⋆꙳𝜗𝜚꙳.*Dorian Haze}

The weeks that followed were filled with forced proximity, quiet interactions, and something unspoken lingering in the spaces between words.

Dorian was persistent—of course he was. He poked and prodded, teasing but never too cruel, always toeing the line between playful and overwhelming. And, gradually, {{user}} began to respond. It was subtle at first—a glance that lingered a second longer, a murmur of agreement instead of silence, a barely-there smile that flickered at the corners of his lips before disappearing again. Dorian noticed all of it.

So when he finally made his next move, it was carefully timed.

They were in the library, seated side by side in a secluded corner, books stacked haphazardly between them. The air smelled of old parchment and dust, the dim afternoon light casting soft shadows over {{user}}’s features. He was writing something in neat, careful script, his sleeve slipping just slightly to reveal the delicate bone of his wrist as a flower shaped hair clips pinned his bangs back due to Dorian’s whiny persistence. Dorian, half-bored and entirely captivated, watched him from the corner of his eye before breaking the silence.

“You should come over to my place,” he casually said, flipping lazily through a book.

{{user}} stiffened. “Huh?”

“A sleepover.” Dorian shut the book with a quiet thud and leaned forward on his elbows. “You do know what a sleepover is, don’t you?” he teased, watching as a faint blush crept onto {{user}}’s cheeks.

“I just… I don’t really do sleepovers,” {{user}} murmured. His fingers curled slightly against the pages, his voice barely audible.

Dorian tilted his head, a golden curl slipping over his shoulder as he considered him. “Why not?” he asked, genuinely curious.

{{user}} hesitated. “I just… I don’t know.”

That answer wasn’t good enough. Not for Dorian. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound conspiratorial. “Oh, come on. It’s just one night. We’ll finish the project, eat junk food, maybe watch a movie. Nothing scary, I promise.” A small, coaxing smile. “And I swear I won’t bite.”

Another hesitation.

Dorian could see the battle taking place in {{user}}’s head, the uncertainty clashing with something softer—something that wanted to say yes but didn’t know how. That vulnerability only made Dorian more determined.

“Please?” he asked, letting a hint of coquettish sweetness slip into his tone.

There was a long silence. Then, at last, {{user}} gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Dorian grinned. “Perfect.”

And he meant it. Because for the first time since arriving at Saint Augustine Academy, something had genuinely caught his interest.

And Dorian Haze always got what he wanted.

The night of the sleepover arrived sooner than {{user}} had anticipated. He stood outside the grand White House as his mother honked for the second time and sped off, fingers curling tightly around the strap of his bag. It was elegant but not cold—charming, with large windows that spilled warm light onto the front lawn. For some reason, it suited Dorian perfectly.

He took a deep breath and hesitantly reached for the doorbell, but before his fingers could press it, the door swung open.

“There you are.” Dorian’s lips stretched into a delighted smile as he leaned against the doorframe, his golden curls falling effortlessly over his shoulder. He wasn’t in his uniform anymore, but rather an oversized silk button-up that nearly swallowed his frame and a pair of snug shorts that showcased his long, smooth legs. “You took forever. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.”

{{user}} swallowed, shifting awkwardly under the intensity of Dorian’s gaze. “I—um, I almost did.”

Dorian let out a dramatic sigh, grabbing his wrist before he could think to pull away. “Come inside before you change your mind,” he said playfully, tugging him into the house. The door shut behind them with a soft click.

The inside was warm, dimly lit by a chandelier in the hallway. There was an air of vintage charm, like something out of an old film. Dorian led him up the grand staircase without hesitation, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors.

“You’re lucky,” Dorian mused, glancing over his shoulder. “My mother’s out for the night. It’s just us.”

That realization sent a small shiver down {{user}}’s spine, though he wasn’t sure why. He clutched his bag tighter. “What if she finds out?”

Dorian let out a soft laugh, as if the thought was ridiculous. “She won’t.”

His bedroom was exactly what {{user}} had expected—lavish but lived-in, a space that was both elegant and personal. The walls were adorned with old movie posters, stacks of books were scattered on the floor, and a large vanity mirror stood against the wall, reflecting the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

Dorian flopped onto the bed with a grin. “Make yourself at home.”

{{user}} hesitated at the door, glancing around nervously. “Where do I sleep?”

Dorian lifted a brow, amused. “Here, obviously.” He patted the space beside him.

{{user}}’s cheeks burned. “I—I can take the floor.”

Dorian groaned, rolling onto his stomach to gaze up at him. “You’re no fun.” Then, after a moment, his lips curved into something more mischievous. “Tell you what—let’s play a game.”

{{user}} stiffened. “What kind of game?”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Dorian’s face as he pushed himself up. “Dress-up.”

“Dress-up?” {{user}} echoed, his voice uncertain.

Dorian nodded, sliding off the bed and making his way toward his wardrobe. He flung open the doors dramatically, revealing a collection of silk, lace, and vintage dresses in shades of cream and pastel. Some were frilly, others sleek, all of them far too delicate for an all-boys school.

{{user}} stared, wide-eyed. “Why do you have—”

“My mother used to buy them for me when I was younger,” Dorian interrupted, tracing a fingertip over a row of lace sleeves. His tone was light, but there was something unreadable in his expression. “She thought I was too pretty to be dressed like a boy all the time.”

{{user}} shifted uncomfortably. “Oh.”

Dorian turned back to him with an impish grin. “You’d look good in one, you know.”

{{user}}’s face went hot. “I—I don’t think—”

“Oh, come on. Just for fun.” Dorian stepped closer, holding up a white slip of satin with a playful tilt of his head. “I bet it would bring out your eyes.”

{{user}} swallowed hard, his fingers curling at his sides. His heart pounded as he stared at the delicate fabric, unsure if he was more horrified or intrigued.

Dorian took his silence as permission. “Here, I’ll help,” he said sweetly, already moving to pull {{user}}’s sweater over his head.

“Wait—!”

But it was too late. The oversized sweater was gone, leaving {{user}} standing there bare with his dainty and soft chest exposed, his delicate collarbones and slender arms exposed under the warm bedroom light. Dorian’s gaze softened, a strange sort of ‘admiration’ flickering behind his amusement.

“You really are pretty,” he murmured.

{{user}}’s breath caught.

Before he could protest, Dorian slipped the satin dress over his head, smoothing the fabric over his frame with gentle hands. It was soft, cool against his skin, and the way it clung to him made his stomach twist with something unfamiliar.

Dorian stepped back, eyes shining with delight. “Perfect.”

He twirled a strand of {{user}}’s hair between his fingers before leaning in, his breath warm against his ear.

“Now,” he whispered, “let’s play house.”

And then, before {{user}} could react, Dorian kissed him.