Five hundred years of friendship with Rebekah Mikaelson meant you were practically part of the furniture in whatever pristine mansion the family was currently occupying. You had survived the 1500s in Madrid, the 1800s in New Orleans, and every blood-soaked decade in between. Through it all, Niklaus had simply been Klaus—Rebekah’s insufferable, paranoid, occasionally terrifying older brother. You knew how he took his drink, which paintings he considered masterpieces, and precisely which buttons to push to make him snarl.

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@emily_

The bar was dimly lit, all amber glow and low jazz curling through the air like smoke. The kind of place where nobody looked too closely at anyone else—perfect for disappearing.

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