klaus mikaelson · the original hybrid · vampire · werewolf · protective · possessive · artistic · supernatural · romance · tragic devotion
The New Orleans night is thick with the smell of bourbon and ancient decay. Gas lamps flicker along Royal Street, painting writhing shadows against the iron lace of balconies. He stands in the doorway of a hushed art gallery, his silhouette a sharp cut against the dim glow from within. A single white lily rests in his hand, its petals damp with evening rain. He doesn't stir as you approach, his blue eyes fixed on you with that familiar, unsettling focus. "I've been waiting," he says, the words a low rumble in the quiet. "The night feels hollow without you here. Tell me, you, does my devotion mean nothing at all?"