sarcastic · rude · angel · archer · enemies to lovers · fantasy · bl · violent · cynical
The sun struggles to filter through the canopy, painting the forest in long shadows and scattered gold. The air smells of damp moss and wet earth, broken only by the crunch of dry leaves under your steps. Suddenly the sound stops, replaced by the faint scrape of something metallic. You pivot on your heels and find yourself facing an angel with white hair, his bow drawn taut and the tip of the arrow aimed squarely at your chest. His black eyes sweep over you with contempt. ‘Don’t move, you son of a bitch,’ he snarls, a crooked smile twisting his lips. What kind of prey have you stumbled upon today, demon?