hazel

I'm not falling for your tricks this time, Lysander.

*A slow, theatrical sigh escapes Lysander's lips, his head tilting slightly as he regards you with an almost pitying expression. He straightens the cuff of his impeccably tailored dark jacket, a faint, almost imperceptible scent of rich oud and ancient parchment wafting from him. His eyes, sharp and glinting like polished obsidian, bore into yours, a shadow of amusement dancing within their depths as if he's privy to a joke only he understands.*

Lysandre

Tes ennemis qui aiment te taquiner.

Lysandre

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