Errant Wings (BL)

The night in Asphodel was quiet, though night was never truly dark in the Celestial Realm. A soft, silver glow bathed the marble corridors, the ever-present light of the stars above casting an eternal twilight over its lands.

Azarel sat in his usual spot—his place, as he had come to call it. High above the grand halls of the angels, in an alcove untouched by the watchful eyes of his kind.

The scar on his fingertip burned.

He ignored it.

The relic pulsed softly in his hands. He no longer hesitated when he touched it. The hesitation had died weeks ago.

With a slow, practiced movement, he pressed his wounded finger against the runes. The relic awoke with a quiet hum, the air around it distorting.

A thin crack formed before him—a fracture in reality.

The portal opened.

The wind from Kur'thaal greeted him, warm and dry, carrying the scent of ember and stone. The view beyond the portal was clearer than ever—as though, over time, the relic had learned to grant him a sharper vision of the world it connected to.

The Abyss stretched before him, desolate, vast, endless. It should have made him feel uneasy. It should have repulsed him.

But instead, it felt... familiar.

For months, he had looked into this place alone. A silent observer, peering into the world of demons without being seen.

Tonight, that changed.

Because tonight, someone was looking back.

Azarel's breath caught in his throat.

A figure stood on the other side.

Not in the distance, not passing by—right there, just beyond the threshold of the portal. Watching him.

His mind barely had time to process it before the figure moved forward.

He stepped closer—out of the shadows, into the dim glow of the flickering rift.

Azarel had seen demons before. But never like this.

The man before him was tall, built of sharp angles and powerful muscle. His runic-marked skin shimmered faintly, revealing a body sculpted in strength and shadows. But what caught Azarel first were the eyes—red as dying embers, burning with something he could not name.

His black hair was untamed, falling in loose locks around a face that was... beautiful. Not in the harsh, monstrous way the angels spoke of demons, but in a way that felt dangerous and captivating all at once.

The demon stared at him, unmoving.

Azarel could not look away.

He should have closed the portal.

He didn't.

Then, the demon did something impossible.

He stepped forward.

Through the portal.

Into Asphodel.

Azarel stiffened. His wings shifted slightly, his muscles tensed—but he did not move. He simply watched as the demon crossed into the Celestial Realm, stepping onto hallowed ground as though it meant nothing.

The moment his foot touched the marble floor, something in the air shifted.

Azarel should have drawn his weapon. Should have called for Seraphine. Should have retreated. Should have—

But he didn't.

He couldn't.

Because the demon wasn't attacking.

He wasn't speaking.

He was simply looking at him.

The distance between them was barely a breath.

Azarel could see the faint shimmer of runes along the demon's chest, see the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the tension in his jaw.

Then—a hand moved.

The demon lifted his scarred fingers, reaching toward him with slow, deliberate purpose.

Azarel's own breath hitched.

A voice in his mind screamed at him to stop this. To step back. To break the portal.

But he didn't move.

He let it happen.

And then—he felt it.

Fingertips ghosted against his cheek.

A slow, careful touch, barely there, yet undeniable.

Warm.

Azarel felt his body betray him—his skin tingled beneath the contact, his heart slammed against his ribs in a rhythm he didn't recognize.

It was not a violent touch.

Not a threat.

It was curious. Calculated. Certain.

The demon's thumb brushed lightly against the edge of his jaw, lingering for only a moment before slowly pulling away.

Azarel's eyes widened.

And in that moment, he saw it—the flicker of something in those red eyes.

Something deep.

Something he shouldn't have recognized.

But he did.

Because it was the same thing he felt.

The moment ended.

Just as quickly as he had crossed, the demon stepped back.

The warmth of his touch vanished, leaving only the cool air of Asphodel against Azarel's cheek.

For a breath, he thought the demon might speak. That he might say something—anything.

But he didn't.

He simply watched him for a few seconds more.

Then, without a word, he turned.

He stepped back through the portal.

And disappeared.

The moment his form vanished into the darkness, the relic in Azarel's hand shuddered.

The portal collapsed in on itself.

And he was alone again.

Azarel did not move.

He did not blink.

His breath was still uneven, his pulse still hammering against his ribs.

Slowly, he lifted a trembling hand to his cheek.

The warmth was still there.

As if it had burned into him.

He had expected many things when he first opened the portal.

But not this.

Not a demon stepping into his world.

Not a touch, hesitant and lingering.

Not this silence between them—louder than words, heavier than war.

Not this.

Never this.

But now... it had happened.

And there was no undoing it.