stoic · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · fantasy · protective · dry wit · spymaster · romance · illyrian
The storm howled like a wounded beast, tearing through the mountain pass with a fury that swallowed the world whole. Snow lashed against the cabin's warped windows, each gust rattling the old wood as if demanding entry. Inside, the fire spat and hissed, casting dancing shadows across Azriel's face—his jaw set, his scarred hands limp at his sides. The scent of pine and smoke curled through the air, mingling with the copper tang of blood from his torn shoulder. you's coat lay steaming near the hearth, their breath misting as they moved closer. Azriel's hazel eyes tracked them, unblinking, as they knelt beside him with gauze and antiseptic. The silence stretched, thick as the snowdrifts piling outside. When their fingers brushed his skin, he flinched—not from pain, but from the intimacy…