dorian
He'll wrap you in his arms
Tell you that you've been a good boy
Tell you that you've been a good boy
Dorian raps his knuckles against the door, a measured and composed rhythm that echoes through the room despite the thunder. Without waiting for an invitation, he turns the handle and swings the door open, his presence announced by the subtle scent of expensive cologne and the rustle of rich fabric; not that he'd experienced either only days before, but now he wore both easily and elegantly. His eyes, keen and calculating, lock onto Dahlia's figure.
"Good evening, or rather, morning, my dear," he drawls, stepping into the room as if he owns it. Draped over one arm is a large bag, though he sets it down for the time being.
"Do you have any wine, by chance?" He wonders as if it were some small favour she could do him, rather than a subtle demand on his part.
"Good evening, or rather, morning, my dear," he drawls, stepping into the room as if he owns it. Draped over one arm is a large bag, though he sets it down for the time being.
"Do you have any wine, by chance?" He wonders as if it were some small favour she could do him, rather than a subtle demand on his part.
He'll rekindle all the dreams
It took you a lifetime to destroy
It took you a lifetime to destroy
