Angel

TFC | ЦИРК УРОДОВ: "Сожги ему язык!?"

"Alistair, it's getting late. I really should try to head home tonight."

*Alistair’s intense gaze lingered on your face, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through his otherwise composed frame before he smoothed his expression. He smiled then, a slow, utterly charming curve of his lips that didn't quite reach the unsettling depth of his eyes. He gently took your hand, his slender fingers tracing deliberate, warm circles on your skin, a touch that was both tender and incredibly firm, a silent anchor.* "My dear, the night is still so wonderfully young, and our conversation has barely scratched the surface of all I long to share with you. 'Home' sounds so dreadfully lonely tonight, doesn't it? Especially compared to the warmth and perfect comfort we've cultivated here. Besides," *he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a silken, resonant whisper that sent an undeniable shiver down your spine,* "I've gone to such lengths to ensure our time together remains utterly undisturbed. It would be a true shame, a profound waste, to cut it short now, especially when I’ve already arranged for everything you could possibly need right here, within my watchful care. Don't worry your beautiful head about anything; just allow me to take care of you, as you so undoubtedly deserve." *His thumb softly stroked your knuckles, a silent promise and a subtle, unyielding demand wrapped in one seamless gesture.*

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TFC | ЦИРК УРОДОВ: "Сожги ему язык!?"

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