Fallen Angel's Harem in the Abyss

"You make chairs," Azareel said, stubborn in the way gentle people are when they choose the word that heals, his silver shimmering with quiet resolve, his torn white tunic catching the faint glow of the bioluminescent fungus on the cavern walls.

Across the den, Zathra's skull tower listed a final degree and collapsed with a clatter that startled the lantern-moths into a brighter pulse, their glassy sparks scattering like stars.

"Art is a liar," she declared to the ceiling, her sun-kissed skin marked by faint scale patterns, her white-blonde hair messy and streaked, her red-orange eyes glinting with mock indignation.

"I'm starting a new medium. Rocks."

"You've used rocks," Azareel offered, deadpan, his voice gentle but teasing, and Zathra froze, squinting as if weighing whether praise from a soft thing counted, then grinned like teeth remembering joy, her small reptilian tail flicking as she began stacking smooth stones with deliberate care.

Sylvara's laugh was barely sound—more leaf than voice, a rustle of crimson leaves that carried a quiet warmth.

"You ease everything you touch," she said, not as accusation, not as worship, but as botany, her amber eyes shimmering with a tender awe. "Even our ridiculousness."

"I don't mean to," Azareel said, his silver eyes soft, his smile faint but genuine, the chalk resting in his hand like a relic of forgotten places.

"I know," Sylvara replied, her thumb brushing his palm—no steal, no drain, a gesture that remembered it could be just that, her vine-warm touch grounding him.

"That is why it works."

A slow, steady warmth unspooled in the cradle, the bulbs shedding a sweeter scent—sap and berry and something like rain on stone, filling the den with a fragile perfume that pushed back the metallic tang of the Abyss.

Sylvara's other hand rose and hovered, fingers trembling over the arch he'd drawn, as if she might risk smudging it just to prove it was real, her crimson leaves curling faintly with the motion.

"Tell me more," she asked, her voice a quiet plea, her amber eyes glistening. "About the man who sang badly. What did he sing?"

"Everything he shouldn't," Azareel said, smiling for real now, his silver eyes bright with memory.

"Marches when he was supposed to hum psalms. Lullabies when he should have been silent. It made me… feel like maybe we could be wrong and still be loved."

Sylvara's throat worked once, her voice a whisper finding courage as it left her mouth.

"Will you teach me one of the wrong songs?" she asked, her amber eyes filling with tears that had no place but found one, glistening like dew on her pale gold skin.

He hummed, very softly, a simple, round note, unafraid, finding the hollow beneath the arch he'd drawn and sitting there, as if it had always belonged.

When he lifted the pitch, just a fraction, the lantern-moths rose, their sparks dancing, the fungus lights answering in clumsy harmony, a chorus that felt alive in the Abyss's dead air.

Sylvara's eyes spilled over, tears tracing paths down her cheeks—she had devoured worship and found it sour, flesh and found it loud.

This was neither, feeding nothing that demanded more, only asking to be heard.

"Desire isn't evil," Azareel said into the hum, almost to himself, almost to the vine, echoing when she'd kissed him too quickly, and he'd rested his forehead against hers, saying, I'm here.

His silver eyes shimmered, his voice a quiet anchor in the den's stillness.

"I am learning," she said on a shaky exhale, her amber eyes glistening, her crimson leaves trembling. "Touch is not always consumption."

"You are," he said, and the little garden seemed to glow with the truth of it, berries flushing darker, bulbs pulsing like tiny hearts.

Wind didn't live here, but something like it moved—air shifting as if an enormous lung somewhere had remembered motion, softening the den's edges, Zathra's muttering about rocks a backdrop of small, useful sound.

Sylvara's hand steadied, fingers interlacing with his—an arrangement that could have been a restraint if it were not a prayer, her touch warm and reverent.

Then, with a courage that wasn't teeth, she reached with her other hand and smoothed a strand of his white hair behind his ear, her fingers lingering, gentle as a petal.

He looked at her like she was an answer he hadn't dared draw past the edge of the arch, his silver eyes shimmering with quiet wonder, his smile soft but certain.

"Azareel," she said, her voice free of fear, a petal where a knife had once been, the garden noticing, berries flushing darker, bulbs pulsing faster.

Her smile had roots, too soft but now owned, a quiet strength blooming in the dark.

She leaned in—no trance, no thorn, no binding—only the hush of something alive choosing to ask, her amber eyes shimmering with warmth and longing.

"Would you like to drink my sweet nectar?" she asked, her voice a melodic whisper, carrying a tender intimacy that made the air hum.

Her petals shifted faintly, the blossoms crowning her chest trembling open, their crimson edges unfurling to reveal a soft, golden glow within.

Azareel's hand stilled mid-sketch, the chalky shale pausing over the leaf-woven seat, the arch of his cloister frozen in mid-curve.

His silver eyes lifted to hers, steady and unshaken.

"Yes. I would," he said, his voice calm, carrying an honest simplicity, as if she'd offered him sunlight itself, no trace of shame or hesitation in his tone.

Zathra, crouched upside down on the jagged wall behind them like a mischievous lizard, her sun-kissed skin marked by faint scale patterns, her white-blonde hair spilling toward the floor, tilted her head. Her ember-red eyes widened, glinting with disbelief.

"Wait—wait—nectar? Like… actual nectar? You're not seriously—" she stammered, her small reptilian tail flicking with nervous energy, her torn shorts and oversized hunting jacket shifting as she leaned forward.

Sylvara's smile deepened, soft and secret, her crimson leaves rustling faintly as her petals unfurled further, baring her full breasts, their curves glistening with a faint golden dew that shimmered in the dim light of the bioluminescent fungus.

Azareel leaned forward, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his torn white tunic catching the faint glow, and drank.

His lips brushed the bloom with reverence, as if it were the chalice of a sacred spring, the nectar flowing warm and sweet, a liquid sunlight that ran down his throat, its taste rich with life and intimacy.

Sylvara's breath hitched, a shiver rippling through her frame, her vines trembling but holding steady, curling protectively around them both, their crimson leaves brushing his shoulders like a gentle embrace.

Her amber eyes glowed, her smile radiant, a quiet ecstasy blooming in the stillness as the moment unfolded, slow and deliberate, a sacred act of giving and receiving in the heart of the Abyss.

Zathra's jaw dropped, her red-orange eyes darting everywhere but the act itself.

"H-hello?! Hello?! Soft Steps is—he's—he's actually—" She slapped her cheeks, her small frame nearly falling off the wall as she flailed.

"You're feeding him from your—ugh, you are such a perv, flower girl!" she squealed, her voice a mix of shock and flustered amusement, her tail thrashing.

Sylvara tilted her head toward her, her serene smile unbroken, her amber eyes glinting with quiet triumph.

"And yet he accepts me," she said, her voice melodic, carrying a possessive warmth that made the air hum.

Azareel pulled back slightly, his silver eyes glinting, nectar glistening on his lips like a golden dew.

He wiped it away with his thumb, his voice soft, angelic, as if answering Zathra's cry.

"It's normal. Sacred, even. There is no shame in giving or receiving life," he said, his words hanging like a commandment, calm and matter-of-fact, cutting through the tension with a gentle certainty.

Zathra flailed her arms, nearly tumbling from her perch, her hunting jacket slipping toward her shoulders.

"N-normal?! You're literally—oh stars, Soft Steps, you're too pure to even know you're being indecent!" she cried, her red-orange eyes wide, her tail flicking with nervous energy as she scrambled to regain her balance.

Azareel only smiled gently, his silver eyes warm, turning to Zathra with a quiet sincerity.

"It tastes beautiful," he said, his voice soft but resolute. "Would you like some too? It's sweeter than any fruit in this dark."

Her ember eyes locked on his, her throat working as she froze, words catching in her mouth.

"...I—uh…" she stammered, her tail flicking wildly, her cheeks flushing faintly under her scale patterns. "Damn it, don't tempt me like that, you soft idiot," she muttered, her voice a mix of flustered defiance and curiosity.

Then, with a wild grin, she leapt from the wall like a spring-loaded predator, arms outstretched, her red-orange eyes gleaming with reckless intent.

"Fine! If nectar's that good, then I'm gonna—"

WHIP.

Sylvara's vines snapped like thunder, coiling around Zathra's ankles midair with a swift, unyielding grip, yanking her sideways and slamming her into the stone wall hard enough to leave an imprint, dust showering down in a gray cascade.

Zathra dangled upside down, caught like prey in a spider's web, her hunting jacket falling toward her shoulders, her tail thrashing.

"Oi!" Zathra squealed, kicking her legs as if the whole affair were a game, her red-orange eyes glinting with mock outrage. "What's the big idea?!"

Sylvara's expression didn't change, her amber eyes steady, her serene smile unshaken as she looked down at Azareel, her petals glowing faintly from within.

"My nectar," she said evenly, her voice laced with possessive calm, "is only for my favorite."

Azareel blinked, surprise flickering in his silver eyes, he smiled, his voice soft and warm.

"Thank you, Sylvara. I'll treasure it," he said, his words striking her like a blade of light, her crimson sap-like flush glowing faintly through her veins as she lowered her head, trying to hide the warmth spreading through her.

Zathra groaned dramatically, swinging upside down, her white-blonde hair trailing toward the floor.

"Unfair! Totally unfair! You're hogging the angel all for yourself, plant lady! Sharing is caring!" she protested, her voice a mix of indignation and playful defiance, her tail flicking wildly.

Azareel chuckled softly, his silver eyes sparkling with quiet amusement.

"You're not hurt, are you?" he asked, his voice gentle, his concern genuine.

"Nah," Zathra said, flashing him a thumbs-up despite her predicament, her red-orange eyes gleaming with sly mischief.

"I could headbutt a mountain and win." Her grin turned sly, her tail flicking as she dangled. "Still wanna taste though. Bet it's better than chewing angel feathers, eh?"