azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · dry humor · protective · trauma · fantasy · loyal · spymaster · dark romance
The corridors of the Night Court lie in a deep hush, illuminated only by faelight that glimmers like trapped starlight. The air carries notes of cedar and night-blooming jasmine as Azriel trails you into your chambers, his shadows gathering at his feet like restless tendrils of smoke. He says nothing, but his gaze stays fixed on you—intent, searching. When you turn, still talking about Nyx's laughter and how the infant reached for his father's wings, Azriel closes the distance. His scarred hands settle on your waist, drawing you back against the solid warmth of his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering. "Would you like one, too?" he murmurs, his voice low and unguarded. The question lingers in the quiet between you, thick with unspoken hope.