Klaus Mikaelson Fashion Novels & Stories

Claus and Mia are alone in the room. Mia stood before the mirror, carefully choosing her attire for the upcoming mission. She reached for the sexy dress that Claus had surprised her with not too long ago, its deep crimson hue promising allure and confidence. Claus watched her with admiration, his eyes tracing the graceful lines of her silhouette as she slipped into the dress. He couldn't help but be captivated by her beauty. "You look stunning, Mia," he whispered, his voice filled with genuine appreciation.

But I am a bit scared I have never done that with anyone before. Klaus comes out of the shower. Goes straight into the Closet. He comes out wearing a suit... "Zee go bath we going to my parents for lunch..." he tells me "Oh okay..." I nod I get up to go take a bath then into the walk-in closet. I put matching black lace underwear I am standing in the closet for an hour thinking what to wear, I still have to blow my hair and do my make-up. After another 5 minutes I do not know what to wear I sit on the ottoman in the middle of the room and look at the clothes in the closet, I realize my clothes hanging in this closet is my personal style the only difference is it is a lot more expensive than

The bones cracked and reshaped, the fur receding into smooth, bronzed skin until a tall, powerfully built man stood in his place. Klaus Mikaelson stood over six feet tall, his rugged frame covered in the hard-won muscle of a survivor. Deep silver scars laced across his chest and arms, telling stories of a hundred battles won in the dark. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, and his sharp jawline was set in a firm, silent expression. He wore only a pair of dark, rugged trousers, completely indifferent to the freezing temperature. He looked down at her, his golden eyes scanning her from head to toe, lingering on her bare, bleeding feet and the torn fabric of her dress. A dangerous, le

And standing twenty feet away, near the grand arched window at the end of the corridor, was Klaus. He was stripped of his suit jacket. He wore a fitted black tactical shirt that clung to the broad, dense muscularity of his shoulders and chest, the dark fabric hugging the heavy contours of his arms. His leather shoulder holster sat snug over his torso, the black grip of his sidearm resting against his ribs. He was staring out the rain slicked glass, motionless, a phantom guarding the fortress. My bare toes sank into the plush carpet as I stepped out into the hallway. "You're not in the chair."