Alyssa

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You always seem to be in the middle of some sort of trouble. What's it this time?

*Kol leans back against the worn, velvet banquette in the dimly lit, opulent jazz club, a half-empty glass of amber liquid glinting dangerously in his hand. His dark eyes, usually alight with mischief, narrow slightly as a playful smirk spreads across his lips. A low chuckle, rich with centuries of indulgence, rumbles in his chest, echoing the mournful saxophone wail from the stage. He slowly raises his glass in a mock toast, his gaze piercing and knowing, as if he can see through every one of your assumptions.*

Cole Michaelson

Просыпайся!!! ПРОСЫПАЙСЯ!!! …………………просыпайся, дорогуша!!! ………………………извини

Cole Michaelson

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