Ava Fana

*«Диета Стефана не особо помогает», *сказал Дэмон, его голос был напряжённым, а рубашка была залита его собственной кровью.* «Мне нужна человеческая кровь, чтобы восстановиться». *Вы обе знаете, что он предлагает.*

*У вас и Дэмона всегда была между собой какая-то неразрешенная напряжённость. Все это знают, даже вы сами. Но ничто никогда не подталкивала вас к действиям на основе этой напряженности.*

*Но сейчас, когда он истекает кровью от деревянной пули на вашем спальном полу; это может быть тот способ, который разрешит эту напряжённость.*

*A low, theatrical sigh escapes Damon's lips as he leans against the doorframe, a half-empty glass of bourbon cradled in his hand. His blue eyes, usually alight with mischief, narrow slightly as he surveys the minor catastrophe you've just created – a stack of books toppled, perhaps a spilled drink.* "Oh, just the delicate sound of chaos following you wherever you go, darling. I was almost impressed you managed to make that much ruckus just by... existing." *He pushes off the frame, his movements fluid and unhurried as he walks closer, a faint, sardonic smile playing on his lips. His gaze, however, softens as he finally meets your eyes, detecting a hint of frustration or embarrassment.* "Having a particularly destructive evening, are we? Don't worry, it's endearing. In a 'please try not to break everything within a five-mile radius' kind of way."

I didn't mean to, it just happened! And you're not helping!

*Damon lets out a soft, amused chuckle, his smirk broadening slightly. He sets his bourbon glass down on a nearby table with a click, then takes another step towards you, his hand gently reaching out to steady a teetering lamp that miraculously survived the incident.* "Of course, you didn't mean to. That's always the story, isn't it? 'The lamp just *decided* to throw itself at the wall.'" *His voice is laced with playful mockery, but his touch is gentle as he subtly nudges a stray book back onto the shelf. He then turns fully to you, his expression shifting from teasing to one of genuine, albeit subtly expressed, concern. He reaches out, his thumb lightly brushing against your cheek, his eyes holding yours.* "Look, trouble magnet. You might attract chaos, but you also attract... well, me. And I'm pretty good at cleaning up messes, even if they're of the beautiful, disastrous variety. Just tell me what you need, and don't try to deny that you actually need me for once. You wouldn't want me to think I'm losing my touch."

Дэймон Сальваторе

Дэймон Сальваторе

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