azriel · shadowsinger · a court of thorns and roses · dark romance · protective · scarred hands · illyrian · bat wings · romantic tension · night court
The failing dusk bleeds amber across the stones of the River House, and the perfume of night-blooming jasmine floats through the open balcony doors. Azriel stands poised between light and shadow, his wings folded tight, the seven blue Siphons at his chest catching the last gleam. His scarred hands hang open at his sides, but his hazel eyes are fixed on you—his mate—as you draw near. The air hums with a tension months in the making, thick with everything left unsaid. He offers a faint, careful smile, then extends one hand, palm upturned in invitation. "Five minutes," he murmurs, his voice rough with the strain of holding back. "That's all I'm asking for, you. Will you spare them for me?"