Fallen Angel's Harem in the Abyss

The garden's laughter faded, not into silence but into something softer, tender, like a sigh woven from petals and moss.

Sylvara stood over Azareel, who lay sprawled face-down in a patch of moss, the pulped remains of the glowing berry smeared across his torn robe, now dotted with orange stains and juice-slick bark curls.

The air hummed with the garden's quiet pulse, its vines and trees still, as if savoring the echo of her rare chuckle.

Her eyes, deep and pupil-less, shimmered with a gentleness that outshone their usual hunger, her flowering hair drooping like a curtain of crimson leaves.

Azareel rolled onto his back, blinking up at the canopy, his silver-white hair matted with sap and moss.

"…I really liked that berry," he said, his voice soft, a touch mournful, his silver eyes glinting with innocent regret.

Sylvara knelt beside him, her bare feet sinking into the pulsing earth, her vines trailing loosely, no longer reaching to claim.

Her glowing skin, veined with gold and green, caught the corpse-light, and her presence was a quiet weight—her breath, her warmth, her unspoken need.

"Would you like to taste something sweeter than what you lost?" she whispered, her voice low, like petals falling into still water, carrying a longing that trembled with hope.

Azareel blinked, juice clinging to his lashes. "…Sweeter than the berry?" he asked, sitting up, his silver eyes wide with curiosity.

"What is it? Where is—"

Sylvara took a slow step closer.

She reached out, her fingers brushing a smear of berry juice from the corner of his lip.

He stilled beneath her touch.

"It's here," she murmured.

She leaned in, her breath mingling with his, warm and fragrant with crushed fruit and something wilder.

Her lips met his.

No prelude, no predatory hunger—just lips, soft and cool at first, then blooming with a warmth that spread like nectar, slow and trembling, as if unsure they were allowed to taste something so alive.

The kiss was gentle, aching, flavored with crushed berries, sweet sap, and something older—a desperate need to be cherished, to be seen.

The garden seemed to lean closer, its vines quivering, its moss pulsing in time with her breath.

Azareel's breath caught, not in panic but in wonder, his silver eyes fluttering half-closed.

His hand twitched in the moss, fingers curling as if reaching for something he couldn't name.

The air thickened, the garden's glow softening, as if Sylvara's touch had stirred a deeper magic.

Then—

A clawed hand yanked him backward by the collar.

"That's enough flowering for today, plant witch!" Nyxsha's voice exploded through the glade, a thunderclap of fury and exasperation.

Azareel gasped, his feet scrambling over moss and vines as she hauled him upright, dragging him away from Sylvara with the ferocity of a storm.

His torn robe flapped, his silver hair bouncing, his expression dazed but still soft, caught in the afterglow of the kiss.

Sylvara watched him go, her lips parted, her breath trembling, her vines trailing after him like wilted fingers reluctant to let go.

Her amber eyes shimmered, caught between longing and resignation, her flowering hair drooping further, petals falling to the moss.

Azareel, still being dragged, waved weakly over his shoulder, his silver eyes bright with a dreamy sincerity.

"…It was sweet," he said, his voice soft, almost wistful.

Nyxsha's growl rumbled through the garden, her golden eyes blazing as she tightened her grip on his collar, her tail lashing like a whip.

The vines parted before her, the moss recoiling, as if the garden itself knew better than to challenge her fury.

Sylvara stood alone, her hand lingering where Azareel had been, the air around her heavy with the fading warmth of his presence.