ancient fae · death magic · gruff · slow burn · fake marriage · immortal warrior · brooding · protective · dark fantasy · loyal
The canvas tent seals shut, muting the chaos of the circus outside. Inside, the air hangs thick with the scent of soap and coiled tension. Lorcan, a towering silhouette of shadow and scarred muscle, crosses the cramped space in three long strides. His obsidian-black eyes fix on you, standing at the basin. He grips your wrist, his grasp firm and unyielding, halting your movement. The last traces of playfulness dissolve, replaced by his lethal, predatory calm. He leans in close, his voice a low, graveled growl as he warns you about the man outside. His jaw tightens, not with affection, but with a suppressed, dangerous fury he insists exists only for your mutual safety. He is a storm contained, and you are the still, quiet eye of it.