as glass, the kind that begged to break.

And then, somewhere within that quiet, something shifted.

It was faint at first — a tremor, a shiver that began deep within her chest, so subtle she almost mistook it for the wind. But it wasn’t. It was inside her. It was the world waking up inside her body, one unbearable heartbeat at a time.

Her veins burned. It was not warmth, not yet. It was fire — slow, cruel fire — spreading through the hollows where numbness had made its home. Every nerve flared awake. Every memory she had buried clawed its way to the surface. The silence in her mind cracked, and through it came sound: laughter, music, the whisper of her name in his voice, the echo of the one she lost — and oh, how it hurt.

It hurt like being reborn.

Her body trembled, knees giving way, and Klaus’s arms were already there, pulling her against him before she fell. His coat was cold, soaked through with mist and grief, and still he held her like she was the only thing keeping him from collapsing too.

The tears came slowly at first — uninvited, unfamiliar — and then all at once. They burned down her cheeks, fierce and endless, the taste of salt and ache flooding her mouth as she buried her face against his chest.

She could feel again. And feeling was agony.

Every loss she had tried to outrun came roaring back: the faces, the laughter that would never return, the stillness after the screams. It ripped through her like shrapnel, tearing through every wall she’d built. Her heart convulsed beneath his hand, desperate and erratic, like it couldn’t decide whether to beat or to break.

Klaus murmured her name again, voice trembling but steady, grounding her. “That’s it,” he whispered, his hand cradling the back of her head. “That’s it, love. Let it hurt. Let it all come back.”

She shook her head against him, gasping through sobs that felt too big for her lungs. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, the words fraying at the edges. “You’re stronger than this. Stronger than me.”

Her fingers twisted in his shirt, clutching it as though she could stop the tide by holding on tighter. “It hurts,” she choked out, voice raw.

“I know.” His lips brushed her temple, the whisper breaking on her skin. “God help me, I know.”

The world around them blurred — the trees, the lake, the night itself. There was only the sound of her grief, spilling out in broken waves, and the way he held her through every one.

Klaus’s hand moved up and down her back in slow, desperate rhythm, not to soothe, but to say I’m here, I’m still here.

And beneath the noise of her sobbing, something began to mend.

It was quiet — fragile as the space between heartbeats — but it was real. The same light that had gone out in her eyes weeks ago began to flicker again, faint and trembling. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t peace. It was something older, something truer — the first spark of life returning to its body.

When she finally spoke, her voice was nothing more than a whisper, scraped raw. “I’m sorry.”

Klaus stilled. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t speak. Then he tilted his head down, brushing a strand of hair from her face with fingers that shook. “Don’t be,” he murmured. “You’re here. That’s all I ever needed.”

Her breathing hitched, uneven, but her arms found their way around him, clinging as though anchoring herself to something solid, something living. He felt her heart against his chest — fractured, but beating.

The dawn came slowly, washing the lake in pale gold. The light touched them both — him still kneeling in the mud, her trembling in his arms — and the world exhaled with them.

thank you for the req my angel! I hope you liked it as much as I did <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.

Vampire Diaries/The Originals Preferences Masterlist

You Get Hurt❤️‍🩹

He Confesses He Loves You During an Argument❤️‍🔥

TRICKS AND TREATS

Pairing(s): Klaus Mikaelson x Fem!witch!reader, Platonic!Mikaelsons x Fem!witch!reader

FLUFFTOBER 2025 , MASTER POST , TVDU MASTERLIST

Vampire Diaries Preferences - You Get Hurt❤️‍🩹

Characters: Damon Salvatore, Stefan Salvatore, Jeremy Gilbert, Enzo St. John, Kai Parker, Klaus Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson, Kol Mikaelson

Damon Salvatore

🖤Damon doesn’t panic easily — he’s seen too much, lost too many. But the second he smells blood and realizes it’s yours, the calm is gone. His whole world narrows to you

🖤“No, no, no…” he mutters, hands already pressing against the wound, movements jerky and desperate. His voice breaks in a way it rarely does. You’ve never heard him sound afraid like this

🖤anger is his first instinct — anger at whoever hurt you, at himself for not stopping it. The fury simmers under his skin, but right now, keeping you breathing is the only thing that matters

🖤he pulls you into his arms, muttering sharp words half to you, half to himself. “You’re fine. You’re going to be fine, sweetheart. You don’t get to check out on me, got it?”

🖤the sarcasm and charm are gone. All that’s left is Damon — raw, pleading, terrified. He presses his forehead to yours, whispering your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded

🖤when he brings you to safety, his movements are a blur of panic and precision. He’s done this before, but never with someone he couldn’t bear to lose. Every second feels like a lifetime

🖤once you’re stable, the rage returns. His voice goes cold, his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. “Tell me who did it.” It isn’t a question — it’s a death sentence waiting to be carried out

🖤he doesn’t leave your side after that. Not for food, not for rest. He stays close enough to feel your pulse, needing proof that you’re still here

🖤when you finally wake, he’s quieter than you expect. No jokes, no bravado — just a low, rough voice: “You scared the hell out of me”

🖤you try to reassure him, but he shakes his head, jaw tight. “Don’t. Don’t pretend it’s fine. I almost lost you.” The vulnerability in his tone hurts worse than any wound

🖤his hands tremble when he touches you, even if he hides it. He keeps brushing his thumb along your wrist, tracing your pulse like he’s memorizing it

🖤later, when you’re resting, he steps outside. No one sees what he does next — but there’s blood on his hands when he returns, eyes calmer, voice soft again. “No one’s going to touch you ever again”

🖤he doesn’t apologize for what he’s done. He never will. Protecting you, even violently, is the only way he knows how to love

🖤when you confront him about it later, he just smirks faintly, masking the fear behind his words: “You can hate me for it, but at least you’re still here to do it"

🖤that night, he holds you tighter than he ever has. No words, no teasing. Just Damon — silent, watchful, his hand tangled in yours. Every time you stir, he whispers softly, “i’ve got you.” And he means it — for the first time in his long life, he truly means it

Stefan Salvatore

🤍the moment he sees the blood, Stefan freezes for a fraction of a second. Then every trace of calm vanishes and the ripper instinct claws at him—but love wins. He forces the hunger down, every muscle shaking with restraint

🤍he’s at your side before you can blink, voice low but steady. “Hey, hey, stay with me, okay? Look at me.” He keeps your eyes on his, using his calm to keep you conscious

🤍he presses his hands over the wound, careful, measured. His control is terrifyingly precise, but his eyes are pure panic

🤍if you’re slipping in and out of consciousness, he murmurs small reassurances—stories, memories, anything to keep you tethered. “Remember the first time you made me laugh? You’re still the only one who can do that”

🤍when he gets you to safety, he’s already covered in your blood and doesn’t notice. Damon has to tell him to clean up; he refuses to move until he knows you’ll live

🤍once you’re stable, guilt hits hard. Stefan’s convinced it’s his fault—he should’ve been faster, stronger, better. He whispers, “I promised I’d protect you,” like it’s a vow he’s broken

🤍he sits by your bedside through the night, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Sometimes he talks quietly, sometimes just watches the rise and fall of your breathing

🤍when you wake, he’s instantly alert, leaning forward, voice trembling just slightly: “Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe now.” Relief floods his face, softening every line of worry

🤍you reach for his hand, and he exhales shakily. “You have no idea how scared I was,” he admits, brushing your knuckles with his thumb

🤍if you try to downplay it, he shakes his head. “Don’t. You don’t have to be strong for me. I’d rather you let me be strong for you”

🤍Stefan isn’t violent by nature, but when he finds the person who hurt you, his control fractures. The calm disappears, replaced by something cold and lethal. He won’t kill them recklessly, but he’ll make sure they’ll never come near you again

🤍afterwards, he hates himself for that flicker of darkness. He returns to you quieter, more tender, needing to remind himself that you’re the light that keeps him human

🤍he insists on taking care of everything—bandaging you, making tea, staying up until he’s certain you’re sleeping peacefully

🤍when you wake later, his head is resting beside you on the mattress, fingers still wrapped around yours. Even in sleep, his grip doesn’t loosen

🤍the next morning, he’s gentler than ever—soft voice, faint smile. “You scared me, you know.” There’s no lecture, no dramatics, just Stefan’s quiet honesty: “I can’t lose you. Not again. Not ever"

Jeremy Gilbert

❤️the instant he realizes you’re hurt, Jeremy’s stomach drops. It’s like the world just stops for a second — every sound dulls, every heartbeat feels too loud

❤️his first instinct isn’t anger, it’s fear. He’s been through too much loss to handle the thought of losing you too. “No, no, you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay,” he repeats, as if saying it enough will make it true

❤️he’s shaking as he lifts you into his arms, whispering, “stay with me, please,” over and over. The way his voice cracks when he says it would break anyone’s heart

❤️once he gets you somewhere safe, he doesn’t let go — one hand keeps pressure on the wound, the other holds yours like it’s his lifeline

❤️if someone else tries to help, he bristles instantly. “I’ve got her!” It takes a firm voice (probably Elena or Stefan) to convince him to let the others help

❤️when the danger finally passes, the adrenaline wears off and he’s left trembling. He sits beside your bed, blood on his hands, staring blankly until you stir

❤️“You scared me,” he admits when you wake, voice hoarse. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes

❤️Jeremy blames himself completely — even if it wasn’t his fault. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you.” The guilt eats at him quietly

❤️when you try to reassure him, he just shakes his head, eyes full of tears he’s too proud to let fall. “You don’t get it. You’re… you’re my person. I can’t go through that again”

❤️that night, he refuses to leave your side. He stays sitting on the floor next to the bed, head leaning against the mattress, just listening to you breathe

❤️if you move or wince in pain, he’s instantly awake, panicking: “Hey, hey, are you okay? What hurts?” His worry never turns into frustration — only care

❤️he kisses your forehead softly when you finally fall back asleep, whispering, “i’ve got you. I swear, I’ve got you”

❤️later, when you’re better, he’s still protective — walking you home, checking on you constantly, making bad jokes to hide how scared he still is

❤️“You’re stuck with me now,” he teases one day, but there’s truth beneath it. He never wants to feel that fear again, and he’d do anything to keep you safe

❤️deep down, he realizes that loving you means accepting that fear — and he does, because to Jeremy Gilbert, love is worth the risk every single time

Enzo St. John

🤎the second Enzo smells blood or hears you cry out, he’s gone. Everything else—logic, self-control, even his usual wit—vanishes. The vampire in him takes over, fueled by fear more than rage

🤎“Where is she?” His voice is low, dangerous, the kind of quiet that makes everyone else in the room flinch. He’s already halfway to you before anyone answers

🤎when he finds you hurt, something in him breaks. His bravado crumbles, eyes wild and desperate. “No, no, no, love—stay with me. Look at me.” His accent thickens with panic

🤎he cradles you like you’re made of glass, muttering under his breath—half curses, half pleas. “Who did this to you?” comes out more like a growl than a question

🤎if someone hurt you on purpose, there’s no negotiation. He’ll hunt them down later. Right now, all his focus is on you. “I’ll deal with them. You just breathe, alright?”

🤎when he presses his hand to your wound, his touch is trembling but gentle. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t you dare give up on me now"

🤎once you’re safe, his hands don’t leave you—one on your cheek, one gripping yours tightly. He talks to fill the silence, mostly to keep himself from spiraling. “Knew you were trouble the moment I saw you, but didn’t think you’d try to give me a heart attack”

🤎even when the worst has passed, he’s not himself. The sarcasm fades; he just watches you breathe, eyes soft but haunted

🤎“You don’t get to scare me like that again,” he says quietly, brushing a thumb over your skin. The words sound like a joke, but his voice wavers

🤎he blames himself, of course. He always does. “Should’ve been faster. Should’ve protected you.” You tell him it’s not his fault, and he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes

🤎wen you try to comfort him, he pulls you close—almost too tight. “Let me have this, yeah?” he murmurs. It’s his way of saying he needs to feel you alive in his arms

🤎later, when you’re resting, Enzo sits nearby, pretending to read or hum a tune, but his eyes never really leave you. Every time you move, he glances up instantly

🤎“You know, love,” he says softly one night, “i’ve lost enough people in this world. Don’t make me add you to that list.” His tone is teasing, but there’s raw pain underneath

🤎he kisses your hand—slow, reverent. “You’re safe now. Long as I’m breathing, I’ll make damn sure of it”

🤎afterward, he’s even more protective than before. It’s not suffocating—it’s devotion disguised as teasing. “You and I are a package deal now, love. Try not to get yourself killed, yeah?"

Kai Parker

❤️‍🩹at first, Kai reacts with denial. He cracks a joke—too loud, too sharp—because humor is easier than fear. “You? Hurt? Nah, you’re way too stubborn for that,” he says, voice catching on the last word

❤️‍🩹the moment he realizes it’s real, the mask shatters. All that energy, all that chaos that usually fuels his magic, redirects into sheer panic. His eyes dart everywhere, searching for what he can fix

❤️‍🩹he talks too much, pacing, muttering to himself—half spells, half apologies he’ll never say out loud. “This isn’t supposed to happen. Not to you. Not to the one person who—” He cuts himself off before the confession escapes

❤️‍🩹Kai’s hands shake when he reaches you, though he tries to hide it behind a smirk. “Hey, open your pretty eyes for me, okay? I’m not done annoying you yet”

❤️‍🩹when you stir, relief hits him like a punch. His breath leaves in a harsh laugh—half sob, half disbelief. “See? Told you. You’re fine. I totally knew that”

❤️‍🩹if anyone caused it, they don’t get a chance to gloat. The playful smirk disappears; the room goes cold. That dangerous calm settles over him, and his magic hums in the air

❤️‍🩹but when it’s just you again, that fury fades into something softer. He sits beside you, awkward, unsure how to handle the quiet. “You scared me,” he mutters, staring at his hands. “I don’t… get scared. Not really"

❤️‍🩹his touch hovers before it lands—a hand brushing your arm, tentative but steady. “You’re okay now. I made sure of it"

❤️‍🩹when you wince from pain or discomfort, Kai freezes for a split second, then grips your hand a little tighter. His voice goes low, insistent: “Hey, don’t do that. Look at me. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” The worry in his tone is raw and unguarded

❤️‍🩹every few minutes, he checks again: a pulse, a breath, a twitch of your fingers. He pretends it’s clinical, but the tremor in his voice gives him away

❤️‍🩹later, when you can talk, he jokes again—but the humor is gentler. “Next time, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap. Can’t have you giving me a heart attack”

❤️‍🩹if you thank him, he waves it off, eyes darting away. “Don’t make it weird,” he mumbles, but his shoulders loosen like the words mattered more than he expected

❤️‍🩹that night, he stays close—too close—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. When you tease him about hovering, he shrugs. “Guess I kinda like knowing you’re breathing”

❤️‍🩹the next day, he’s back to his chaotic self. But whenever he looks at you, there’s a flicker—something gentler behind the grin. A reminder of the fear he won’t admit to feeling

❤️‍🩹and if you ever bring it up again, he’ll smirk and say, “You’re fine, see? Totally not dramatic.” But the truth hides in his eyes: he’d burn the world down before letting it happen again

Klaus Mikaelson

❤️‍🔥Klaus doesn’t just react—he erupts. The instant he realizes you’re hurt, his control snaps like glass. “Who touched her?” is the first thing he says, voice calm in a way that terrifies everyone else in the room

❤️‍🔥he appears beside you in an instant, the hybrid rage burning behind his eyes but his hands impossibly gentle. “Stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with trembling fingers

❤️‍🔥the sight of your blood nearly drives him mad. It’s not hunger—it’s fear. For someone who’s survived a thousand years, the idea of losing you unravels him in ways he didn’t think possible

❤️‍🔥if someone caused this, Klaus won’t rest until they’re destroyed. “You have my word,” he growls, voice low and sharp, “they’ll beg for mercy long before I grant it”

❤️‍🔥but with you, he’s careful—so careful. “Look at me, love. I need to see those beautiful eyes,” he says, holding your face as if keeping you conscious by sheer will

❤️‍🔥he orders everyone out of the room. “No one touches her but me.” It’s not arrogance—it’s panic masked as authority. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else near you when you’re this fragile

❤️‍🔥he tears at his own wrist to heal you, forcing his blood past your lips even if you resist. “Drink. Now.” The command shakes, desperation leaking through

❤️‍🔥when it’s over and you’re safe, he doesn’t leave your side. He just sits there, head bowed, blood on his hands, whispering apologies to no one in particular. “I should have protected you. I should have been there"

❤️‍🔥when you finally wake, Klaus is silent—his usual smirk gone. The relief in his eyes is almost painful. “You frightened me, love,” he admits quietly, his voice rough. “That doesn’t happen often"

❤️‍🔥he presses his forehead to yours, letting out a shaky laugh. “You see what you do to me? You make a monster feel fear”

❤️‍🔥later, when you’re recovering, he hovers—pretending to sketch, but every few seconds his eyes dart to you. You tease him for it, and he scoffs, “I merely wish to ensure you don’t repeat your reckless tendencies”

❤️‍🔥but when you fall asleep, he finally lets himself feel it—the guilt, the rage, the bone-deep terror of almost losing you. He whispers softly, “you are my weakness, love… and my salvation”

❤️‍🔥if anyone even mentions what happened, his tone goes sharp, defensive. “It’s handled.” He doesn’t want to talk about how scared he was

❤️‍🔥he starts drawing you more often after that—peaceful, safe, alive. It’s his way of keeping you close, of remembering that you’re still here

❤️‍🔥and when he finally kisses you again, it’s slow, lingering, almost reverent. “No harm will come to you again,” he murmurs against your lips. “Not while I still draw breath"

Elijah Mikaelson

💕he moment Elijah sees you injured, something inside him fractures — but you’d never know it at first. His composure doesn’t break; his voice remains steady, though his eyes are wild with restrained terror

💕“Stay with me, my love,” he says, tone calm but urgent, kneeling beside you and pressing his hand over your wound. His jaw tightens, but his touch is feather-light

💕he moves with purpose — no wasted motion, no panic — yet every muscle in his body vibrates with fear. He’s centuries old, but in this moment, he’s just a man terrified of losing the one person who makes eternity bearable

💕if anyone else caused your injury, his wrath is quiet, deliberate, and absolute. “You’ve made a grave mistake,” he murmurs, voice calm enough to chill the room before he disappears to handle it

💕his first instinct, though, is to save you himself. “You will not leave me, not like this.” He opens his wrist with no hesitation, pressing it to your lips with a gentleness that almost breaks him

💕“Please,” he whispers — a word Elijah rarely uses. “Take it. For me”

💕when your breathing steadies, he sits beside you, hands trembling for the first time in centuries. He stares at his blood-stained cuffs and laughs softly, bitterly. “I’ve spent lifetimes cleaning up chaos… and yet, for you, I would drown in it”

💕he doesn’t leave your side. Not for food, not for rest. He sits in silence, eyes never leaving you, fingers occasionally brushing over yours as if to reassure himself you’re real

💕when you wake, the relief that floods his face is quiet but unmistakable. “You had me rather concerned,” he says softly, though his voice carries a crack he can’t hide

💕you try to tease him, to lighten the mood, but his hand comes to rest against your cheek. “You may jest, but I have never known fear like I did today”

💕when you reach up to touch his face, his control slips. He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to your palm. “You have no idea how deeply I care for you,” he murmurs, every syllable thick with sincerity

💕aftterward, he’s even more protective — not smothering, but quietly vigilant. You’ll catch him watching you from the corner of the room, expression soft, almost reverent

💕if anyone brings up the incident, his answer is brief and sharp: “It won’t happen again.” There’s a finality to it that brooks no argument

💕he tends to your recovery himself — bringing you tea, adjusting blankets, tracing his thumb across your wrist when he thinks you’re asleep. It’s his way of grounding himself after nearly losing you

💕when you’re finally healed, he takes your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and says softly, “you have my word — as long as I draw breath, no harm shall ever come to you again"

Kol Mikaelson

💙the second Kol sees you hurt, the playfulness drains from him instantly. The smirk, the teasing — all gone. His voice goes low, shaky. “No. No, no, no, love—what happened?”

💙his first instinct is panic. Not anger, not vengeance. Just fear. His hands hover helplessly over you, afraid to touch in case he makes it worse. “Talk to me, darling. Please"

💙then it hits him — the scent of your blood, the way your pulse falters — and something in him snaps. His entire body tenses, and the air practically hums with rage

💙“Who did this?” The question isn’t really a question. It’s a promise. His voice trembles with fury, and his fangs flash before he forces himself to focus back on you

💙he tears his wrist open immediately, pressing it to your lips. “You’re not dying on me. You hear me? Not you.” It’s not a command — it’s desperation

💙when you try to push his hand away, he shakes his head violently. “Don’t be stubborn for once in your bloody life,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it. Just fear

💙the moment your breathing evens, he collapses beside you — head in his hands, shaking with silent relief. “You can’t do that to me, sweetheart. I’m not built for that kind of heartbreak"

💙he stays with you while you’re unconscious, pacing, muttering to himself, occasionally punching walls just to release the tension. Every second you’re still, he feels like he’s unraveling

💙when you wake up, the first thing you see is his face — wide-eyed, tear-streaked, hands trembling. “You scared the hell out of me,” he breathes, voice cracking halfway through

💙you try to smile, to joke, but he just shakes his head. “Don’t you dare make light of it. You almost died, love. I don’t think I could’ve survived that”

💙once the panic fades, anger fills its place. He hunts down whoever hurt you, no hesitation, no mercy. “You touched her. Now you pay for it.” There’s no stopping him until he knows you’re safe

💙but when he returns, blood still on his hands, he softens immediately the moment he sees you. “It’s over, darling. You’re safe now.” His thumb brushes your cheek, careful, reverent

💙Kol doesn’t sleep for days after. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find him sitting on the floor beside your bed, staring at you just to make sure you’re still breathing

💙when you call him out for worrying too much, he laughs weakly. “You think I’m dramatic now? Imagine what I’d be if I actually lost you”

💙later, when you’re healed, he holds you close — tighter than usual, like he’s still afraid you’ll vanish. “You’re stuck with me, you know,” he murmurs against your hair. “Because I’m never letting anything take you away again"

I'm working on a bunch of requests at the moment, but I'm currently rewatching Vampire Diaries and had to do this 😊❤️

Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment, it helps more than you know! 🥰💕

Thank you for stumbling onto my Blog, enjoy reading 💫

Bad Day | Niklaus Mikaelson

WARNINGS: Nothing really, just a bad day and a rude manager

ready (klaus mikaelson)

plot: klaus always knew that one day you'd take him up on his offer.

character: female vampire reader x klaus mikaelson

inspired by something similar he says to caroline

"One day, love, you'll come to me. Might be in two years, might be two hundred but mark my words, you'll realise I was right along. I am the only one who can fulfil your wildest desires and your largest dreams. When you realise that, you'll come knocking on my door and then... well, love, then I'll give you the world."

knit me a threat | k.m

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

warnings: fluff

The first time he found one, he nearly crushed it in his hand.

A tiny crocheted wolf, tucked inside the pocket of his coat, its little paws stitched together as if it were sitting patiently. Klaus frowned, plucking it out and holding it between two fingers as if it might bite him. The little thing had button eyes, a soft grey body, and a barely-there embroidered smirk, as though it were mocking him.

He scoffed.

“Oh, for the love of—”

He turned on his heel, storming through the house, knowing exactly who had done this.

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

She didn’t even look up from her work, the soft clicking of her crochet hook continuing at a leisurely pace. “Oh? You found one?”

“‘One?’” Klaus narrowed his eyes. “You mean there are more of these abominations?”

She smirked, tying off a loop before setting the project down, eyes glinting with amusement. “That depends. How many coat pockets do you have?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, fingers tightening around the tiny wolf. She was toying with him. Of course she was. He should have expected nothing less. With a sigh, he shook his head. “You have far too much time on your hands.”

“And yet, you haven’t thrown it away.”

He had no response for that. Instead, he shoved the wolf back into his pocket and left, grumbling under his breath as she let out a victorious hum.

༊*·˚

The second one appeared three days later.

This time, it was in his desk drawer, right next to his fountain pen. Klaus pulled it out with slow deliberation, staring down at the tiny dragon, its wings spread as if ready to take flight. It was small enough to fit in his palm, its scales intricately stitched in shades of deep green and gold.

He clenched his jaw.

She had done it again.

“You are aware,” he said, stepping into the parlor where she sat curled up on the sofa, “that I am not a man easily toyed with.”

She didn’t even blink. “And yet, here you are, holding a crocheted dragon like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.”

Klaus exhaled sharply, stepping closer, dangling the dragon in front of her face. “You think this is amusing?”

“I think it’s adorable.” She grinned, reaching out to poke the tiny snout. “Besides, you have a bit of a hoarding problem. Might as well give you something cute to collect.”

His brows shot up. “A hoarding problem?”

She tilted her head, mock thoughtful. “Hundreds of years’ worth of stolen art, rare artifacts, priceless heirlooms…should I continue?”

Klaus clicked his tongue, tossing the dragon into her lap. “You are insufferable.”

She merely laughed as he walked away.

He did not throw it away.

༊*·˚

It became a game after that.

She never placed them anywhere obvious. No, that would be far too easy. She hid them where she knew he’d find them when he least expected it. A tiny fox nestled between the books in his library. A bat perched atop his liquor cabinet, its wings outstretched. A little owl tucked inside one of his boots, nearly making him crush it underfoot.

But the worst—the absolute worst—was the one she left on his pillow.

Klaus stood in his bedroom doorway, staring at the ridiculous creation that now occupied his bed.

A paintbrush. A damned paintbrush.

With a face.

A face that looked remarkably like his own.

He rubbed a hand down his face, debating whether to incinerate it on the spot. Instead, he picked it up, holding it at arm’s length as if it might explode. The bristles were soft, the palette stitched beside it colored with thread, and the expression sewn onto its ridiculous little face looked…smug.

“Oh, you are testing my patience,” he muttered under his breath.

A snicker from the doorway made him lift his gaze. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with herself.

“Something wrong?” she asked innocently.

Klaus let out a slow breath, fingers twitching. “You are far too entertained by this.”

“You should be grateful. I could have made a hybrid.”

His eye twitched. “If I find a tiny, stitched version of myself anywhere in this house, I will retaliate.”

“Oh?” She raised a brow. “What are you gonna do? Knit me a threat?”

His lips parted, then closed again. He had no retort for that. With a grumble, he tossed the paintbrush back onto the bed and stalked past her, muttering under his breath about insufferable women and their yarn-based warfare.

She merely laughed, victorious.

He still kept every single one.

requested by @xtwistedchaosx

taglist: @ohapple@myworldrightnow@deactiveblogx@witch-of-letters

A thousand years ago, when the Mikaelson's were still human, Niklaus had a secret lover.

She was soft and sweet, gentle and kind. Y/N would wash the blood away from the wounds that colour his skin as a result of his father's rage. Her soft humming would lull him to sleep, his head against her breast comfortably as they lay out in the forest where he felt most at home.

His siblings knew of Y/N, they had seen her around and met her once or twice but Esther and Mikael weren't in the know. Niklaus was too afraid they'd forbid him from seeing her and he could handle being without her.

Each of his siblings had sworn not to tell but Finn was so awful at keeping things from their mother.

Niklaus hadn't known that he brother has tattled until it was too late.

One shot | Established Relationship | Fluff | Masterlist | WC: 3.2K

The garden had been Y/N's idea. A small plot in the courtyard of the Mikaelson compound where she could grow herbs, flowers, and vegetables. "Something alive that doesn't require blood to survive," she'd explained with a wry smile when she first proposed it to Klaus.

He'd indulged her, of course. Had helped clear the space, ordered the finest soil, acquired rare seeds from around the world. Whatever Y/N wanted, Y/N received. A policy that still bemused his siblings but had become second nature to Klaus.

What neither of them had anticipated was Y/N's spectacular lack of gardening talent.

"I don't understand," she muttered one morning, kneeling in the dirt and frowning at a row of withered seedlings. "I followed the instructions exactly. Six hours of sunlight, watered every other day, organic fertilizer..."

Klaus leaned against a nearby column, watching her with fond amusement. "Perhaps they're simply not suited to the New Orleans climate, love."

Y/N shot him a look that could wither plants faster than her black thumb. "The gardening book specifically listed these as suitable for Zone 9. We are in Zone 9, Niklaus."

He raised his hands in surrender. "Far be it from me to question your botanical expertise."

Secrets And Lies

Klaus Mikaelson X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3633 (this one got away from me.)

Requested: Anon

Request: Are you able to write a one shot about reader and Klaus they're together. Hope gets jealous and misses her dad she ends up breaking them up somehow by making up lies and drives a wedge between them ? Hope regrets it in the end cause she realizes just how much reader does mean to her dad and they're in love so she comes clean about her lies. Thank you in advance !

A/N: We’re going to pretend that there was a different way to get rid of the Hollow because it gave me a little more time to work with.

Warnings: Angst with a happy end, depression after a break up

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started with the dreams. You had always had strange dreams, running through forests, braids in your hair whipping about your face, laughing as someone chases you through through dappled woodland light.

You'd wake up, your young mind brushing the dreams off as wild imagination. That's what your parents used to say, but as you got older, your dreams became darker. Laughter turned to screams.