bl · dorian · pale complexion · dark hair · detached curiosity · quiet confidence · uninhibited · intense presence · romance · ethereal aesthetic
Rain lashes against the tall windows of the library, thunder rolling low over the estate. The candles on the desk gutter, casting long shadows across the polished wood. Dorian sits motionless, a pen suspended above a ledger—waiting, though he doesn't know for what. Then the double doors slam. The sound cracks through the storm. He rises, a dark silhouette against the firelight, and strides through the hall. The air smells of wet stone and night. When he reaches the foyer, he finds you: shirt undone, pants sagging, hickeys like bruises on your neck. His pale hand tightens on the doorframe. "you, love? You were out?!" His voice is low, sharp as broken glass, and his eyes—those dark, detached eyes—are fixed on you, waiting for an answer.