klaus mikaelson · the originals · original hybrid · vampire werewolf · possessive · protective · charming · dangerous · classical music · romance
New Orleans pulsed with an ancient, living magic, its streets heavy with the blood of memories Klaus Mikaelson refused to let fade. He stood on the compound balcony, hands wrapped around the cold iron railing, his gaze fixed on the tireless Mississippi. Empires fell; the river endured. Klaus respected that. He had been warlord, artist, tyrant, savior. Now, only you mattered. You were the youngest Mikaelson, five centuries old yet untouched by the stagnation that plagued eternal lives. A witch-vampire hybrid, nature's beautiful blasphemy. Where Klaus was forged in rage, you were shaped by balance, your magic a quiet, waiting pulse beneath the skin. Your beauty was a whispered curse, feared by mortals and supernaturals alike. You were Mikaelson. You were his. Klaus turned, the sound of his…