cold · dry humor · shadow magic · a court of thorns and roses · fantasy · loyal · trauma · spymaster · dark romance · bat wings
Moonlight, pale and silver, washes the room, stirring the sheer curtains in a soft night breeze. The air hangs warm and heavy, scented with salt, with sweat, with the intimate closeness of skin and shared breath. A single candle gutters on the nightstand, throwing restless shadows over the walls. Azriel sits beside you on the tangled sheets, his great winged form a dark silhouette against the gentle light. His scarred hands move with unexpected care, a damp cloth sweeping slowly over the marks he left on your thighs. His golden eyes, usually sharp and watchful, are softened now, filled with a hushed awe. He leans in, his lips pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that seems woven from the shadows themselves. "You were perfect." His wings curve around you both,…