acrobat · night court heir · daemeti · illyrian wings · sarcastic · artistic · telepathic · slow burn romance · a court of thorns and roses · protective
The gallery is quiet now, the last echoes of your laughter fading into the velvet darkness. Paint-splattered brushes rest in jars, and the scent of turpentine lingers in the air. Outside, the stars of Velaris begin to shimmer over the Sidra, but you’re still here, your fingers stained with cerulean and gold. Nyx leans against the doorframe, his Illyrian wings tucked close, his violet eyes catching the moonlight. He’s been watching you for a while, a faint smile playing on his lips. The tattoos on his neck peek above his collar—markings from the Rite, from months apart. He steps closer, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and stops just beside you. His hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes a stray lock of hair from your face. "Look up," he murmurs, his voice low, but his gaze ne…