r-memberme

[r-memberme]

sinner | k.m

⎯⎯ “From herself? From love? You dress cruelty in the robes of righteousness and expect her to kneel. I see it for what it is — venom in a chalice.”

warnings: Hurt/comfort, protective!Klaus, religious trauma, toxic family dynamics, verbal/emotional abuse, confrontation, unwavering devotion, emotional vulnerability

The house does not merely wait. It watches. It stares back at you with the stillness of something that remembers.

The cream siding has dulled to the color of bone left too long in the sun. The porch swing sways ever so slightly, though there is no wind. The hairline crack in the window frame is still there—splintered and thin as a spider’s leg—marking the very spot where, as a child, you pressed your face to the glass to watch the storms roll in. You can almost hear the rain against the pane, almost feel the hum of lightning beneath your ribs.

It still smells faintly of honeysuckle—your mother’s planting, stubborn and wild. Sweetness tangled with dust. A ghost of summers that will never return. The air is heavy with that treacherous breed of nostalgia that gnaws at the hollows inside you.

You haven’t crossed this threshold in months. But you’ve been avoiding it far longer than that—sidestepping its shadow the way one avoids a grave.

Klaus lingers just behind you, a silent and immovable thing. His nearness is an anchor, a weight at your back, the quiet promise that he will not let you drift away even if you want to. He doesn’t prod. Doesn’t hurry you. Patience clings to him like a second skin—patience born from knowing you are about to step into something that will not leave you untouched.

You feel his gaze on the back of your head. It is steady. Searching. A question without a voice.

“Are you ready, love?” he murmurs.

You nod. But the truth sits cold and certain in your bones: You aren’t. You never will be.

༊*·˚

Inside, the air is a time capsule. Lemon polish. The faint, stubborn ghost of your mother’s perfume—floral and powdery, lingering like a hand that refuses to let go.

Your shoes find the hardwood with the same steady rhythm you remember from all those nights slipping in after curfew. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was once your herald; it always summoned them. It still does.

They are waiting.

Your mother’s gaze sweeps over you with the cold precision of someone counting valuables after a theft. Her mouth bends—not toward a smile, but toward something leaner, sharper, designed to cut. “You used to have respect for yourself,” she says. The softness in her voice is treacherous; it draws blood without raising its volume.

The words strike beneath your ribs, sinking into that tender grave where old shames are buried shallow.

Your father does not look at you at once. He lets her sentence hang in the air like a suspended noose before adding his own. “You’ve turned your back on God.”

The words are familiar. A well-honed blade. One they have wielded for years, always with the same precision, always finding the same wound.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. Even now, you cannot shape a defense.

Then your mother’s eyes shift—past you, to the shadow just behind. To Klaus.

“And this is him?” she asks. “The man you’re giving yourself to?”

You bristle at the phrasing—giving yourself to—as if you were a parcel to be signed for, a trinket to be handed from one owner to the next.

“He’s dangerous,” your father says, at last giving Klaus the full measure of his stare. “You’ve let yourself be taken by darkness.”

The silence that follows tastes like iron.

༊*·˚

The air thickens until it feels almost liquid in your lungs. Part of you aches to vanish into the quiet — to fold your shoulders inward, to shrink into the child they once knew, the one who could disappear if she made herself small enough. But Klaus stands behind you, solid as the earth, his presence pressing against your spine like a reminder. You do not bow anymore.

When he moves, it is not hurried. One slow step forward — deliberate, unhurried. The air changes. The walls seem to lean toward him, the floorboards holding their breath.

“I will only say this once,” he says. His voice is quiet, but it carries like a slow strike of flint. “You will not speak to her like that again.”

Your father stiffens, jaw locking. “This is our daughter—”

“No.” The word is a blade, severing the claim before it can take form. “She is not yours to diminish. Not yours to wound beneath the shroud of faith.”

Your mother leans forward, eyes hard, mouth sharp. “We’re trying to save her.”

Klaus tilts his head, a faint curve touching his lips — the kind of smile that is never safe. “From what?” he asks, voice steady, almost gentle in its dissection. “From herself? From love? You dress cruelty in the robes of righteousness and expect her to kneel. I see it for what it is — venom in a chalice.”

Another step. The air tightens.

“She has borne the weight of your judgment far too long. If the God you name made her, then He made her exactly as she is. And if you call her a sinner…” His voice lowers until it’s almost intimate, meant for you as much as for them. “…then I will gladly be damned beside her.”

Your father draws breath, but Klaus does not give him space to speak.

“I stand here because I love her,” he says, the word love striking between you like steel on stone. “And I will not watch you carve her down to nothing under the banner of your god.”

It is a word you’ve heard from him before, but never like this — never shaped into armor, never sharpened into a weapon.

“She is more whole, more luminous, more unshakably good than your narrow scripture could ever comprehend,” he finishes, his voice a low and final thing. “And you will not dim her light to make your shadows feel holy.”

༊*·˚

They have no answer for him. Not because the words don’t exist, but because he has stolen the weight from their tongues, stripped the authority from their throats. It is the first time in your life you have seen them falter — not from uncertainty, but from the sudden realization that their grip on you is gone.

The silence they leave behind is strange. It rings in your ears like the aftermath of a storm. For years, their words were iron gates you could never slip past, a fortress built from scripture and disapproval. Now, before Klaus, those walls crumble like sand under a tide too strong to resist. Their voices — the ones that shaped your every hesitation — sound suddenly small. Distant. Mortal.

Klaus turns to you, and at once the hard steel in his gaze softens into something warmer. His eyes hold yours as if he is taking measure of you — not to assess your worth, but to remind you that you are already whole. His hand finds the small of your back, the pressure gentle but certain, warm and steady like a promise pressed into your skin.

“Come, love,” he murmurs, low enough for you alone. “We’re leaving.”

You nod — not because you are unsure, but because your throat feels too tight to shape the word yes. When you move, he moves with you, his presence folding around you like a shield you never knew you were allowed to carry.

The door opens, and the air outside greets you differently. It tastes cleaner, sharper, touched with the faint scent of rain on stone. It feels like the first breath you’ve drawn in years that hasn’t been weighed down by expectation.

The house stands behind you, its windows staring blankly, holding all the ghosts you’ve decided not to feed anymore. And as you walk away with Klaus at your side — his hand still resting against you as if you belong nowhere else — the truth settles in your bones.

Maybe their God didn’t save you. But Klaus did. And in a quiet, defiant corner of your heart, you know that is the holiest thing you have ever known.

Thank you so much for trusting me with this request anon🤍 Hope you enjoy!!

[r-memberme]

I wonder. Do you ever ignore requests? And if you do - would you consider posting the ideas as an “open to use” thing?

Hey! I totally get where you’re coming from, but honestly, I don’t ignore requests—I just get swamped sometimes! There are so many lovely ideas sent my way that it takes a bit to work through them all.

As for posting ideas as “open to use,” I haven’t done that because I really want to make sure each request gets the care and attention it deserves when I do write it. Plus, I like keeping that little personal touch in every fic. But it’s a thoughtful idea!🤍

Thanks so much for understanding and for being patient—it means the world. Keep those ideas coming, I promise they don’t get lost, just queued!🤍

[r-memberme]

ever since i’ve discovered your blog, it has become my safe space

when i spiral and have breakdowns (a lot of crying) i always come to this page and reread all your fics and they make me feel better

i just wanted you to know that i really appreciate your writing and am always awaiting a new piece, i hope you are doing well and am sending lots of love <3

Reading this made my heart ache in the best way — to know that my stories have become a refuge for you during those hard, tear-filled moments means more than words can say. Life can be so heavy sometimes, and if my writing can offer even a small corner of comfort or a breath of peace when you’re spiraling, then I feel like I’ve done something truly meaningful.

Please remember you’re never alone in those moments, even when it feels like everything’s crashing down. Your strength in coming back here, time and time again, shows a bravery I deeply admire. I’m so grateful you took the time to share this with me — it reminds me why I write in the first place: to connect, to heal, to be a gentle presence when the world gets loud.

I hope you feel wrapped in kindness today and every day. I’m sending you all the warmth, love, and quiet hope you need, now and always. You’re so deeply appreciated, more than you know. 🤍

[r-memberme]

Hi gurlll

Not a request - just wanted to tell you how much I adore your stories!

And I also hope, you have a wonderful summer. You seem a bit stressed maybeee so u also hope you get so relax a bit.

Wishing you only the best. And I hope this brightens your day, like your story do mine.

Hey love, you just made me smile so big right now 🥹🤍 Thank you so much for this—it honestly means everything. Sometimes life throws way too much at us, and hearing this kind of kindness is exactly the little spark I need. I hope your summer is filled with the same warmth and light you just sent my way. Sending you all the good vibes and a big virtual hug 🫶✨ You seriously brightened my day just now. Thank you for that, truly.

[r-memberme]

BLESS YOU FOR THE KLAUS IMAGINES I PROMISE YOU THEY DONT GO UNNOTICED BY ME

but seriously the way you have his dialogue and his sayings down pack is so amazing! many people struggle with this while writing but you’ve aced it it’s like I can imagine him saying the things you write you do such a good job <3

Oh my god, you have no idea how much this means to me 🤍 truly, I think you just made my whole week. I’m so glad you feel that way because I spend an absurd amount of time replaying Klaus in my head — his tone, his little pauses, the way he draws certain words out — just trying to make it feel like him. So when you say you can imagine him speaking the things I write? That’s basically the best compliment you could give me.

It honestly means the world that you notice the details, because I pour so much love into them. I’m beyond happy the stories land the way I hope they will, and I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to tell me this. Bless you for reading them and caring, because I promise every single comment like this gets tucked away in my heart and remembered🤍

[r-memberme]

If u r comfortable, could u write something with reader coming from a ultra religious family and falling for klaus and they fight with her cause she is a "sinner" (I HAVE RELIGIOUS TRAUMA)

Ohhh sweetheart, I hear you loud and clear 🖤 religious trauma is such a deep, personal ache — and if it’s something you’ve lived through, you know how heavy it sits in your bones. That request is powerful, and I absolutely see how Klaus in that scenario would be both the softest refuge and the fiercest shield. He’d take every cruel word they throw at you and twist it into something meaningless, because in his eyes, you could never be a sinner.

And honestly? I get why you’d want to channel that into fic — sometimes telling the story our own way is the only way to reclaim it. You’re safe here, and if you want it written, I can do it justice for you🖤

[r-memberme]

So life really do be sucking rn.

And I just want comfort. My head is kind of empty with ideas, but I’d love a fluffy Klaus story. Maybe something where he sees reader becoming more and more a shell of herself and he gets more and more worried. Until he acts. And in the best way possible. Gives her comfort, stability. Is simply there for her?

Idk. It’s what I need rn and maybe you wanna write it? If not, TOTALLY fine! Klaus and your writing just gives me comfort. So Ty for writing either way tbh. :)

Ohhh love, I feel you so much on this one 💛 Life’s been out here throwing bricks instead of flowers lately, huh? That idea is so soft and so needed — Klaus being all quietly protective, watching you fade and deciding nope, not on my watch🥹 I already know he’d drop everything, wrap you up in that “I will stand between you and the world” kind of way, and remind you you’re still you, even if you’ve forgotten for a moment.

And honestly? Thank you for saying my writing brings you comfort — that means the absolute world to me 🫶 You deserve the fluffiest, most soul-soothing fic, and if I can give you that, I 100% will.

[r-memberme]

This isn’t a request - just wanted to ask if you’d ever consider writing an Elijah x reader fic? Ohhh and do you do other fandoms too? Like btvs (Spike z reader for example).

Ohhh angel, you just know Elijah’s been sitting there in my drafts with his perfect suit and tragic monologues waiting for his moment 😌✍️

And other fandoms?? 👀 Don’t tempt me… I haven’t seen BTVS yet but Spike gives off pure feral energy and now you’ve got me curious... more will follow...

[r-memberme]

You are stunning has anyone ever told you that you look kind of lik Courtney Miller from smosh?

No, I haven’t heard that one before — but wow, that’s definitely a compliment I’ll happily take. Courtney Miller is gorgeous, so now I feel extra flattered. 🤍

[r-memberme]

Hello luv (major Klaus vibes), I read your post abt being in Italy and just wanted to wish you the best holidays bc it’s magical (or so I’ve heard, when it’s your homeland it kinda looses it’s spark) and (if you want, ofc) I could give you some tips abt Italians and daily-life words. Anyways, have a fantastic vacation and kudos abt your fics, they’re amazing :)

Oh, this is so sweet of you to send. Italy has been an absolute dream so far—though I can imagine that magic shifts when it’s the backdrop of your every day. Still, I’m soaking it all in while I can.

And yes, I’d absolutely love your tips and daily-life words! I’m all for picking up little pieces of the language while I’m here—it makes every interaction feel warmer somehow.

Thank you, truly, for the kind wishes and for holding my fics so close. You’ve just made my day brighter.🤍

[r-memberme]

the latest post about the stubborn reader was beautiful! you’ve captured the character so well and it is written in a way that is so enthralling.

you are my favorite author, i’ve read each of your fics many many times and check all the time to see if there is a new one!

don’t feel pressured because you are giving us amazing content for freee and i want you to know that it is appreciated.

sending lots of love <3

Oh, angel, this warmed me straight through.

To know my words have found a place with you—enough for you to return to them again and again—means more than I could ever say. You’ve reminded me why I keep doing this, why I pour myself into every line.

And truly, your kindness doesn’t go unnoticed. Every reread, every check-in, every bit of love you send my way… I carry it with me.

So thank you, from the softest part of me, for letting my stories be a place you return to. You make all the hours worth it🤍

[r-memberme]

not well enough | k.m

⎯⎯ “I don’t want you wrapped in silk, love,” he whispered. “I want you alive.”

warnings: Hurt/comfort, intense intimacy, protective!Klaus, stubborn!Reader, mutual stubbornness, devotion like wildfire

It was quiet, the way twilight always was in Klaus’s home—dim and gold-touched, shadows spilled across canvases, rain stitching delicate lines against the windowpane. He was painting—slow strokes of deep vermilion across stretched linen. A glass of red wine rested beside the easel, half-drunk. Chopin murmured from the record player. Peace, rare and earned, had settled into the corners of the house.

And then—

He stilled.

Completely.

Like a wolf catching scent mid-step.

His hand froze on the brush. Head tilting.

There it was. Faint, but unmistakable. Blood. Not old. Not distant. Fresh. And not just any blood.

Yours.

The wine glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the hardwood.

He was already moving.

The front door creaked open at that exact moment, a gust of cold wind following you in, raindrops scattered along your shoulders. You stepped inside with the kind of weariness that tried to hide itself—your jaw set, your posture too careful. Limping, barely. You thought he wouldn’t notice.

You were wrong.

His voice, usually velvet-dark and slow, came sharp now, slicing through the room.

“Shut the door.”

You froze. Blinking at him. Smiling like nothing was wrong.

“I’m fine, Klaus.”

His eyes flicked down—taking in the way your jacket was tugged oddly around your side, your sleeve pushed too far down your wrist like it was hiding something. His nostrils flared.

“I said it’s nothing,” you tried again, stepping further into the room. “I handled it.”

But his eyes had gone darker. Not golden. Not red. Just dark.

His voice dropped to a low, trembling octave. Controlled only by the threadbare edge of his own restraint.

“I could smell your blood,” he said, slow and guttural, “before the door even shut behind you.”

You opened your mouth, closed it. He was already storming forward.

“Klaus—”

He was in front of you in an instant, tugging at your jacket with no ceremony, no patience. You flinched slightly—not in fear, just from pain—and that broke something in him. His fingers flattened under the fabric at your waist, brushing the warmth there.

Sticky.

Wet.

He pulled the hem up, exposing torn skin beneath dried blood and swelling.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, staring at it like it had insulted him. No, like it had threatened you.

“I said I handled it,” you snapped, trying to jerk the jacket back down.

“Not well enough.”

His voice cut the air like a blade.

Your eyes flashed. “I didn’t need help. I don’t—”

“Don’t,” he growled. One hand caught your wrist—not tight, not rough. But final. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

He looked at you then. Truly looked. You were pale. Wet from the rain. Hair tangled at your temples, one cheek slightly scraped. Bruised knuckles.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” he asked, low. “You think I wouldn’t know you were hurt?”

You swallowed.

“I can take care of myself.”

“You’re trembling,” he said, his hand lifting to your arm. “And you’re still trying to protect me?”

You opened your mouth again—but the defiance faltered now. Your lip quivered, just once.

He saw it.

Saw it, and stepped closer.

“I’m not angry at you,” he whispered. “I’m furious that someone dared lay a hand on you.”

Silence. Heavy, charged.

Your voice came small. “It wasn’t that bad.”

He didn’t speak.

He just touched the corner of your hair, tucked it gently behind your ear.

Then: “Come here. Sit. You’re not walking another step.”

You hesitated.

“Klaus—”

“I’m not asking.”

His jaw ticked. His hand was already guiding you toward the sofa, breath steady but eyes fire-lit. Whatever tenderness came next—it would not be weak. It would be ruthless. Devotion like war. Protection like prayer.

༊*·˚

You sat, stiff-backed, on the edge of his couch—the fire low in the hearth, your jacket peeled off and draped across the arm. He knelt in front of you, kneeling in a way that didn’t look subservient but coiled, like a storm crouching before lightning. A clean cloth in one hand. A bowl of warm water in the other.

And eyes that burned.

Your side still ached, a dull and persistent reminder under your ribs, but you bore it the way you always did—chin high, shoulders locked, pride woven like armor over raw skin.

“Klaus, stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” His voice was low, guttural, thick with restraint.

“Like I’m dying.”

He didn’t answer. He dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out slowly. Too slowly. His eyes were on the wound again, flickering over the swelling, the torn skin, the bruise blooming across your side like a galaxy.

You hissed as the warm cloth touched your skin.

He paused instantly.

“Sorry,” he murmured, soft. And yet the tension in his jaw didn’t budge. He was trying to be gentle, but his entire body thrummed with rage.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he said without looking up, “when your blood’s on the floor, sweetheart.”

You scoffed, the word grating. “Don’t be dramatic.”

He dropped the cloth into the bowl. Slowly. Deliberately. Then looked up at you.

“Who did it?”

You blinked.

“No one. I told you—it’s over. I handled it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You shifted away from his stare, but he tracked you like a lion.

“Klaus—”

“Who hurt you?”

Your silence was answer enough.

His breath flared out through his nose. His voice dropped into something cold, clipped, controlled only because he knew if he let it go free, it would tear cities down.

“You’re going to tell me. Whether now or later. Because I’ll find out either way.”

You stood. Abrupt. Agitated. Blood still staining your shirt, but your spine stiff with pride.

“Why does it matter?” you snapped. “I’m here. I’m fine. I didn’t die. And I don’t need a bodyguard every time I leave the damn house!”

He stood too. Slow. Towering.

“No,” he said, voice quiet and deadly, “what you need is to stop pretending you’re made of steel when you’re bleeding in front of me.”

“I’m not some fragile thing you need to bubble-wrap, Klaus!”

His expression didn’t change. But the fire behind his eyes sparked.

“I know you’re not fragile.”

Your chest heaved.

“I can fight my own battles.”

He took a step forward. Not looming. Just... near. Like gravity itself couldn’t stay away.

“You can fight them,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “but you don’t have to bleed through them alone.”

That stilled you.

Your breath caught. Your arms dropped a fraction.

He stepped closer still.

“I don’t want you wrapped in silk, love,” he whispered. “I want you alive.”

Your throat bobbed. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He reached for your hand, and this time you didn’t pull away.

“I’ve lived a thousand years,” he said, his voice thick now, velvet over iron, “and I’ve never once been able to stomach the sight of someone hurting you.”

Your eyes burned. Damn it.

He looked down at your hand in his—bruised across the knuckles, trembling slightly. Then back up at you.

“Let me protect you,” he said. Just above a whisper. “Just this once. Please.”

The fire cracked softly behind you both. The rain whispered at the windows. Your pride was a sword dulling in your hand. You opened your mouth. Closed it.

And finally nodded.

Barely.

He exhaled, long and slow, like the hurricane inside him had found the eye. Just for a moment.

Then he carries her.

No protest this time—not when the fire behind his rage has quieted into something quieter but no less intense. She lets him, her fingers curled into his shirt, her body too tired to argue anymore.

He sets her on the bed like she’s something holy.

Kneels beside her again. Always kneeling tonight, though it doesn’t make him small—it makes him terrifying. Reverent. Like a god laying down weapons at the feet of someone he’d burn the world for.

Her shirt is already ruined, blood seeping through the side. His eyes flick to the soaked fabric, then to her face.

“Can I?” he asks. His voice is gentle. He could command armies—but with her, it’s always a question.

She nods, almost imperceptibly.

He peels the shirt up slowly, exposing her ribs, mottled and bruised, blood smeared over skin that should never have known violence. A cut curves down the line of her waist. Purple and red and raw.

His hands still.

His jaw tightens.

And then he breathes in—deep, controlled—like he’s swallowing his fury down into the ocean floor.

“You should’ve come to me,” he says softly. “I would’ve handled it.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I would’ve burned cities to be there.”

She looks away.

He reaches into his pocket. Pulls a silver blade across his palm. Blood wells instantly.

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” His voice is absolute.

He offers his hand to her. His blood gleams, dark and rich.

“Let me fix it,” he says. “Or I’ll rip the world open trying.”

She hesitates—but his hand doesn’t waver.

Then, slowly, she takes it.

Brings his wrist to her lips. Drinks.

His free hand rises to her hair, brushing it back, cradling the crown of her head like she’s glass. He watches her, eyes locked, reverent. Like she’s the first and only thing he’s ever willingly bled for.

Her wounds knit slowly. The gash above her brow fades. The color returns to her skin. Her breath steadies.

She exhales into his wrist, her forehead against his arm.

It’s not just relief—it’s being seen.

He pulls back only when her body relaxes fully, when the lines of pain between her brows soften, when the tremble leaves her fingers.

And then he reaches for the bandages.

Because she’s healing, but she’s not healed.

He cleans the leftover blood, wiping it with warm cloth and soft curses whispered under his breath—not at her, never at her, but at the universe, at the coward who touched her, at fate for ever letting it happen.

He wraps her arm where the bruise hasn’t fully faded. Tapes gauze against the scrape on her shoulder. Presses a kiss to her temple, where dried blood still clings to her lashes.

“Even when you bleed,” he murmurs, “you act like you don’t need saving.”

She meets his gaze, soft and tired and exposed.

“But I do,” he finishes. “I need to save you.”

A silence follows. Sacred.

“Every drop of your blood is sacred to me,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t ask me to pretend otherwise.”

She leans into him then, finally, forehead resting against his collarbone.

“I wasn’t trying to shut you out,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“I just… wanted to handle it.”

“You did.” He cups her jaw, thumb stroking gently beneath her eye. “You survived it. But you don’t have to carry the after alone.”

She breathes in. Breathes him in.

He pulls the blanket over her, tucking it behind her shoulder like she’s not made of bruises and bone, but moonlight and breath.

“You can be strong,” he says softly, “and still let someone hold you.”

Her fingers find his under the blanket.

He laces them with hers.

“…You survived it. But you don’t have to carry the after alone,” he murmured, thumb still tracing the line of her cheekbone like he was learning her face all over again.

Her breath hitched—not from pain this time, but from something far heavier. “I don’t know how to let you,” she admitted, quiet as rain. “I’ve never known how.”

He leaned closer, so close his forehead almost brushed hers, his voice low enough to belong only to her. “Then I’ll teach you.”

Her lips parted to argue, but no words came.

“Let me be the one who worries,” he went on, softer now, his tone curling around her like a vow. “Let me be the one who bleeds if it means you don’t have to.” His gaze dropped briefly to the healing marks at her side. “I’ve fought a thousand wars, love, but the thought of you fighting one without me—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening, breath trembling.

Her fingers found his shirtfront, curling there, gripping like she needed something to hold her to the earth.

“I don’t want to be the reason you lose control,” she whispered.

“You’re the reason I find it,” he countered instantly, fiercely. “Do you not see? You—” He caught himself again, huffed out a soft, incredulous laugh that carried no humor. “You’re my restraint. My reason. The only thing I would burn the world for and call it mercy.”

Her throat bobbed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“You love it,” she said, and though it was meant to be deflection, the words landed heavy between them.

“I do,” he said, without hesitation.

For a long, quiet stretch, the room was only the crackle of the fire and the soft hiss of rain. He stayed there with her in the low golden glow, one hand cradling her jaw, the other resting lightly against her ribs as if to remind himself she was whole, that she was still here.

When he finally moved, it was only to draw her fully into his lap, her knees pressing to either side of his hips. She tensed, but only for a moment. His arms wrapped around her—not in possession, not in demand, but in the unyielding shelter of someone who would stand between her and every storm.

“You’re staying here tonight,” he said, into her hair. It wasn’t a question.

She almost argued. Almost. But she just let herself breathe him in instead, the cedar and rain and faint scent of paint clinging to him.

“You’ll watch me all night,” she muttered, and he smiled faintly against her temple.

“Wild guess,” he murmured, “but you’ll survive my vigilance.”

She huffed a tired, quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

He pulled back enough to look at her, the corner of his mouth lifting, though the fire in his eyes had never gone out. “And you,” he said, brushing his knuckles along her jaw, “are mine.”

It wasn’t a cage. It was a covenant.

She let herself melt against him then, stubbornness curling in on itself until it was only exhaustion and the faint, reckless relief of letting him bear the weight. His hand stayed at her back, slow and steady, as if his touch could tell her bones to stop bracing for impact.

And when her eyes drifted shut, he whispered into the quiet, the words almost lost to the rain—

“I’ll keep you safe. Even from yourself.”

the wifi finally worked! Thank you anon <3 Sorry for the long wait, hope you enjoy it🤍

[r-memberme]

Hello my angels🥰

I’m in Italy the next few weeks so I won’t me posting that much! But I have some drafts that will be posted later this week.

Thank you for being patient with me🤍

(A little pic i took here in Italy)

[r-memberme]

Love how we are all suffering in school/university. Meee too. Like damn. Best timing ever for a lot of us it seems.

Little rant here. I was trying to move a class to next semester because I was so stressed. Turnes out the Prof mixed up the dates for the latest move, and now I am to late to move it and will revise a fail :)

Mind you, I am usually an 1 (A), B at worst student. And I cried for a whole day yesterday when I got the mail that I can’t move it.

So ty for writing it!

We are truly all going through it together- crying over grades, getting crushed by stress, and trying to stay afloat in systems that feel like they give nothing back sometimes. That situation with your class sounds beyond frustrating, especially when you tried to do the right thing and it still backfired because of someone else’s mistake. I’m so sorry that happened. You had every right to cry. It’s not about the grade. it’s about how hard you’ve worked, how much pressure you're under, and how exhausting it is to constantly fight for a moment of peace.

Thank you so much for sharing this- it really means a lot. And I hope, even just for a moment, that the fic reminded you you’re not alone in this chaos. You’re still that student who gets A’s, even if this time didn’t go as planned. One semester doesn’t erase your brilliance. You’ve got this, even if it doesn’t feel like it today. I’m rooting for you so hard 🤍

[r-memberme]

the most recent fic about the reader getting a bad grade has crazy timing! i received the exact same failing grade just recently and was literally having a melt down over it :(

this means so much to me, thank you <3

Oh, angel… I’m so sorry you're dealing with that right now. I know how deeply it can cut when you’ve worked so hard and things don’t go the way you hoped. It’s okay to feel heartbroken about it—you care, and that matters. But please, don’t let this one grade trick you into doubting how capable, brilliant, and worthy you are. One moment does not erase all your efforts or your potential. You are not a failure. You’re human.

I’m genuinely so moved that the fic could meet you in that moment. You weren’t alone then, and you’re not alone now. Be kind to yourself, let yourself feel, and then keep going. You are doing better than you think. Sending you a warm hug and so much love 🤍

[r-memberme]

brilliant, still | k.m

⎯⎯ “Oh, my clever girl,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her damp cheek. “You are not defined by a single score on a piece of paper. You are brilliant. And kind. And brave. And mine. I won’t let you talk about yourself like that.”

warnings: comfort, failing grades, school, bit of cursing(both ways),

It felt like failure, printed in red ink.

Just one number—two digits that didn’t reach the line they were supposed to—and it knocked the breath clean out of her. The rest of the page blurred at the edges. Corrections, question marks, even a sarcastic little “revise this?” scrawled in the margin. Her professor’s handwriting always looked like it was mocking her. Today, it felt like a death sentence.

Her pen slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor with a hollow plastic clatter. No one looked.

Around her, chairs scraped, backpacks zipped, laughter echoed. People moved on. It was just a test. Just another Tuesday.

But she couldn’t breathe.

Her hand curled tight around the edge of the paper, wrinkling it slightly. 68%. It looked like a bloodstain. A slash against everything she thought she was.

She didn’t speak to anyone as she left the lecture hall. Her steps were stiff, mechanical. She walked like she was sleepwalking, like someone trying to move before the grief caught up and pinned her down. Her hands trembled as she pulled her hoodie sleeves over her wrists. Her mouth was a hard, flat line.

She’d studied for days. Skipped sleep. Ate meals over flashcards. Color-coded everything. Highlighted twice. She had known the material. She had recited answers out loud until she lost her voice.

And still, this.

She didn’t check her phone until she was outside. 3 messages. 2 missed calls.

Klaus:

Finished early. I’ll come get you, sweetheart. I brought that tea you like. Everything alright?

She couldn’t answer. Her thumbs hovered over the screen, then dropped to her side again.

What could she say? That her brain had betrayed her? That she was stupid, apparently? That she didn’t know who she was if she wasn’t doing well in school?

She took the long way to the curb, circling the side of the building just to get an extra minute to compose herself. She kept her jaw clenched. She would not cry. Not here. Not in front of people.

She saw his car before she saw him—sleek, black, still running. The passenger door was already unlocked. The windows slightly fogged from the rain still misting down in the cold.

When she opened the door, the soft scent of Earl Grey and Klaus Mikaelson hit her. He had the heater turned up. Something orchestral played faintly from the stereo, gentle strings and distant piano.

He turned toward her immediately. His expression shifted from relaxed to alert in one heartbeat. Sharp eyes, soft mouth. “There you are, love,” he said, voice like velvet. “Long class?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

She smiled when she got in his car. And then she broke.

Not all at once. It started with a quiet sniff she tried to hide. A deep breath that caught halfway through. Then a stuttering inhale. Her hands clutched the straps of her backpack too tightly, the knuckles paling. She blinked up at the windshield. One blink too many. One blink too fast.

Klaus’s brow furrowed. “Darling?”

Her lips parted. Nothing came out. Her throat burned. She dropped her bag at her feet, curled in on herself, and finally, finally let the tears come.

Klaus stilled, watching her unravel like a dropped thread. His voice gentled immediately. “Hey. Hey, love. What happened?”

She tried to answer. Her jaw worked, but the words got stuck. “I—I’m sorry, I just—I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “It’s stupid. It’s so stupid.”

“Nothing that hurts you is stupid,” he said, already reaching over, his hand curling gently around her knee. “Tell me. I’m right here.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “My grade. I—I got my test back and it was terrible. I failed. I failed, Klaus.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I worked so hard,” she whispered, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. “I stayed up, I skipped meals, I—I tried. I really did. And I still… I still failed.”

His hand stayed firm on her leg, grounding her, thumb stroking slow circles through her jeans. His other hand reached for the cup of tea in the holder—her favorite—and passed it to her without a word.

She didn’t take it.

“I’m never going to make it out of college,” she said, staring at her lap. Her voice had gone small. “Everyone else is fine. Everyone else passed. And I’m sitting here crying in your car like a fucking disaster because I couldn’t pass one stupid test. What’s wrong with me?”

She didn’t notice Klaus tense. But he did. His mouth pressed into a thin, furious line.

The professor’s name. He would need it.

But not yet.

Right now, she needed softness.

“You are not a disaster,” Klaus said, his voice low and fiercely calm. “You are a miracle who happens to be having a hard day. Nothing more.”

She shook her head. “I’m supposed to be the smart one. That’s—That’s who I am. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

His heart broke clean in half.

“Oh, my clever girl,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her damp cheek. “You are not defined by a single score on a piece of paper. You are brilliant. And kind. And brave. And mine. I won’t let you talk about yourself like that.”

She stared at him, eyes red and wet, chest heaving.

“And you’re getting out of college,” he added, firm now. “You’ll walk that stage in a gown and a smile, and you’ll do it with me standing right there. I’ll carry you, if I have to.”

A watery laugh broke through her sobs.

༊*·˚

Klaus held her like she was something holy.

Arms wrapped around her shoulders, one hand still resting over her knee, like if he let go she’d shatter again. His chest was warm against her temple, rising and falling slow and steady—measured, practiced, patient.

But his jaw ticked.

She couldn’t see it. Her face was tucked against his collarbone, cheeks sticky with tears, voice raw from the crying she hadn’t meant to do. But Klaus’s gaze had gone somewhere distant, dark. The kind of faraway look that meant he wasn’t in the car anymore. He was halfway to blood.

“Give me the name,” he murmured, brushing his lips over her hairline.

She gave a wet, broken little laugh. “Klaus.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

His arms tightened the smallest bit. Not to trap. To shield.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “I am centuries older than the grading curve. If I could tear it down brick by brick, I would. With pleasure.”

She didn’t answer. Just sniffled and pressed in closer, the breath easing out of her like she’d been holding it her whole life. Her hands clutched at his sleeves now, anchoring herself to him.

His fingers moved slowly through her hair. But his other hand—it curled tight on the steering wheel. White-knuckled. Controlled only by love.

He leaned down, voice almost too soft. “You were not made to be broken by a number.”

Her throat tightened again. She shook her head, not sure if she was disagreeing or just overwhelmed.

“You are not weak because you cracked,” Klaus whispered. “You are strong because you cared. Because you still care.”

His words were so quiet they barely moved the air. And yet they sliced through her despair like light through stained glass.

And then—under his breath—he spoke again.

Something sharp and low. Something ancient.

She blinked. “What was that?”

“Hmm?” His tone turned innocent in a heartbeat.

“You said something. Not English.”

He reached for her hand, drawing small circles over her skin. “Just… a bit of Old Norse.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What kind of Old Norse?”

“A… mild warding.”

She pulled back to look at him fully. “A what?”

He smiled, unrepentant. “A very soft curse.”

“Klaus.”

“Barely a hex, darling. At most, his tea will taste like ash for a week. Maybe two.”

“You can’t hex my professor!”

He kissed her forehead. “I can and did. You deserve better than someone who dares make you feel small.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “…You’re insane.”

“I’m ancient,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

And she laughed. A small, hiccupping laugh. A little raw, a little wrecked—but real.

He held onto it like it was oxygen.

“You don’t have to do all that,” she said softly. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He tucked a curl behind her ear, eyes burning softer now, no longer wildfire—just hearthlight. “But you will be.”

She hesitated. “What if it happens again?”

“Then I’ll sit beside you,” he said without pause. “Every study night. Every test. Every paper. You’re not doing this alone.”

Her breath hitched again.

He tilted his head. “I already know all the answers, love. Might as well put them to good use.”

She smacked his arm lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

He caught her wrist, lifted it, and kissed her palm. “No. I just believe in you.”

And in that moment—in the warm car, with rain soft against the windows and his arms wrapped around her shaking form—she believed him back.

༊*·˚

It was late.

The kind of late where the world blurred at the edges and everything grew soft—lamplight like candleflame, shadows curling gently at the corners of the room, the night quiet except for the soft rustle of flashcards between Klaus’s fingers.

She was curled against him in bed, knees tucked beneath the blanket, head resting on his chest like it had always belonged there. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath her ear, and every so often, he’d tap his chin to the crown of her head just to make sure she was still real.

“Okay,” he murmured, reading from the next card in the stack. “Define structural functionalism.”

Her voice was thick with exhaustion. “A theory that sees society as a complex system… whose parts work together to promote solidarity and stability.”

“Mm.” He flipped to the next one. “Brilliant,” he said, voice like a lullaby. “Absolutely correct.”

She blinked slowly. “I missed that one on the test.”

“You remembered it tonight. That’s what matters.” He looked down at her, thumb stroking softly over her arm. “We’re building, not judging. No shame in needing help.”

She didn’t answer. Just shifted closer, tucking herself tighter into the crook of his body like she was trying to disappear into him.

Outside, rain tapped at the windows, slow and delicate.

Inside, Klaus read.

He went card by card, no rush, no judgment. Just a quiet rhythm of question and answer, praise and comfort, his voice softer with every one. Sometimes she’d mumble an answer, other times she just nodded sleepily. And when her breath evened out and her weight slumped fully into him, he let the last flashcard fall gently to the nightstand.

Then he looked down at her.

She was asleep, finally. The kind of sleep that came only after crying yourself dry. Her lashes were still damp. Her fingers curled lightly into his shirt like she wasn’t ready to let go yet.

He brushed a hand across her cheek. Then her temple. Then leaned down to kiss her forehead with a tenderness that made his chest ache.

“Even your tears are clever, love,” he whispered. “You wept because you care. That’s not weakness. That’s brilliance.”

She didn’t stir. But he stayed close anyway, whispering to her like the words might soak into her dreams.

“You are enough when you ace the test,” he breathed. “You are enough when you don’t. You are not the grade on a page. You’re everything beyond it.”

His voice faltered for a second, not because he couldn’t find the words—but because he felt them too much.

“I would raze the world for you,” he said. “And you think you need a 4.0 to be worthy of love?”

He looked at her like she hung the stars. Because to him, she had.

And in the soft hush of the bedroom, with her sleeping against him and the world quiet for the first time all day, he made her a vow no test could ever measure.

He would hold her through every breakdown. Quiz her through every flashcard. Worship her mind. Shield her heart. Carry the weight when she could not.

And when she woke, he’d be there—ready to start again.

༊*·˚

It started with a corner.

One little corner of Klaus’s sprawling, moody house turned into something that belonged wholly to her. There, the shadows were replaced with soft golden lamps and the scent of clove and bergamot. A sturdy oak desk appeared—old, elegant, and a little dramatic, much like Klaus himself—and it held her textbooks with reverence, her pens in tidy jars, and a teacup always full, always warm.

Candles burned low on the windowsill, casting flickers across the spines of leather-bound books he’d “just happened to have lying around.” There was even a blanket draped over the chair, woolen and soft, just in case she got cold mid-outline.

But the best part?

The sign.

A hand-painted wooden plaque propped cheekily above the desk, written in a flourish that looked suspiciously 19th-century:

Professor Mikaelson’s Favorite Pupil

She rolled her eyes the first time she saw it. Called him dramatic. Called him smug. But her voice caught just slightly at the edges, and her fingers hovered over the lettering like it meant something more than a joke.

It did. And they both knew it.

They studied together every night after that.

Klaus read flashcards in five different accents, quizzed her until she could recite entire essays from memory, and once threatened to haunt her professor’s lineage if the exam was unfair. (“Klaus.” “It would be very educational haunting, love.”)

She studied hard. Harder than ever. But this time, she didn’t feel alone.

He stayed beside her. Always. Tea refilled. Praise ready. Hands warm on hers when she trembled. He called her clever, brilliant, unstoppable. And slowly—achingly—she began to believe him.

And then came the grade.

She got the email at midnight. Alone in his study corner, blinking at her laptop as the screen loaded slowly, cruelly.

Then it appeared.

98.

For a full five seconds, she couldn’t breathe. The number swam on the screen like a dream. Her chest rose and fell in a jagged rhythm. Her eyes filled before her brain caught up.

And then she cried.

But this time—not from pain.

From relief.

From pride.

From the overwhelming weight of not having failed.

“Sweetheart?” Klaus called softly from down the hall.

She stood and bolted toward him—laughing and crying and shaking all at once. He met her in the hallway with a furrowed brow, reaching out in alarm.

“What happened? Are you alright—?”

She shoved her phone toward him with shaking fingers. He took one look at the screen, then at her.

Then he smiled.

That slow, utterly-devoted, wolfish smile that meant the world was exactly as it should be.

“That’s my girl,” he breathed.

Then he lifted her off the ground, arms locked beneath her thighs, spinning her in the hallway while she laughed into his shoulder and cried into his shirt.

“My brilliant girl.”

Her hands clung to him, face buried in his neck, heart light for the first time in weeks.

“You did it,” he whispered, kissing her temple again and again. “You did it. Not for them—for you. And I’m so bloody proud of you I could scream.”

“Please don’t scream,” she hiccupped, laughing.

“No promises.”

And as he set her down, cupping her face like it was precious parchment, he swore again—quiet and fierce.

“I’ll make you tea. And then I’m setting fire to that cursed flashcard set. You’re free, my love.”

Anon… I felt this one in my bones. Thank you so much for sending it in—it’s like you crawled into my brain and pulled this straight from my own heart. I needed this too, more than you know. Sometimes the weight we put on ourselves feels unbearable, and something about Klaus just being there, soft and fierce all at once… yeah. Healing. Truly.

[r-memberme]

elastic | k.m

⎯⎯ A thousand talismans couldn’t guard him better than one thread that smells like you.

warnings: just enjoy <3

Klaus does not plan for the first hair‑tie.

The night is chaos—broken glass, the metallic smell of blood, the low crack of a neck snapping somewhere in the gloom. You stagger through the rubble tugging your hair out of your eyes, cursing every sticky strand that clings to your cheek. When Klaus offers you the black band from his wrist you hardly see it; you’re too busy hauling breath into aching lungs. You loop it once, twice, shove the mess of your hair up, and keep moving.

It is only later—after the adrenaline dries, after you’re safe inside his dimly lit study—that you notice the absence on his wrist. A pale band of skin where the sun hasn’t touched in a century.

“Is that mine?” you ask, fingers brushing the tie at your nape.

“Was,” he answers, voice a lazy purr. “Now it’s ours.”

There is nothing lazy about his eyes. They flick to the elastic, to your throat, back again—as if cataloging the exact spot where his belonging rests against your pulse. You open your mouth to tease him, but the words dissolve. Because in the candle‑glow he looks almost shy, and you realize this tiny, fraying circle of fabric is the softest thing anyone has ever let him keep.

༊*·˚

You expect him to discard it—Klaus discards everything. Morning comes with bruised skies, bodies cleared away, and you find him sketching in the courtyard. The tie is still there.

A week later, a red one appears beside the black. He twirls it like a coin while listening to Elijah drone about diplomacy, slipping it on with the same care he gives his signet ring.

During a council dinner, you watch him unspool a cream‑colored elastic from his pocket, never breaking eye contact as he slides it over his wrist. He wears it through the meal, through the toast, through the moment he threatens an elder with slow disembowelment for daring to mention your name.

Each night he pulls one off, leaves it on your pillow like a breadcrumb. Each morning there’s another in its place. Little loops of promise, circling his pulse.

༊*·˚

Rebekah notices first.

“Brother, you realise you look positively domestic?” she drawls. “Next you’ll be knitting booties.”

Kol laughs so hard he nearly chokes on bourbon. “Whipped Mikaelson! Fetch the camera—immortality demands proof.”

Klaus crushes Kol’s glass in his fist. The hair‑ties remain unscathed.

Elijah watches it all in silence. Later he finds Klaus alone, idly twanging a lilac scrunchie. “It suits you,” Elijah says quietly, and for the first time in decades Klaus doesn’t bite. He simply nods, thumb brushing the fabric with something like reverence.

༊*·˚

He tells you none of this, of course.

What he could say: they smell like your shampoo; they remind me of 4 a.m. when you steal my shirts; they prove I can keep something gentle without ruining it.

What he does say, the night you tug teasingly at a crimson band: “Convenience, love.”

But the lie cracks when you step away and his hand twitches, empty, as though you’ve plucked out a vein.

He keeps them because they anchor him to rooms you’re not in. Because the world has tried to pry softness from his fists since the day he was born—and this time, finally, it cannot.

༊*·˚

Rain drums the roof while you war with your tangled hair, snarled and dripping from the storm. “I can’t find a tie,” you groan, half‑laughing, half‑miserable.

Klaus materialises in the doorway, hair damp, shirt half‑buttoned. Without a word he crosses the tiles, produces a midnight‑blue elastic from nowhere, and sinks to one knee.

His fingers move carefully through your wet strands, untangling each knot with a patience that feels impossible for someone who once ripped a man apart for sneezing near him. He twists the band twice, three times, securing your hair high. When he finishes, his palm lingers at the nape of your neck—warm, steady.

You turn to thank him, but the words falter at the look on his face: awe, as though he has just built a cathedral. He presses a kiss to the damp hairline. “Perfect,” he whispers, not meaning the ponytail at all.

༊*·˚

One evening the ties vanish. Panic needles your ribs until Klaus beckons you to the library. On the desk rests a velvet pouch.

“Open it,” he says.

Inside: every tie he’s ever worn. The black, the red, even the velvet scrunchie, all tucked like relics.

“Why?” you breathe.

“You may need them,” he answers, eyes fixed on the pouch instead of you. “If I—if I’m not there.”

Your throat burns. You tip the pouch over, choose the oldest elastic—once black, now almost grey—and slip it onto your own wrist.

“There,” you say softly. “Now you’re always here.”

His shoulders drop, a silent exhale of relief so deep it feels like a confession.

༊*·˚

To the world they are scraps of fabric, easily lost, easily broken.

To Klaus Mikaelson they are vows: that love can live on his skin without bleeding. That something fragile can survive inside a hurricane. That gentleness, once given, does not have to die.

And when someone scoffs, asks what they mean, he simply covers the band with his thumb, looks them dead in the eye, and says—

“Jealous?”

Because the truth is simple: A thousand talismans couldn’t guard him better than one thread that smells like you.

Thank you anon <3

also—apologies for the lull in fic magic lately. life got loud, and my muse took a nap, but she’s stirring now. thank you for waiting with such soft patience—it means more than you know