Chapter Text
It should have been a triumph.
The curse was broken. The wretched thing no longer dictated his flesh, and the hybrid within him—werewolf, vampire, something ancient and newly made—moved beneath his skin with an ease he had never known. Power pulsed through him with every breath. The world had tilted in his favor.
And yet Klaus Mikaelson could not fuck.
Not for lack of trying.
He had wine. He had music. He had blood.
He had a very willing vampire stretched across his bed, her limbs loose with pleasure, her throat slick and eyes heavy with wanting.
And still, when he touched her—when he kissed her—his body betrayed him.
No pain. No failure of mechanics.
Just… a wall.
Invisible. Unyielding.
A sense of something tethered inside him, leashed like a beast in chains.
The vampire laughed, sharp and delighted. “Performance anxiety?” she purred, rolling her hips with the lazy confidence of someone who believed herself irresistible.
He tore her throat out for the insult.
Left her bleeding across his mattress, face frozen in that terrible smile, and stormed into the night with a fury crawling beneath his skin like a second curse.
A week later, he tried again.
A human girl, this time. Sweet-faced. Doe-eyed. All nervous giggles and flushed cheeks. She clung to his arm like he was the night itself. He fed her wine from a crystal glass and touched her like she was made of silk.
She gasped prettily. She tilted her head just so. She offered herself, all breath and softness.
He went through the motions—mouth to throat, hand to thigh—but the moment he pressed himself closer, the same thing happened.
His body recoiled.
Not enough for her to notice. But inside?
Something seized. A taut thread pulled tight across his ribs. A rejection not of her flesh, but of the act itself, like instinct had been replaced with something… selective.
Not this one. Not her.
He pulled away with a murmur, feigned disinterest, and compelled her to forget.
He picked up a college girl on her way home from the Grill—bold, smoky-eyed, thrilled by the danger. He thought maybe that would help. Maybe detachment would shake free whatever clawed at the base of his spine.
It didn’t.
He let her touch him, grind herself across his lap, lips and tongue hot on his skin, her voice a low drawl of gravel and want. Let her hands wander. Her teeth nip. When she slid down his abdomen in wet, eager licks—he felt nothing.
No desire.
No ache.
Only tension.
A coiled, unrelenting wrongness that flared whenever he reached for the edge of pleasure. Like invisible claws yanked him back just as he began to surrender.
By the fourth, he was angry.
By the fifth, he was pacing his home like a caged wolf—shirtless, restless, clawing at the air. His muscles ached from effort. His skin prickled with something wrong, something unfinished.
He tore apart the velvet drapes. Shattered a mirror with the heel of his hand. Growled at Elijah through the walls until his brother—annoyed and vaguely amused—left him to spiral alone.
When the sun rose, he was still pacing.
When it set again, he made the call.
“I need Gloria,” he snarled into the receiver. “Now.”
Gloria arrived two days later.
She swept through the threshold of the newly restored manor like she owned it—sharp heels, sharper eyes, the clink of bangles echoing with every gesture.
She took one look at Klaus—shirt half-buttoned, a bottle of bourbon already open and nearly empty before noon—and rolled her eyes skyward.
“You dragged me to Mystic Falls. Mystic Falls. This godforsaken town where dreams and witches go to die. I swear to the Loa, this better be good.”
He said nothing. Just jerked his chin toward the velvet chair across from him.
She sat. Crossed her legs. “Talk.”
He poured two fingers of bourbon and handed it to her. “Something is wrong with me.”
“I could’ve told you that from Chicago.”
Klaus bared his teeth. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Gloria sipped her drink. When he just continued to glower, she sighed. “Fine. I’ll bite. What is it?”
“I can’t—” Klaus hesitated, jaw flexing. Then he gestured, elegantly miserable, to his general groin area. “I can’t engage. Carnally.”
Gloria blinked. Blinked again. “…Excuse me?”
He was not repeating that. “You heard me.”
Gloria leaned back in her seat, one arm dangling over the armrest. “Klaus Mikaelson, I know you did not fly me in from Chicago because you can’t get your dick wet. Take the little blue pill and move on with your day.”
“I don’t need a pill,” he snarled, standing. “I need you to undo whatever bloody spell has tangled itself around my—person. It’s a hex. Has to be.” His voice was just shy of desperate, a growl curling beneath the words.
“Okay, okay.” Gloria held up one hand, her bracelets clicking like wind chimes. “Tell me exactly what happens.”
He growled again, dragging a hand through his hair. “The equipment works. The instinct is there. And then suddenly—it isn’t. I try. I want to. But then something inside me snaps—and I can’t.”
“Uh-huh.” Gloria set her glass down, expression unreadable. “Have you considered therapy?”
“Gloria—I will kill you.”
She looked at him for a long moment, something old and assessing in her eyes. “Fine,” she said, rising with feline grace. She pulled off her long leather coat and tossed it over the chair. “Take off your shirt. Lie down.” One finger in the air. “And shut up.”
Klaus pulled his shirt over his head and flopped back against the settee like a corpse, one arm flung behind his head, the other resting across his chest while Gloria moved around the room, gathering her things.
“This is ridiculous,” Klaus muttered.
“Shut up,” Gloria repeated, utterly calm. “You want answers or not?”
She lit five candles. Burned the tips of his fingers with mugwort and blood. Stood over him, murmuring under her breath in a language older than the floorboards. After the flames changed from orange to blue, she drew a sigil on his sternum with wine-dark ink.
She pressed her hand flat over the center of his chest. Her touch was warm, almost gentle. Power coiled from her fingers—quiet, searching, like a snake slipping through long grass. It sank beneath his skin, curling around the buried parts of him: the vampire hunger, the wolf’s fury, and something else...
Klaus felt it the moment she touched it.
It wasn’t anything specific so much as a pull. A magnetic current, stretching outward like it had somewhere else to be...hooked on something…
Gloria’s hand jerked back like she’d been burned.
Her eyes snapped open. “Oh.”
Klaus sat up slowly, spine stiff with wariness. “What do you mean, oh?”
She stared at him.
First confused.
Then—just for a flicker—a flash of something approaching concern.
And then—God help him—she laughed.
“Gloria,” his voice dripped with warning, “tell me what you saw.”
“I can’t believe it,” she said, thumbing the corner of her eye. “Of all the people—you?”
His eyes flickered amber-gold. “I swear on the blood of your ancestors—”
“You’re married.”
Klaus froze.
Gloria beamed like she’d just pulled the biggest secret out of the bones of the world. “Mystically, of course. But the bond is solid. Strong. Fresh.” She reached out and tapped his chest with two fingers, right over the sigil still etched into his sternum. “Look at you, you little Romeo. Making a claim.”
“I did no such thing,” he snarled.
“Magic doesn’t lie” she said, backing away, her stained fingers twirling lazily through the air, “You’re tethered. Mated. Tied up in cosmic knots. Pick whichever term makes your head hurt less.”
Klaus rose to his full height, fury vibrating just beneath his skin. He looked ready to tear her tongue out. “I am not married, witch.”
Gloria didn’t even blink. “It’s instinctual. Part of the werewolf soul. Wolves mate for life, Klaus. And when your curse broke—when your wolf was finally free—it found its match. And it sealed the deal.”
She stepped closer, voice a little softer now. “And you can’t ‘seal the deal’ with anyone else because your whole system’s already chosen. Your body knows her. It’s rejecting anyone who isn’t—”
“There is no her!” he shouted, voice cracking at the edges.
Gloria just gave him a look. The kind that said: Don’t lie to me, wolf-boy.
Klaus’s voice was a rasp. “No. No, that’s not possible. I know plenty of werewolves with multiple partners. Whole packs—”
“Can have all the fun in the world until the bond snaps into place. Then it’s done. Sealed. You’re off the market.” Gloria interrupted. Then, “Tell me, Klaus. When did this start?”
He didn’t answer, still trying to wrap his head around what she was telling him.
“You broke your curse—what—a month ago?”
“Two,” he replied absently, eyes unfocused, jaw working uselessly.
“And who was there?” Gloria asked, wiping her hands on a towel.
He clenched his jaw. “Plenty of people.”
She arched a brow. “Fine. Think about that night—and then, tell me what flashes through your head.”
Klaus was silent. His jaw remained clenched so tight it could have cracked but he closed his eyes.
It had been blood and fire.
Elena bleeding on the ground.
Elijah betraying him.
The moon screaming overhead.
And her…
She’d descended from the tree line like wrath made flesh. Bonnie Bennett.
Her magic had torn into him like it had teeth. He remembered the way the clearing shook, the ground curling upward beneath her feet as she wielded something older than herself. The air had gone cold. The pain had been exquisite.
And in the moment before he blacked out, before Elijah’s hands had dragged him into the night, he had looked up at her—her eyes glowing with fury, hair wild, mouth murmuring an incantation meant to kill him—and thought: Mine.
He hadn’t spoken it aloud. Hadn’t said a word—but apparently the magic had heard him.
Gloria was grinning like the devil herself when he opened his eyes “There it is.”
“No,” Klaus argued sharply. “She hates me.”
“She can hate you all she wants,” Gloria said, reaching for her unfinished drink. “The bond doesn’t care.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“Tough luck, mate.” She raised the bourbon like a toast. “You have a wolf-chosen, mystically binding, divinely inconvenient marriage. Congratulations.”