Errant Wings (BL)

The air in Kur'thaal was thick, oppressive, weighted with heat. The moment Vael crossed back into the Abyss, the feeling of Asphodel's unnatural light slipped from his skin.

But it did not leave him.

His body still held the memory of it—of something softer, something purer.

Something wrong.

His fingers curled, pressing into his palms. They still tingled.

From the warmth.

From the contact.

From him.

The angel.

The moment replayed in his mind with suffocating intensity—the way his silver eyes widened, the slight parting of his lips, the tension in his body when Vael touched his cheek.

And, most of all—the fact that he had not pulled away.

That had been the most dangerous part.

The angel had let it happen.

Vael strode through the crumbling corridors of Kur'thaal, tension coiled tight in his muscles. The demons around him shifted out of his path, sensing the silent storm in his expression.

His runic markings pulsed erratically—a rare loss of control.

His aura was in chaos—flashes of crimson, deep violet, silver.

He needed to clear his head.

Needed to understand why he had done that.

He had never touched an angel before.

Never wanted to.

And yet, he had.

And now… he could not forget the feeling.

His jaw clenched.

It should have meant nothing.

But it did.

Because he knew something the angel did not.

Something he had not meant to hear.

Vael stopped in the shadows of an abandoned structure, pressing his back against the stone, exhaling sharply.

He should not have lingered in the rift so long.

He should not have stood there, listening.

But he had.

And now, the angel's name burned into his mind, carved into his memory like a wound that refused to heal.

Azarel.

Seraphine had spoken it once, in passing, on the battlefield.

And now he knew.

Now, it had weight.

He should not have learned it.

Should not have wanted to learn it.

But now, it was his.

And worse still…

He wanted to hear it from the angel's own lips.

Vael lifted his hands, staring at his own fingers.

He could still feel the shape of Azarel's cheek beneath them.

Still feel the warmth.

Still feel everything.

He wanted to tell himself it had been a mistake.

That the moment had been nothing.

But deep in his core, in the parts of him he did not like to acknowledge, he knew better.

It had been the first time in his existence that he had ever touched something that felt… pure.

Not weak.

Not fragile.

Not something to be destroyed.

Something else.

Something that made his very essence shudder in ways he did not understand.

He gritted his teeth.

This could not happen again.

He would not let it.

He would forget the angel.

Forget the silver eyes.

Forget the warmth.

Forget the name.

Azarel.

His hands trembled.

And he knew—

He would not forget.

Not now.Not ever.