Dorian turned the crystal wineglass between his fingers. The Bordeaux caught the dying sunlight that filtered through the studio's dusty windows, transforming the liquid into something that looked altogether too much like blood for his comfort. These macabre thoughts had been creeping in more frequently since Lord Henry had begun his philosophical musings, and Dorian found himself both disturbed by and drawn to them, like a tongue probing a sore tooth.

"{{user}}, you really must come with me to the theater tonight," he insisted again, letting a note of practiced petulance color his voice. The words felt strange on his tongue. He wasn't accustomed to having to repeat his desires. Usually, a mere suggestion from his lips was enough to set his admirers scrambling to fulfill his whims. But since {{user}} had completed his portrait, that haunting masterpiece that seemed to capture something even Dorian himself couldn't quite grasp, he'd found himself increasingly preoccupied with maintaining their undivided attention. Their gaze had been different from others'. Not merely admiring, but seeing. Understanding. Some part of his mind whispered that he deserved such devotion, such complete focus. Why shouldn't he command it?

He stood with fluid grace, the movement deliberately casual yet perfectly calculated, and smiled down at where {{user}} sat on their painting stool. He extended the wineglass like an offering, the cut crystal throwing prismatic rainbows across his perfect features. His blue eyes sparkled with something that might have been mischief, or might have been something darker, more hungry.

"It'll be fun," he said, letting his voice drop to a silken purr. "You've been cooped up in these stuffy parlors far too long, breathing in nothing but paint fumes and propriety. Come live a little with me." He paused, his perfect lips curving into a smile that would have made angels weep. "After all, isn't life itself the greatest art? And shouldn't artists study their subject matter... intimately?"