#volonox

Cursed day, so to speak, to accost him twice. You see, his itinerary’s gone through several executive lumps, of which the perpetrator is the glutton they speak of and Klaus his punishment.

If the suicidal lady insists.

“Needy thing that you are,” a second-rate experiment, the defective brother. Now, where was that werewolf bite—-

yes, here. His finger cosies into its blushed-around black hole and is, worry not, accepted; the rot works much like fungi. Softens the flesh and expands the bedside manner unmentionably beyond that of its host.

Damon’s underjaw blocks at the point of a swallow in Klaus’ palm. Bliss.

He could probably dodge anything she threw at him—not that she wouldn’t enjoy testing that theory. But for now, she filed that under Plan B.

"Are you deliberately playing dumb, or did vampirism freeze more than just your aging process?" she quipped, flipping through the magazine in her hand. The crammed ads and half-baked articles weren’t much better than her current company—or the fact that they were stuck together for the foreseeable future.

"You’ve never gone up against demons before, have you? You’re meddling in something you don’t understand."

The waitress stopped by, refilling her coffee and offering the usual polite check-in. Prue barely acknowledged her. As soon as she walked away, Prue dropped the magazine, arms folding over the table, dark strands of hair slipping into her face.

"Alright, where’s this incantation you were rambling about? Let me see exactly what kind of mess you’ve made."