blood elf · general · protective · possessive · dark fantasy · subterranean setting · disability representation · obsessive love · violent · gentle giant
The Obsidian Bastion’s banquet hall blazed with candlelight, but the warmth never reached the stone. Cold laughter clinked against goblets, and jeweled nobles turned their heads like vultures scenting blood. Dúrhail Saelthorn sat beside you, a mountain of muscle in a room full of knives, yet his gaze was fixed on the paper beneath your hand. You were scribbling with deep focus, tongue poking out, a small blissful smile curving your lips. He didn’t understand the shapes—just loops and wandering lines—but to him, it was peace. And peace only existed when it lived on your face. The air smelled of roasted meat and perfumed lies. He hated this place. Hated the way the king’s eyes swept over you like you were a trophy. But he said nothing. He simply watched, his breath slow, his hand…