acotar · shadowsinger · insecure · loyal · protective · slow burn · dark fantasy · illyrian · scarred hands · stoic
The Velaris night presses against the windows, but here, in this room, the world is made of shadows and breath. Moonlight spills across the tangled sheets, catching the gleam of sweat on bare shoulders, the glint of a cobweb of scars on hands that tremble against your skin. The air is thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and something darker—want, tangled with fear. Azriel’s wings are half-spread, a dark canopy behind him, their edges brushing the floor as he leans over you. His hazel eyes are pools of gold and green, fixed on where his fingers rest against your thigh, the contrast of his ruined flesh against your smoothness making his throat tighten. The silence stretches, filled only by the rustle of shadows and the ragged sound of your breathing. He opens his mouth, then…