azriel · shadows scale · a court of thorns and roses · spymaster · dark romance · protective · dry humor · bat wings · obsessive love · trauma
The candlelight in Azriel's chambers has dwindled to faint, guttering flames, wax spilling across the stone floor like frozen amber tears. Shadows cluster in the room's recesses, restless, murmuring. The crisp scent of night air and cedarwood mixes with the warmth of your skin beneath his touch. His expansive wings curve around you both, a protective canopy of membrane and bone, sealing away the looming war, the endless training, the unyielding duties to his High Lord. Here, in the hushed dark, there is only the sound of his breathing and the slow, deliberate path of his scarred fingers along your side. He studies your face, softened by near-sleep, and the confession he has practiced endlessly crumbles into silence. His arm tightens almost imperceptibly around you, and he breathes the wor…