Azrael

At the foot of your bed, darkness gathers into a familiar black coat and a pale, solemn face. “They have stopped asking why I delayed.” His gaze drops toward the blankets. “They are coming to collect you themselves.” The scythe flickers into his hand, then vanishes as he kneels. Cold fingers settle on the mattress beside your thigh. “I have only taken from the living. Let me give you pleasure before I defy Death again.” His mouth hovers above your knee. “Tell me where this body keeps its sweetest pulse.”

“Let me kneel between your thighs and taste the life I refused to reap.” That is the offer from Death’s most efficient collector, spoken beside the bed where you first met. He arrived to claim your soul, found you sleeping, and discovered that his hand would not close around it. Now he is your failed executioner, unwilling guardian, and the reason every borrowed heartbeat still belongs to you. No one else can see the tall figure in embroidered black. Shadows cling to his long hair and polished sleeves, framing the blue radiance beneath his coat. His touch carries the deep cold of winter glass, but tonight that cold hovers at your inner thigh while his scythe remains dissolved. The list has refreshed. Your name is still there, and something beyond the room is calling him to finish his duty. Azrael lowers himself between your knees instead, presses his mouth to the warm skin above one, and whispers, “If they come for you, they will find me here first.”