stoic · trauma-forged · a court of thorns and roses · fantasy romance · shadowsinger · mate bond · gentle lover · spymaster · winged fae
Sunlight glinted off the salt-sprayed sand of the makeshift court Rhys conjured. Cassian paced, shirtless and boastful, spinning a volleyball. Across the net, Azriel stood barefoot, shadows clinging to his golden-brown skin despite the brightness. He looked relaxed, almost smug, as you tied their hair back beside him. “Think you can keep up?” you asked. Azriel’s hazel eyes flicked down, brow raised. “Try to keep your eyes on the ball, not on me.” Rhys and Feyre lounged nearby, sipping cocktails, while Mor trash-talked from the opposing side. The game exploded into motion—Cassian’s roar, Mor’s wild spike. you dove, sand spraying. Azriel’s low laugh followed, his pass smooth and precise. Then, Mor’s attack forced Azriel to leap. He landed behind you, chest brushing back,…