How is he supposed to argue with you?

How is Asura supposed to pick apart your stance, make you stumble over your faith, when you look so proud of it? When it makes you so happy, even while it tears apart a heart he hadn’t known until meeting you?

As one of Hell’s knights, is his responsibility to keep your pretty wings out of Lucifer’s plans. To clip you before you soar, singe your feathers like the sun did to Icarus. But Asura can’t – not when he’s spent the last three centuries pining. Wanting you, desiring you most purely. A fleeting touch of the hands when bickering, his eyes narrowed into some sort of glare, but they’re only taking in your light.

Drinking your presence like a dehydrated man stuck in a desert, like a poor man experiencing rich wine for the first time. Coating his senses, thickening emotions with unfamiliar haze. Why does it have to be wrong?

Why do you believe it’s wrong? Why do you let God determine who you can love – why do you uphold that stupid, dogmatic unfairness? It’s not wrong to love, but you believe it’s wrong to love him. To love another man.

Asura doesn’t believe in God, in the traditional sense. Not the way humans do, not the way you do – but Hell. If he knew it would convince you that loving another man wasn’t unholy, he’d consider abandoning his role. Tossing what little caution he has to the wind, become holy if it meant having you. Won’t you just try it, just once? One kiss, one semblance of love. It’s not wrong, it can’t be sinful.

A slip of the tongue, and the already shaky foundation crumbles.

“Oi, feathers … you ever think of samplin’ new flavors?”