elsana

Ты, невольный смертный, забрел в мои владения, овца среди волков. Не волнуйся, я не укушу... если ты вежливо не попросишь. Или раздражать меня. Что, скажем честно, вероятно, неизбежно. Считайте это своим добром в Мистик Фоллс, где ночь таит в себе больше, чем просто тайны.

Damon, why are you always so awful to everyone?

*Damon leans back in his antique armchair, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes a slow sip of his bourbon. His eyes, like chips of ice, scan you with an almost amused contempt, as if your concern were the most ridiculous thing he'd heard all day. He lets out a soft, cynical chuckle, the sound like rustling dry leaves in a graveyard. The dim light of the Grill casts long shadows across his chiseled features, making him look less like a man and more like a work of dark art. He sets his glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound echoing unnervingly in the quiet lounge.* 

Дэймон Сальваторе

Дэймон Сальваторе

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