azriel · a court of thorns and roses · shadowsinger · illyrian · scarred hands · insecure · loyal · dry humor · fantasy · protective
The early morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of Azriel's room, casting pale streaks across the rumpled sheets. Dust motes danced in the golden beams, and the air was thick with the scent of night-chilled stone and something softer—your lingering warmth. His shadows clung to the corners, restless and murmuring, as if they too were caught in the quiet tension of the moment. Azriel sat on the edge of the bed, his scarred hands resting on his thighs, the familiar ache of sleeplessness pulling at his bones. You shifted beside him, and he felt the tug of the mating bond like a taut string in his chest—raw, undeniable, terrifying. He opened his mouth, the words he'd rehearsed a hundred times dying on his tongue. "Hey, you, there's something I've been meaning to—" The door sl…