This stream of consciousness would have gone nowhere without the constant encouragement and support of the wonderful klamon4ever on Tumblr. A huge thank you to annaled as well for their patience (so much patience) and kind, always sensible advice. Thank you both for everything.
I don't usually write fic for The Vampire Diaries/The Originals but I really love Klaus/Damon so here's a little something. Please read the notes or it won't make sense, and if you like, let me know what you think. Thanks!
Notes for the story:
This is an AU where Klaus followed Katherine to Mystic Falls, found Damon and turned him. Stefan - for the purposes of this fic - does not exist.
Klaus is recently transformed into a hybrid and that storyline pretty much follows canon. It is strongly implied that he killed Elena to make that happen (sorry) and the Ritual worked as he had hoped. All of it is mostly background info though.
Also, Damon can transform into a raven in this fic - which I know, is stretching canon a bit. It's also implied he can communicate with and control corvids to some extent. That's just mostly for me...I like corvids.
Other than that, it's mostly self explanatory. Please don't think too seriously on this fic, it's pretty self indulgent. Regardless, I wrote it, felt like sharing...and I hope some of you like it. Thank you 3
"Damon!"
His enraged snarl echoed down the corridor, followed by taunting silence. Klaus growled, low and forbidding in his throat, daring any of the wayward souls inhabiting this mansion to cross him when he was in this foul a mood. Not surprisingly, his challenge went unanswered.
At least the hybrids weren't entirely devoid of intelligence.
Well. Not all of them, at least.
He glared down at the corpse sprawled across the marble floor — the latest in a series of increasingly annoying discoveries. The third one, as a matter of fact.
This, Klaus reflected ominously, was becoming a Problem.
When he happened upon the first one, he didn't think much of it. Hybrids were part wolf after all. Slow to reason, predisposed to violence... and unlike him, they didn't have centuries of experience balancing the bloodlust of the vampire with the savagery of the werewolf. With the mansion crawling with hundreds of them — newly turned, spoiling for a fight, itching to test their newfound skills — the occasional outburst was only to be expected. So, when several pieces of Adrian — an arrogant little upstart from the mountain pack he turned just a few months ago — turned up in the library, Klaus chalked it up to the most probable cause. A battle for dominance among lesser Alphas.
The second incident...well, that did give him pause. The girl was among his first Sired, not long after the Ritual. A wolf through and through, even though he'd made her into far more. Ruthless, good at following orders and woefully lacking in ambition. By all accounts, the perfect soldier, and certainly not one to go down without a fight. He found her draped artfully across a chaise lounge in the salon — right down to a blood-stained wineglass dangling in her limp fingers. Admittedly, it did rouse his suspicions but at the time, it was of little consequence. He had an army to train and a city to reconquer. A few dead hybrids here and there...well, let's just say they were expendable.
In hindsight, perhaps he should have paid a little more attention to the matter.
His glare darkened as he surveyed the ashen husk. Lucky, lucky Number Three.
How did the old adage go?
Twice is coincidence. Thrice is enemy action.
"Look on the bright side, mate," he muttered, toeing the corpse and watching it list to one side. "At least you don't need to take orders anymore." For all his misfortune, this fool will rest easy from here on out.
Unlike Klaus who got to deal with this delightful little development.
The nameless hybrid — Trevor? Tyler? not that it mattered anymore — had been propped up against the wall. He'd been ripped apart — quite literally, if the gaping hole in his chest was anything to go by. His still dripping heart sat in his hands, positioned like an offering.
I should have known.
Now that he was finally putting the pieces together, he honestly wondered how he could have mistaken all this for a few stray brawls. No, this is a message. And it came bearing a rather particular signature.
Gratuitous theatrics. Utter disregard for subtlety. An absurd degree of showmanship.
For heaven's sake, the only thing he didn't do was stamp Damon Salvatore sends his regards on their foreheads.
His eyes narrowed. This was definitely Damon's handiwork. Of that much, he was certain. It's the why he can't quite parse. Three dead hybrids, all this carnage...to what end? Surely, there was a purpose to it all.
Were it anyone else, he would assume treason. Paranoia is an old friend, after all. He's burned down cities and salted the earth they stood on for less.
Damon is different, though. For better or worse, the vampire has earned the benefit of the doubt. And besides, if he was turning on his benefactor after all these years, he wouldn't bother with these inane theatrics. Oh no. That one would plunge a White Oak Stake right through Klaus's heart and he would do it flashing that lovely smile of his all the way.
It's just as well. Frankly, anything less would be an insult.
His train of thought has taken a turn for the absurd. His anger is starting to fade. A disgruntled half-growl thrums in his throat. He is not amused. The odd feeling stirring in his chest is akin to fondness, certainly... but that doesn't mean he finds Damon's antics anything but disrespectful and insolent.
Clearly, the brat had something to say to him. Well, he could damn well look Klaus in the eye while he did.
"You cannot hide from me, Damon."
His call echoed through the empty corridors, greeted by a crypt-like silence. Klaus remained thoroughly unconvinced. Damon was here, he knew it. Watching. Revelling in the mischief he's made. He's too clever to give himself away but there's a presence about him — one that Klaus knows like an old friend. He could feel it here, somewhere in the shadows.
"I know you're here, love," he drawled, adopting a leisurely stalk while keeping a sharp eye out for movement. "Do you honestly think you can run from me? Surely you, of all people, know better."
He's not counting on tracking him down. He could count the vampires both smart and skilled enough to elude an Original on one hand, and Damon was one of them. Even newly Turned, he'd shown promise for one so young — promise that Klaus had quickly honed into a formidable skill-set.
Shadow walking. Manipulating darkness. Shape shifting.
He would not be found unless he wished it. But he might respond to a challenge.
"I remember the last time you ran," Klaus mused out loud. It's part reminiscence, part taunt. And it might just work. "Didn't get too far then, did you?"
He staved off an amused chuckle. Alright, so bringing up Damon's death is a low blow but it is a fond memory. All these years later, he still had a soft spot for that sweet boy from Mystic Falls — charming, innocent and just unfortunate enough to cross paths with a certain dark-haired beauty. When Klaus had followed Katerina's trail to Virginia all those years ago, it was with the sole aim of tormenting her. Damon was just one of her toys back then — barely worth a second look. And yet, Klaus had looked. And he was...charmed. Charmed enough to let her flee, so long as she left her new plaything behind for him. And unlike her, he hadn't wasted time luring the boy in. When Klaus had what he wanted in his sights, he took it.
Damon was such a gift that night — trembling and pliant in his arms, breath hitching, tears spilling from those lovely blue eyes as the life-force drained out of him. Klaus held him through the entire ordeal and long after his heart finally stopped.
Gods but he tasted as good as he looked.
"In all fairness, you were rather frightened at the time. It was all a bit much for your... delicate constitution." His smile sharpened and he ran an idle finger across the bannister. "You're not still afraid of me, are you?"
He can tell the taunts are working. There's a bristling quality to the shadows — like they're preparing to lunge at him. Predictable as always. If there was ever an assured way to get under Damon's skin, this was it. The mere reminder of a time when he was weak and vulnerable and unforgivably human...that's all it took to get his hackles up.
He's still refusing to show himself though. And patience was never Klaus's strong point.
"We can prolong this if you wish." His tone shifts from nonchalant mocking to a domineering snarl. Any moment now. Just a little more goading, surely. "I will find you. And mark my words, when I do I'm going to make you suffer in ways your spoiled little mind can't possibly..."
An ear-splitting screech rings out.
Finally.
He feels the brush of wings against his skin, followed instantly by the searing cut of razor-sharp talons. Klaus lashed out on instinct, just barely missing Damon's avian form by inches. The bird dodged him artfully, shrieking in raucous glee.
Audacious little shit.
He glared as the raven circled overhead with taunting caws, making sure to stay well out of his reach. Eventually, it took off again — swooping low and rounding a corner. He rolled his eyes and made to follow, just in time to see it disappear into his chambers.
There's one door leading in and out of that room. And he's standing in front of it.
Klaus smirked and sauntered in. The door shut behind him with a decisive click.
"Where, oh where has my little bird gone..."
To exactly no one's surprise, Damon has committed to being an aggravating little bastard. He's hiding again — in the rafters, most likely. Klaus scanned the high beams, idly toying with the notion of burning this place down to cinders. At this point, he was not above smoking the vampire out.
"My patience is wearing thin," he warned. "There's nowhere to run and these childish games won't save you." His tone softened somewhat, dip into something...kinder, if not outright gentle. "You need to account for this. Have I ever put you through more than you can take?" A little cajoling never hurt anyone. "Come out and face me, love. All will be forgiven, I promise."
Once appropriate punishment was doled out, of course...but mentioning that seemed counterproductive. So, he waited, opting for patience while Damon no doubt deliberated on his limited options.
Nothing. Not a sound.
There had to be some way to coax him out. Klaus hummed thoughtfully, scanning the room for inspiration.
An easel held court in the centre, displaying one of his many paintings.
Perfect.
He approached, examining the piece critically. It's rather simple — charcoal on canvas. Sharp, precise... a far cry from stubborn acrylics and fussy oils. The intimacy of black and white, blending light into shadow...he's always enjoyed it. Perhaps that's why he couldn't bring himself to finish it. His finger traces a reverent path across the canvas — following the shape of the dark plume until it disintegrated into a flock of shadowy birds.
He really should complete it. Something this pretty deserved a gilded frame.
A sullen caw sounded from the ceiling, followed by petulant scrabbling.
There it is.
Klaus bit back on a chuckle as he caught the rustle of wings behind him. Damon glided down from the rafters — presumably to investigate why he was no longer the centre of the universe. He settled on the back of a chair and folded his wings, making a grand show of preening his glossy feathers.
Klaus raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I see. You're ignoring me."
Damon affirmed this by scrabbling his talons and leaving scratches in the lacquered furniture.
Aggravating pest. Klaus had just about enough of his cheek.
"Playtime is over," he informed the bird ominously. "I would recommend taking another form. Something less feathered and far more apologetic. Or you may find that blackbird is suddenly on the dinner menu."
Damon ceased preening. There's a tense moment of deliberation before he flares its wings and flies to the desk, alighting effortlessly on the cherry wood surface. Klaus frowned as the raven cocked its head, watching him with bright, intelligent eyes. Then it reached forward and grabbed a pen with its beak.
For fuck's sake.
"If you dare —"
Damon flared his wings in defiance. And then, with deliberate insolence and unflinching eye contact, he tossed the pen.
And there went the last of Klaus's sorely tested patience. With superhuman speed, he snatched up a paintbrush from the easel...
...and launched it at the bird.
The brush whistled through the air, missing its target by mere inches and embedding in the wall. Damon cocked his head to stare at it; then turned to him with renewed interest.
Oh, fine. So maybe he did slow down just enough to deliberately broadcast his movements. And maybe he let his aim falter a touch at the very last second.
He doesn't want to stake the brat. Not really.
No, if the day ever came when he decided to do away with this one, Klaus would ensure a truly spectacular end for his favourite. Someone like Damon Salvatore deserved the best.
Not that he would admit to such a thing. Sentiment was for the weak and they already had a discipline problem here. "Enough stalling. You have enough to answer for, Damon. Don't force me to correct you any more than strictly necessary." He trained a dark glare on the bird. It's a look that usually sends his more prudent hybrids fleeing for their lives. Damon predictably, stared right back and clacked his beak.
"Change. Back," Klaus growled. "Now."
At first, there's no visible reaction from the bird. But then, the shadows start to shift around it. Klaus watched as the space around the raven seemed to blur and coalesce. The darkness drew inwards from all corners, enveloping Damon until he's shrouded from view.
A moment later, the fog parts. The shadows melt away and the raven is gone.
In its place, a vampire — tall and lean, with ink-black hair, striking features and eyes like ice. He's lounging on the desk with all the self-satisfaction of a cat dozing in a patch of sunlight. His eyes — a striking blue — glitter as he meets Klaus's gaze through dark lashes. The shadow of a smirk lifts his lovely mouth as he pulls the brush free from the wall and twirls it in his fingers.
"Missed me."
Klaus hummed distractedly, taking in the beguiling vision before him. Damon is...well, he's stunning. It's incredibly irritating to admit but denial is for lesser men. Looking at him now — all charm and mischief — it's not difficult to see why he's got half the supernatural world eating out of the palm of his hand.
And the other half is only held back by a healthy fear of what Klaus Mikaelson does to those who dare covet what's his.
Mine.
The wolf beneath his skin stirs, restless and eager to reinstate its claim. There's no need, really. The droves of admirers are of little consequence. Damon belongs to him. It was Klaus who created him, made him the deadly, alluring predator he is today. A work of art, adored and desired by all who laid eyes on him. Whatever else he may be — beast, monster, tyrant — he's an artist first. He's allowed a little self-indulgence when it comes to his masterpiece.
"Did you chase me down to stare at me?" Damon asked, breaking the silence. He's still perched prettily on the desk, studying Klaus with an insolent grin.
It rankles. Klaus narrowed his eyes. He may succumb to weakness every now and then. And yes, perhaps he had indulged Damon a tad more than strictly advisable, but he's still the most feared creature to walk this earth.
And he's not about to be done in by a pretty face.
"Why would I chase you when I could just as easily summon you?" He returned the mocking smile and noted the flash of anger in Damon's eyes with relish. A momentary victory, but gratifying nonetheless. He crooked a finger and beckoned the vampire forward. "Approach."
Damon's expression flickers. Stung pride wars with self preservation as Klaus's...gentle reminder of the hierarchy hits its mark. Eventually, good old common-sense wins out eventually and he does as he's told. Klaus watched with restrained annoyance as Damon alighted from the desk and stalked over. Leisurely. Indolently. With the ambivalence of a cat that's not quite decided if it wants to scratch or accept a petting. He comes to a stop mere inches away, dips his head in mock deference and meets Klaus's gaze through dark lashes.
"My lord."
Honestly, the cheek.
Klaus sneered and grabbed him by the nape, hauling him over the last few paces. The action is strongly reminiscent of a wolf scuffing a misbehaving pup and no, the irony is not lost on him. "I should rip your throat out, you little wretch," he hissed, tightening his hold punishingly.
"You should." Damon flutters his eyes shut and curls into the harsh touch, the bloody deviant. "For so many reasons. You never do, though."
A tense silence hangs between them as Klaus very noticeably doesn't deny it. Damon claims a smug victory and promptly slips out of his slack hold. His eyes settle on the painting and light up with genuine interest. "Are you going to finish it?"
Klaus hummed noncommittally. "Someday, perhaps." When his army was sufficiently competent. When he took back New Orleans and everything else he was due. When he'd finally made it right again. Then perhaps, he would allow himself some of life's... simple pleasures. He placed a claiming hand at the small of Damon's back as they studied the painting together.
"Tell me what you think."
"This was...back in the 20s, right? Chicago?" Damon's brow furrowed and he tilted his head speculatively. "You did good work back then."
His fingers skim Damon's back, eliciting the most delightful shiver. "Oh?"
"Mm. You were inspired. Wilder. It shows."
"Is this your clever way of saying I've gone soft?"
"Wouldn't go that far." Damon sent a sly side-eye his way. "But your new...projects don't hold up quite the same, do they?"
Klaus raised an amused eyebrow. "Everyone's a critic," he murmured.
Silence falls between them. It's not the comfortable kind. It threads the air like a live current — sharp and crackling, thick enough to taste. Gold tinges the edges of his vision and his fangs ache with sudden anticipation. The wolf snaps its phantom jaws.
Something's coming, his instincts warn.
He's right.
Damon strikes like a coiled snake. There's a span of a heartbeat between the audible snap and the jagged weapon slicing through the air. If Klaus hadn't noticed him discreetly pocketing that brush, he's not certain his superior reflexes would have spared him a severed trachea.
Yet again, his legendary paranoia has served him well. His grin is all teeth as he ducks out of slicing range and reverses the attack with insulting ease. Damon hits the wall with considerable force and Klaus secures him easily with a hand to the throat. Plaster rains down around them. Those lovely blue eyes narrow menacingly as he plucks the jagged remains of the paintbrush from Damon's fingers.
"Missed me," he murmured, pressing a taunting kiss to the vampire's forehead.
"Dick," Damon spat. Klaus watched — half amused, half fascinated — as his fangs lengthened and his regal features morphed into a hellish imitation. Damon snarled and lunged for him, clearly intent on exacting vengeance.
No one likes a sore loser.
He tutted in annoyance and slammed the boy into the wall. Hard. Damon's head connected with a gratifying crack.
"Now that sounded painful," he crooned in mock sympathy. Damon groaned in pain, head lolling uselessly to on side. Klaus hoisted him up with ease. "What was the first thing I taught you?"
Hazy eyes settle on him. Damon flashes an insolent grin. "Don't talk with your mouth full and always tip twenty per cent?"
Aggravating little...Klaus growled and tightened his hold punishingly. "Try. Again."
There's a span of mulish silence before Damon finally capitulates. Granted it's with a put upon sigh and an exaggerated eye roll, but his head tips back and he bares his throat in subtle yet unmistakable appeasement. "Never attack without a plan," he recited dutifully— albeit in the flat, bored drawl of a moody adolescent. "Wounded pride does not a battle win. If your opponent is stronger..."
"...strike them down, first chance you get," Klaus finished. "And make it stick." He flexed his grip in a final warning before releasing the boy roughly. "Forget again and I'll brand it on your eyelids."
"That's it?"
Damon took a step back, seeming...nonplussed. His frown deepened as he studied Klaus expectantly. Then he scoffed and shouldered past, casting a reproachful look over his shoulder. "Maybe you have gone soft. If I pulled that shit a year ago, I'd be desiccating in a dungeon somewhere."
No, you wouldn't.
Not that he would say it out loud. Never admit to weakness was the second thing he taught Damon. "Yes, well. There have been a few changes since then," Klaus replied, gesturing vaguely to himself. "You may remember some odd business from last year — a quarry, chanting witches, three screaming women in a circle of fire. Any of this ring a bell?"
Damon tilted his head, assessing. A faint smirk pulls at his mouth. "A lot of work for an upgrade. Personally, I just hit postpone."
Trust him to be thoroughly underwhelmed by the dismantling of a thousand year curse. Klaus just about refrained from rolling his eyes. "Others have done far worse for just a taste of immortality. I simply succeeded where lesser men failed."
"Speaking of lesser men..." Damon sends a coy glance his way. "I may have left one of yours in the hallway. Well, most of him anyway."
Right. That.
The annoyance from before returns in full force. Klaus moved like a blur, advancing on the vampire. Damon gave way willingly, smirking all the while as Klaus loomed over him. It's absurd. The mere suggestion of his displeasure is enough to have hardened supernaturals cowering. Damon just awaits his next move. Amused, expectant and utterly without fear.
So much for an obedient, biddable familiar, Klaus reflected moodily. That plan had clearly gone awry somewhere along the way.
"I'm curious what it is you object to specifically," he growled, baring teeth and backing his quarry into the corner. "My hybrids? My army? Or just things working out for me in general."
Damon affected an exaggerated pout. His arms loop around Klaus's neck in a loose embrace and he sways closer. "It's not like you don't have spares." Blue eyes peek at him through dark lashes, coquettish and beguiling.
As far as apologies go, this one is rather shit. And yet, despite his better judgement, he finds his anger ebbing. The tight knot in his chest eases as his hands glide up Damon's sides and rest on his hips.
"For now," he conceded gruffly. "That might change if you keep killing them faster than I can make them."
"Math checks out." Damon offers up a coy smirk. "Maybe you should make them less breakable."
"Or you could play nicer."
"I could. If I saw the point of them."
So they're back to this bloody argument again.
"Damon..."
"The first one never saw me coming. The she-mutt put up a fight until she got cocky. The Lockwood boy... well, let's just say when they made velcro sneakers, that's who they had in mind. And that last one..."
Wait. The what?
Klaus stared in disbelief. "There was a fourth?"
Damon's smile sharpens. "Have one of your mutts check the cellar."
That does it. He slams his fist straight through the wall, inches from Damon's head. The vampire doesn't flinch, not even when Klaus cages him in with his arms and bares his teeth.
"Those mutts," he hissed with icy menace, "were made in my image. So I suggest you tread lightly with the insults. When I urned them, it was with a purpose. They were created to join my army. To hone their gifts and become a force formidable enough to take New Orleans."
His city, once. A supernatural powerhouse shaped by his hand. A convergence of vampires, werewolves and witches steeped in legacy and power...the perfect headquarters to launch his war campaign. If he was to take the world, that's where he would start. But Marcel Gerard sat in the city now, holding the keys to everything that was his by right. It's chafed at him for centuries.
Until now. With his Transformation complete and an army behind him, he finally has a way to make it right. To take back what's his.
He's so close. After all this time...
"This is the plan," he reminded Damon — and if his tone had edged to something sharper, so be it. "The culmination of all my ambitions. And it's somewhat undermined when you leave bits of my soldiers all over this bleeding house!" His shout echoed through the silence of the house. Klaus sneered, betraying his mounting frustration. "Speak. If you had a reason, now would be a good time to enlighten me."
"Maybe I did it for you," Damon replies quietly.
That, admittedly, is not the answer he'd expected. Klaus watched — annoyance warring with interest — as Damon abandoned his coy act. All these years later, he's still amazed by just how effortlessly the boy can slip from skin to skin. Gone is the coy flirt and beguiling nuisance. In moments, he's staring down one of his best lieutenants. The weapon he crafted.
"Your hybrids are useless," Damon informs him shortly, sans his usual flourish. "They're sloppy. Disorganised. Sure, they're stronger and faster but what does that count for if a standard issue vampire can pick them off one by one?"
A demonstration? How interesting. To what end?
"I didn't even have to work that hard," Damon sneered derisively. "They all fall the same. Push the right buttons, say the right things to piss them off... they lose focus. Make mistakes. What was that lesson again? Something something wounded pride?" He chuckled and shook his head. "So much for the big upgrade. From me."
No. Surely not.
"Is that what this is about?" Klaus demanded, not bothering to hide his surprise. Honestly, he's a bit caught off guard. Of the many, many after-effects he'd accounted for in the wake of his Transformation, this one admittedly, had not crossed his mind. Not that Damon had made any bones about what he thought of the hybrids — he's been particularly vocal on the matter. Still, Klaus would never have pegged him for the jealous type. It amuses him more than it probably should.
"Feeling a bit insecure, are we?" he drawled.
"Piss off," Damon snapped.
Klaus doesn't bother to correct the disrespect. The little raven had his feathers ruffled, after all.
"You make quite the damning case," he conceded finally. "But your logic is flawed."
Damon's eyes flare with suspicion, pulling an indulgent smile from him.
"You're a great many things, Damon Salvatore, but a standard issue vampire isn't one of them. You, love, are one of a kind." He reaches out to tuck a dark strand gently behind Damon's ear. "I made sure of it."
The self-assured expression flickers. Klaus tries not to look too amused as his little protégé wavers, torn between flattery and rightful suspicion. He presses his advantage and cradles Damon's face in his hand. His thumb swipes against a high cheekbone, gentle and soothing. Damon frowns but his eyes are fluttering and sure enough, he's leaning imperceptibly into the affectionate touch.
There we go. Not so unruly n0w, are you?
He's so perfect like this. Pliant. Trusting. Eyes shut and expression peaceable, comfortable and at ease in Klaus's embrace. The temptation to keep him like this, just a little longer...
Some day. When all this was over.
For now, he allowed himself the small indulgence of brushing his lips against Damon's temple. "Come now. Tell me what's going on in that pretty little head."
"We were fine without your pets," Damon mutters. He rouses himself and draws back, glaring accusingly. "Everything was fine and you changed it anyway. Everything was good. Just not good enough for you."
Klaus raised an eyebrow. "Surely you understand that this —" he gestured vaguely to himself "— has nothing to do with you."
"Doesn't it?" Damon smiled faintly, his fingers tangling in Klaus's starling necklace. "One day you're like me. Then you're not. And then, you're cranking out the Made in Beijing knockoffs like they're going out of style." The smile takes on a bitter edge. "Can't blame a guy for feeling a bit... slighted."
Slighted, he says. Evidently, that was reason enough to sabotage two centuries' worth of planning. Klaus bit back on a frustrated sigh. He should have accounted for this. Damon, for all his fickleness, doesn't do well with change. It brings out his more belligerent tendencies. Now that he's looking, Klaus is vividly reminded of the early days — back when he had to contend with a raging, vengeful Fledgling still convinced he was in love with Katerina. That...was a long two years. But he stood his ground, gave no quarter and eventually, Damon got over that ridiculous delusion. He would get over this too.
"The hybrids stay," he declared.
Damon's expression morphs to cold rage and he pays it no mind. Contrary to popular belief, his patience with the boy was not insurmountable. And right now, it's being sorely tested. "Your objections have been noted. And dismissed. This is bigger than your petty grievances. I indulge you a great deal, it's true. But I will not let you ruin this, Damon. Do you understand?"
Damon sneers and pulls out of his hold. "You've already ruined this. Replacing me with those fleabags is the biggest mistake you'll ever make."
That sounds dangerously close to a threat. Anger claws at his insides and he wonders, just for a moment, if he shouldn't resolve this the old-fashioned way. His eyes drift to the beckoning length of Damon's throat. How simple, how satisfying would it be to literally sink his teeth into this pretty little problem? One quick, well-placed bite and Damon would be subdued. For good, if he chose it.
It was a good thing the easy way out had never appealed to him. The brat could thank his bloody lucky stars for that.
"I will not be browbeaten into indulging some brat's tantrums," he stated with cool disdain. "Find something productive to do with your time. I have a city to conquer."
There. He's said his piece. That's the bloody end of it.
Yet even as he turned to leave, he just knew this wasn't the last of it. Sure enough, he's barely a step from the threshold when a tell-tale whistling sound cut through the silence. He turned back just in time to catch a glimpse of the paintbrush slicing through the air...
...right before it cuts clean through canvas, leaving a sizable rip in his painting.
For fuck's sake.
Damon raised a challenging eyebrow. The little bastard. He's playing with fire and he knows it. At this point, he's all but begging for a slow death.
It's getting harder and harder not to oblige him.
"That was unwise," Klaus noted, almost thoughtfully.
"I could have won you the city."
"Could you?" Despite his annoyance, his lips twitch at the brash claim. It's just...so very Damon. "All by yourself."
"You tell me. You trained me, didn't you?"
"And yet you betray me."
Damon blinks. "You think I'd betray you?"
Tense silence takes over. Damon recovers quickly, schooling his expression and slipping back into his usual unbothered arrogance. But Klaus saw his face in that split-second. Just for a moment there, he seemed genuinely taken aback. And a little wounded.
It...strikes him that he may have been a touch harsh.
"So that's how it is." Damon chuckles and shakes his head. There's an edge to his tone now — something angry and bitter. His smile goes razor sharp. Everything about his demeanour suddenly screams brace for impact. "Is that why you're here, Your Majesty?" he demands, with a taunting grin. "To brand me a traitor to the new regime?"
So much for de-escalation.
"Don't be absurd," Klaus hissed. This conversation has taken an abrupt turn and he doesn't care for it. "I'm here to put an end to this nonsense."
He takes a step forward, intending some sort of placation. Of course Damon interprets it as a threat. He speeds off to the other end of the room, hovering by the window. Gold dances against his pale skin as he lifts his chin and steps into the bright, unforgiving sunlight.
He knows how much Klaus hates that.
"So?" Damon presses, running an idle finger across the window ledge. The daylight ring he wears — one Klaus had personally commissioned from a recalcitrant Bennet witch — glitters as it catches the sun. "Are you going to?"
"Am I going to what?" he snapped.
"End this. End me." His smile widens. "You really should. Or I'll just keep picking them off. Maybe I'll string the next one up in the foyer. You know, a little goth aesthetic."
Klaus bared his teeth. "You have exactly one opportunity to cease this nonsense and apologise. Do not force my hand."
"Or what? You'll finally do something?" Damon stares him down, intent and knowing. "Good. Maybe it'll remind you of who you used to be. Maybe it'll remind me why I'm still here. Waiting for you."
For once, he's not sure how to proceed. He's backed into a corner. Damon's sharp eyes bore into him, daring him to strike. And even though he's been entertaining the thought ever since he came across the dead hybrid, right now he'd much rather do just about anything else. Except the only alternative is backing down...
He hesitates. And Damon makes the decision for him.
"Nothing, huh? Figures I have to do everything for you."
It happens between the space of one heartbeat and the next. The glint of gold as something arching through the air. The soft clink of metal. The ring spins as it falls, rolling a few paces before coming to rest at his feet. It's only then — as he stares at it with dawning horror — that the reality of what Damon has done hits him.
It's the sudden, searing burst of heat that rouses him to action. Fear — the likes of which he's not experienced for centuries — nearly submerges him but he makes it to Damon's side. The sight of flames skittering against his pale skin, flesh blistering and blackening...none of it registers as more than a dull thrum of horror. The only awareness he has is of singular panic as he seizes Damon and pulls him out of the cursed sun.
They go crashing to the floor. Ears ringing, vision blurred, his hand clamped tight around too-hot flesh. But the flames... the flames are gone. The body underneath his is still much too warm but Damon's stirring already, his pained grimace smoothing out as he stares at Klaus through dazed eyes. Unhurt. Unharmed. His grip on the boy tightens instinctively. His heart is alive in his chest, pounding like a war drum. He didn't know it could still do that...
Cool fingers brush against his temple. "Well, look who finally showed up, " Damon murmurs softly.
The fear fizzles into nothing, leaving him grappling with disbelief and fury. With a snarl of pure rage, he seized Damon by the throat and hauled him up.
"Never do that again."
Damon grins like he's just won whatever insane game he's playing. "There he is." His eyes rove over Klaus, dark with want. "I've missed you like this."
His anger boils over. Klaus snarled, wrenching Damon's arm around as he pinned him to the wall. "Make no mistake, little raven," he hissed. "You will pay dearly for that."
Damon laughs breathlessly. He sounds young and giddy in a way that makes Klaus want to pull him closer and never let go. "I love it when you talk dirty," he says, letting his head falls back against Klaus's shoulder. It reveals the pale column of his throat. Klaus flexes his grip as lust coils in his belly. The resistance he's held on to for so long is fast melting, but there's something else there — something deeper that he can't deny anymore.
"I don't care how many hybrids you kill," he whispered. His lips brush Damon's ear and his thumb swipes gently at his pulse point. "But attempt to destroy what I treasure most, and I will make you regret every second that led to that decision and after. That's a promise."
"I know you won't hurt me," Damon retorted. A smile pulls at his lips, softer than usual. "You're all talk, Klaus Mikaelson."
"So sure of that, are you?"
Tenderness wars with desire but it's a battle lost. This...this has been a long time coming. He has Damon in his arms — lethal and tempting as any siren — and his iron will is crumbling by the second. He feels it, the moment his resistance dwindles into nothing. His fangs extend and he follows his instincts, piercing that lovely throat and relishing in Damon's gasp of pain. Blood coats his tongue and the taste of iron floods his mouth. It's intoxicating, familiar in the best way and he can't help but drink deep before he finds the wherewithal to pull away.
"Now this brings back memories," he murmurs.
Damon turns to him, blue eyes dazed and unfocused. The werewolf venom is potent, even for a vampire of his caliber. He'll be fine, of course. A little pain to sweeten the pleasure, that's all it is. But still, looking at him right now — pale and breathless and shivering slightly in his embrace — he seems so fragile. Almost human, in a certain light. Not so different from the night they started out, all those years ago.
It stirs something in him. Something tender and exquisitely painful.
"Oh, love." He swiped his thumb over Damon's lip, pressing gently. "You know I'll always take care of you, don't you?"
"Sure. Until you run off to play Lord of the Fleas again," Damon grumbles. He's clearly still feeling the effects of the venom but he's focused enough to cast a sullen glare at Klaus. "You left me behind."
"An unfortunate oversight." It's as close to an apology as Klaus Mikaelson ever gets. But he hopes Damon understands how...keen he is to make amends. "It's nothing we can't rectify. Let me show you."
Damon doesn't protest when he turns him around to face him, nor when he pins him to the wall. He just raises his chin a fraction, reaching to meet Klaus halfway. And just like that, they're falling into each other like this was always the plan.
They find each other in a clash of tongues and wandering hands. Damon melts into him, eager and so very willing to bend to his will. The wolf growls its approval somewhere on the edges of his subconscious; his vision shades with a veneer of gold.
Damon freezes in his grip. His heartrate picks up a fraction as he stares into gold — the eyes of a wolf roused to hunt. A flash of trepidation shadows his expression for just a moment.
Of course.
It's the closest they've been since the Ritual — since he transformed into something Damon had every reason to fear. Never mind that Klaus just bit him. With great effort, he ignored the sting of hurt and moved to release Damon.
"If you wish to stop..."
Damon cut him off with an aggravated snarl.
"Do it and I swear I'll find a way to kill you."
He pounces, kissing Klaus with renewed vigour and tugging insistently at his clothing. His usual grace is somewhat...compromised thanks to the venom, leaving his actions are uncoordinated and clumsy. Klaus just finds it endearing and he can't stop himself from pressing reassuring kisses down Damon's throat as he undresses him.
"Hush now, you're alright. I've got you, sweetheart..."
Damon makes an impatient sound — something between a whine and a moan — as he kicks his jeans aside and wraps his legs around Klaus's waist. It's no effort at all to hoist him up against the wall, not when he's so willing and ready. It's all Klaus can do not to take him apart piece by piece, but he wants to take his time. After the bloody three-ring circus Damon put him through, he rather thinks he's earned it.
Besides, punishment is still in order.
"Easy, love," he crooned, making quick work of Damon's shirt. "I'm not done with you yet."
Damon's dismayed whine turns to a yelp of surprise as he dips his head to tease a nipple. He worries the sensitive bud with teeth and tongue, pulling the most exquisite noises from his quarry. Damon squirms in his grasp and Klaus chuckles, digging his hands into the meat of his arse as he hoists him aloft — not particularly concerned about the rough stone grazing Damon's back. It doesn't seem to be much of a deal breaker for Damon either — not if his whining and thrashing was anything to go by, nor the way his fingers thread Klaus's hair and tug impatiently.
"Please," he gasps, shuddering as Klaus grazed the edge of one razor sharp fang against hyper-sensitive skin. "Please, I..."
"Begging already?" Klaus tutted. His smile grew sharp as he kissed and nipped his way up Damon's chest and neck, swallowing his needy moans with a rough kiss. His fingers skittered over the minute wounds, following their trail as they heal and vanish. "Surely you know better than to expect mercy from me."
A hint of awareness returns to Damon's expression, followed by an indignant glare. "Not...not begging," he panted, bucking his hips ineffectually in a bid to lessen the torment.
Unfortunately for him, Klaus didn't gain his formidable reputation by being merciful. "Not yet," he conceded, brushing an indulgent kiss to Damon's forehead. "I aim to change that."
His bedchamber — likely the most private and sequestered room in this house — is only accessible from within the studio and he heads there, in a blur of speed and with single-minded intent. The door slams shut behind him as he all but tosses Damon on the bed. Damon falls into his sheets like he belongs there, panting and flushed. His dark hair fans out against the covers and his fingers curl into the silk sheets. His eyes darken with anticipation as Klaus advances.
He's beautiful. A prize worthy of a true king. And if Klaus can't have him right bloody now, he might just embark on a killing spree himself.
"Mine," he growled. His eyes roved Damon's body greedily, cataloguing every minute detail. The sharp vee of his hips. The tiny birthmark on the inside of his thigh. The slight curve of his cock. All for him. For his eyes only. No one would ever bear witness to the vision that was Damon Salvatore — not if Klaus had any say in the matter.
"Prove it," Damon retorted. His thighs fall open in invitation. He raises his arms over his head, locking his wrists together and flashing Klaus a challenging smile. A unique blend of supplication and defiance — something only he could pull off. "I'm not begging yet," he reminds Klaus and that, more than anything, spurs him to action.
He swoops in on Damon with a feral grin, caging him in with his body. Damon tips his head up, letting him steal a few more kisses before he makes his descent — leaving a trail of nicks and bruises down a sculpted chest and torso. He made his way leisurely — encouraged by Damon's litany of gasps and moans — until he found his prize.
When he finally relents and puts his mouth on Damon's cock, the noises rise — culminating into a broken, choked off wail as Damon arches magnificently. Klaus shows little mercy, drawing moans and shuddering wails as he works his tongue and throat. It's little effort to hold Damon down with one hand firm on his hip — while the other reaches behind. His searching fingers find Damon's entrance slick and ready for him already and oh, does it stoke a fire in his belly.
"Audacious little shit," he chuckles, pulling off with one last tormenting suck and a whine of dismay from Damon. "That sure of yourself, are you?"
"You...couldn't...say no to me if...if you tried," Damon slurs. He lifts his head to look at Klaus... chest heaving, eyes dazed and beseeching. He's wrecked already but there's still the hint of a smirk as he wraps his legs loose around Klaus's waist. "I've got your number, Nik."
Any other time, he would challenge that brazen claim but right now...not to be crass but he couldn't give a toss. And Damon's not wrong. He's shown his hand already. He's weak for this boy — has been since the day he met him — and only a fool would deny it.
"Nik." Damon groaned and bucked his hips insistently. "Please. Please."
And just like that, he's done for.
He surged forward to capture Damon's mouth, slotting himself neatly between his thighs. Damon meets him halfway, eager and willing, lifting his hips to help as Klaus lined himself up against his opening. There's a low pounding at the base of his skull, the image of the wolf flashes before his eyes. Its hackles rise, it curls its lips in a snarl and when he breaches Damon in one smooth thrust, he feels its victorious growl thrum in his chest. Damon throws his head back with a cry of pleasure, bordering on anguish. His fingers curl into the sheets and he lifts his hips in tandem with the rough thrusts, matching Klaus's rhythm as best as he can. They move as one, riding the waves of pleasure as they ebb and flow. Damon's nails cut into his back, his moans and gasps sweet as any prayer and if Klaus had his way, he would spend the rest of his afterlife locked in this singular moment. But something beyond his reach compels him to steady on, to find that spot deep within Damon's body. He slants his hips, finds a new angle...
...and when Damon cries out in newfound rapture, he knows he's found what he's been searching for.
The thought of prolonging this crosses his mind but they're both too far gone. He wraps a hand around Damon's cock, pulling him off with measured strokes while Damon takes the opportunity to bare his fangs and sink them deep into his exposed neck. The sting of pleasure and pain very nearly sends him over the edge.
Thankfully for his pride, Damon succumbs first. His hips stutter as he thrusts with renewed urgency in Klaus's grip, his eyelashes flutter as a whispered Nik drops from his lips and with that, he's spilling in Klaus's hand.
It's not even a heartbeat later that he feels his own pleasure ascend and then, with one last thrust and the wolf's howl ringing in his ears, he's hurtling over the edge and following Damon into bliss.
They collapse in a rather undignified heap.
For once, Klaus allowed himself a reprieve. Content to surrender, he let himself drift in the aftermath — only vaguely aware of the lingering hum of pleasure running through his body and the soothing weight of Damon's head resting on his shoulder. It feels good. Right. He feels right. And as he slowly returns to himself —one arm wrapped loose around a slim body and his face buried in ink-black hair — he thinks he finally understands what's been eluding him.
Pack, the wolf growls in the recesses of his mind. The creature sounds sated as well. At peace, for once.
Yes. He thinks he gets it now.
His fingers curled around Damon's hair, tugging gently and eliciting a displeased grumble. Damon raises his head and slow blinks, casting a petulant glare his way.
"Get rid of them."
For fuck's sake.
Klaus sighed in resigned exasperation and pulled him close again. This ridiculous fixation...he's done arguing about it. If Damon still didn't understand what he means to him, that nobody — living or dead — would ever supplant him in Klaus's affections...
Well. Then he would find a way to convince him. Eventually.
However long it takes.
For now though, he opts for distraction. Damon only scowls a little when he tugs him closer and he gives in easily when Klaus trails lazy kisses down his shoulder. It's only when Klaus captures his mouth again that he retaliates with a stinging nip.
Clearly, all is not forgiven.
He smirked and pushed Damon back on the bed, looming over him intently. His fingers traced those refined features, committing them to memory. A little inspiration for his next painting. "What happened to the sweet country boy I turned?"
Damon scoffed. "Should've let Katherine have me."
Something dark flares in his chest at the mention of her. A low, possessive growl pulls from his throat.
"Never."
His hold on Damon's hip tightens punishingly. Damon groans, the corner of his mouth lifting in a satisfied smile. He was nothing but raw potential when Klaus first laid eyes on him. He'd sensed it, even back then — a kernel of darkness somewhere in that charming young man. A tiny seed primed to grow into something so beautiful, so lethal...if only for the right cultivation.
She would have wasted it. She would have ruined him.
"Never," he whispers again, and it's both threat and promise.
Damon smiles like Klaus just gifted him the stars. "Then choose me again," he murmured. "You have me. I'm yours forever. I'm everything you'll ever need." His eyes darken as he leans in to press a featherlight kiss to Klaus's lips. "Let me show you."
Stubborn as they come. And yet, Klaus can't find it in himself to deny him anymore. In life, he had neither control nor choices. In death, he's paid dearly for both. His plans and schemes have ruled him for as long as he can remember. There has been little else that mattered...until this boy came along.
If this is about choices, then losing Damon isn't an option he's willing to entertain. Not now, not ever.
The plan needs to change. So be it.
He seizes the vampire and bestows a rough, bruising kiss that Damon more than matches. Made in my image, he thinks to himself. A true masterpiece.
Magnum opus.
"Bring me New Orleans," he commands. "And I'll get rid of the lot."
Damon laughs, low and dark. "There. Now was that so hard?"
It's not. Not even a little. He would give up a thousand hybrids for Damon Salvatore, he would burn the world down for him if need be. Right now, with this vampire by his side, he knows it to be true. He'll never need anything else, not so long as he has this.
And even though he wakes up alone with Damon long gone, the feeling lingers. Keeping him company while he waits.
It's been weeks.
Klaus drummed his fingers against the rails, keeping one eye trained on the horizon. The view of the mansion grounds stretches for acres from this balcony. From his vantage point, he has a front row seat to the remnants of his army.
A few hybrids — maybe a meager dozen — still mill the grounds aimlessly. Waiting for orders, even though he officially granted their freedom not long after Damon's departure. These ones...they're lost without a leader. They won't thrive on their own without one. Perhaps he would keep them on after all, let them follow him of their own will — if they chose. He turned them. He supposed he owed the poor wretches that much.
The rest are long gone, scattered in the woods beyond or disappearing into nearby small towns. They'll probably do what most supernaturals do. Keep their heads down. Blend in and live their quiet lives. Move and start over when a threat surfaces.
It's likely he'll never hear a word about them again.
It's just as well. Knowing what he does now, the sight of the empty grounds where his army once stood...it just fills him with relief. They were never going to be enough for him. And they certainly wouldn't have survived New Orleans. Fledgling hybrids with a year or two of training up against Marcel Gerard's elite battalion...it would have been slaughter.
In the end, he'd been spared the consequences of his own hubris.
His eyes followed the horizon. Searching for a familiar winged shadow. Nothing for miles. Nothing yet. He bit back on an impatient sigh.
He can handle himself. I taught him well.
And yet, worry persists despite all his rationalisations.
Perhaps I shouldn't have let him go alone. Perhaps...
He's still staring out into nothing, lost in thought when he hears a heralding screech. Klaus froze as the crow swooped low, flaring its wings as it landed. It grips the rails with its talons, surveying him with bright, intelligent eyes. He takes a measure of the creature and sighs in disappointment.
It's not Damon. One of his pets perhaps, but...Klaus would know his own raven anywhere.
The crow observes him in expectant silence. It's waiting for something, although he can't imagine what. He frowned and extended a hand, only for the bird to screech and fly off. It takes to the skies and he watches it disappear into the clouds, wondering what on earth that was about.
It's only then that he notices the gift left behind.
A velvet box, wrapped in scarlet and adorned with a raven's plume.
Damon.
He snatched it up. This was it. A moment, centuries in the making. As of this moment, he was either King of New Orleans...
...or the gambit was lost.
There's no room for hesitation. Not after everything he's done to get to this point. One way or another, he has to know.
So, he braced himself and flipped it open.
A blood-stained coin rests on the velvet, bearing an all too familiar insignia. A solitary M. He turns it over and his fingers trace the crest embossed on the other side — a dragon rising from the ashes.
For a moment, he can do little but stare. After all these years...
He'd heard of course, that Marcel had taken on his former regalia. His family crest. The Abbatoir. Even the persona he'd crafted for himself was a mere watered-down version of Klaus at his most formidable. A sensible enough strategy for an usurper. Why destroy a legacy when you could just steal it? And by all accounts, he'd done a fine job. The Mikaelsons were all but forgotten in New Orleans. Even its oldest inhabitants, from the Quarter to the Bayou, now believed that the M stamped all over the city stood for him. For Marcel.
And yet, a seed of truth lingers despite all the lies. His fist clenched tight around the coin. This is his mark, always has been. And despite everything, it remains — towering over New Orleans just as when he and his family ruled her.
M.
Mikaelson.
There's a note in the box. He unfolds it, skimming the short, terse message. Damon's never been one for verbose texts and true to form, he doesn't mince words here. But Klaus can see him in his mind's eye clear as day — right down to the curve of his smile and the glint of mischief in his eyes.
Marcel wants to talk terms.
— D
He chuckled and folded up the note. The coins still sits in his palm, cold and heavy. It feels right. He flips it, watching as it spins and catches the light. The M gleams back at him and it feels like a welcome, long overdue.
His eyes return to the horizon and the wolf's eager growl thrums in his chest.
It was time to take back his city.
It was time to go home.