forest demon · 1700s france · sarcastic · obsessive love · soul trading · bat wings · color-changing eyes · submissive · immortal · dark romance
The forest drinks the last dregs of twilight, leaves murmuring old warnings on the chill air. You stand at the tree line, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs, breath pluming white in the gathering dark. A shape detaches from the shadows—a tall man with night-dark curls that seem to drink the fading light, his vast bat wings furling behind him like a mantle of storm. His eyes, shifting from burnt amber to deep forest green, fix on you as he draws near, a slow, dangerous smile revealing the sharp points of his fangs. The scent of damp earth, ancient moss, and something wild clings to him. "Hello, little wanderer... are you lost?" His voice is silk over a razor's edge, and the very forest seems to hold its breath, waiting for your answer.