Serene 🌺👑

Hola Darlings. I'm Serene. A writer and a reader of stories above 20. I do indulge myself in different genres, but my favorites are romance, fantasy, sci-fi, mystery & thriller, and historical fiction.

My music taste is a handful of Lana Del Rey, a dash of Sza & Tems, a drizzle of 90s hits, and a sprinkle of whatever I'm in the mood for.

Rafayel is my heart's thief & owner at the moment since I'm currently hyperfixated on LaDs — despite being knee-deep in a plethora of fandoms. Caleb is my heartthrob, and Sylus, my fireheart, soul mate. Zayne & Xavier are also sweethearts of mine.

I'm a whimsical and dainty siren who welcomes everyone regardless of gender, sexuality or beliefs.

You can follow me on X and AO3 for more dribbles and visuals of mine.

Welcome to my word of delusions laced in words. Nice to meet you, darlings ❤️‍🔥

Check out my masterlist and rules whilst you unravel the wonders of this blog.

Tis been a week since your kiss with Sanctarch. The precious kiss you've held dear to heart day and night. The very kiss you still see oft in your dreams. The kiss, a sweet sin committed in a house so holy.

Sometimes you close your eyes to feel the taste of his tongue on yours again. But like the wind bellows past, taking with it dust. Like yesterday never to be seen again, the feel of the kiss is gone. And now, after seven days of thirst, the fire within your soul craves to be quenched.

However, he who can satiate your hunger seems to feel...different.

He should crave you as you crave him. Yearn for you as you yearn for him. Burn for you as you burn for him.

Yet. He doesn't.

Like still waters without a single ripple, the Sanctarch is himself again. Poised, proper in speech, walk and courtesy. Unfazed at the sight of you...not even in the slightest.

What's worse isn't even his indifference towards you, but the subtle way he seems to avoid being in your presence.

At the palace, at the Chapel, by coincidence, should you meet him, he avoids you. Slips through your fingers like sand when lifted in fragile hands.

Does he no longer feel for you as he did? Did he hate the kiss? Does he really hate you, and only kissed you on impulse?

Is this all a ploy, some big plan of his to usurp the throne from right under your nose?

Questions a hundred and more fill your mind, trouble your heart, yet when answers are required all you can come up with is blanks and assumptions.

And oh, how you hate feeling this way. Tis' unsettling to ponder upon uncertainties. For such is the thief of peace — racing thoughts.

Be it far from you, because an Empress needs a clear mind to rule. Tis' true, but the heart is a feat hard to conquer and until you're sure your love is requited, the thoughts will remain. You must speak to him.

On a day of blessed skies and moons in the Alore Galaxy, the Sanctide Court brings you word of a letter received from the Neon Galaxy.

The Neon Galaxy. They once made a proposal of an alliance through marriage but you refused. After rejecting their offer of a marriage of convenience, what more do they seek?

You have no strength for war and at the moment your heart is too busy troubled with matters none can tend to. Surely logical reasoning at such a time will be likened to a pipe dream.

Still, you're Empress. You can't relent and perhaps the matter with the Neon Galaxy, whatever it may be, will serve as distraction from unholy thoughts of the Sanctarch, Rafayel.

In the Courtroom, members of the Sanctide Court and dignitaries present old cases and issues of the Empire. During the discussions, you nod, lift a hand in approval, respond, but your eyes always dart to the one seated south of the table, the Sanctarch, Rafayel.

As the supreme leader of the Galaxy, you sit at the North side of the Mo Table — likened to the round table for Knights of tales past.

The Sanctarch, leader of the Empire's faith, sits at the south. Hence, despite your desperation for a distraction from thoughts of him, in moments like these Rafayel is difficult to avoid.

You throw one gaze, then two. Then a glance and a glare. Yet, he doesn't move. He doesn't even look at you. His eyes remain fixed on the scrolls presented to him as cases are solved and discussed.

This is worse than when you hated each other. At least back then he'd stare at you or engage in a battle of wits. No longer. Now he just...sits.

You could try asking him a question or seek his counsel. After all, he won't deny you a reply in the presence of eyes.

No. You won't do such. It only reeks of desperation and you're not desperate. Actually, you are, but tis' best not to let it show. If tis' a game of Hard to Get he desires, then may the best player win.

"And now to the most important matter at hand. The Neon Galaxy." A member of the Sanctide Court announces and your ears perk, back straightened, composure returned, attention found.

"At the hours of Talia's dawn, we received a letter from the Neon Galaxy. We are unsure if it should be considered a reply to the letter the Sanctarch sent, disapproving the marriage of convenience between the Prince of the Neon Galaxy and Your Majesty. Shall I read the letter in entirety or present thee with a summary and give you the letter to read when this meeting adjourns, Your Majesty?"

"A summary, so that we might get to the matter quickly." You respond, eyes still taking glances at the Santarch who receives the original letter from the hand of the member who announced its presence.

"Well..." The member of the Sanctide Court clears his throat after ensuring the letter is safe in the hands of the Sanctarch and receiving what seems to be a picture from him in exchange.

"...The Prince of the Neon Galaxy seeks a visit to the Alore Galaxy. He says it's to pay his respect to you and the Empire."

"What insolence! We all see through his schemes. He simply wishes to show off his army which I believe he'd arrive with. Your Majesty, I think it a ploy to instill fear in the hearts of our people and have them think a marriage of convenience would be a better option than war." The Presiding Judge, Vera says. Her face in a scowl.

The woman hates men and the very thought of their existence due to years of abuse from her husband. Tis' no surprise she's angered at the topic of an arranged marriage, despite her not being a close acquaintance of yours.

"And how are you sure, Judge Vera?! Perhaps he seeks an audience with the Empress to make a more reasonable deal." A Minister bites back.

"That's a stupid thought. Why would one who sought a marriage receive a negative response and decide on a visit with good intentions?" An official speaks.

"Or maybe he's desperate for an heir? I hear women are in their prime at Your Majesty's age and..."

A loud thud echoes in the room the moment one of the officials speaks of you being the Prince's choice to breed with.

Everyone turns to the sound. It's the Sanctarch. His eyes glow fluorescent blue. A dagger in his hand buried halfway into the table. He's angry.

"Perhaps you all need to hold your tongues and let the Empress speak." The Sanctarch, Rafayel seethes. Eyes on everyone at the Mo table but you.

Why did he react that way? Is he jealous?

A smirk plays on your face. Perhaps, the Sanctarch does yearn for you.

"Do we have any information on the Prince? What is he like? What are his principles, priorities, goals and prospects?" Your lips move accompanying the calm and boldness in your voice.

"We've heard he's an upright man. Some say he's very intelligent. Others say he's a wolf in sheep clothing and to a few, he's hard to read. But we do have this, Your Majesty." The member of the Sanctide Court, walks to you with a poster in his hand.

"And this is?"

"A poster of the Crown Prince of the Neon Galaxy. It's from one of the Sanctide Court's informants currently in Neon upon the Sanctarch's command."

Your eyes dart to Rafayel. For a split second, his gaze locks with yours and he turns away, legs crossed, spinning and playing with the dagger in his hand.

"It seems the Prince's birthday was only two days ago, Your Majesty." The member of the Court continues, returning to his seat amongst the twelve chairs at the the East side of the Mo Table.

Scanning the poster, you realize the Prince is good looking. Red hair like flames, golden eyes burning like the sun, chiseled jawline, his hair slicked back while wearing a white uniform —The kind soldiers wear.

He may be dashing, but he's not your Sanctarch.

"Prince Helios..." Your voice echoes in the Courtroom as you read the name on the poster.

"...he's quite comely..." With those words trailing off your lips, your eyes strike a quick glance at the Sanctarch. He continues playing with his dagger, eyes on yet another scroll in front of him.

Why won't he fall for the bait?

"How would you all feel if he seeks an audience with me to propose again and I agree?"

Maybe he'd react this time.

The room is filled with gasps and murmurs but none of them matter to you. The Sanctarch's reaction is what you seek but he doesn't give any.

He really must not like you anymore. Perhaps his words at the Chapel a week ago were vain. Did the kiss even happen?

"Stay calm. I do not plan to go back on my words regarding the marriage. Besides, he might be after the Aestuspith and not I. It might be he even seeks to know the terrain of the kingdom. Be it war or peace he brings, we shall be ready." Your eyes leave the Sanctarch and rest on the heads of your subjects at the table.

Taking one more look at the poster of the Neon Galaxy's crown prince, you let out a sigh.

"We shall have another meeting on the morrow. But for now I want all Generals to gather their men and Strategists prepare for war. Should our guest plan to take us by surprise, his mission will fail." The Generals and Strategists at the table nod.

"Ministers and Officials prepare for a banquet and a warm welcome for his visit." Dignitaries arrayed in the prettiest robes nod in agreement. Tis' wisdom to leave matters of luxury and hospitality in their hands.

Your next instruction is to the Sanctide Court. The words burn your throat when your gaze rests on Rafayel. His eyes still on a scroll. You wish to avoid him like he's done to you, but the Empire and your duty to it comes first. Surely he knows this as well, whatever his grudges towards you may be.

"The Sanctide Court is to ensure a barrier at Muyra to protect the Aestuspith mines should our guests arrive with spies or have funny plans. I trust the Sanctide shall oversee this task."

Rafayel lifts his head, finally locking eyes with yours. No smile, no frown. Just a nod and his eyes return to the scroll in front of him again.

He's obviously not reading anything and blatantly avoiding your gaze. Anger boils your blood, but for duty sake you must maintain decorum and a clear head.

"When will the Prince arrive? Does the letter say?" You ask.

" In three days, Your Majesty." The member of the Sanctide Court who presented the letter responds.

"Very well, we shall be ready for his visit. I trust you'll all fulfil the tasks assigned to you with honor and have no objections to the roles assigned to you?"

"None, Your Majesty. Long live the Empire." Your subjects chant in unison.

"With that the meeting has ended. You're all dismissed."

Mahogany chairs screech against the tile floor of the Courtroom as people leave. In sudden panic your eyes search for the Sanctarch.

Maybe if he's the last to leave you can call him back. Perhaps you can come up with an excuse to make him stay.

But

What will you say?

If he does stay, what words will you utter? What questions will you ask? He never made an oath of love to you, nor swore his heart to be yours. It was only a kiss.

Just a kiss. One you haven't stopped thinking about after seven days.

While tilting your toes, eyes racing between heads and eyes, you find the Sanctarch. He is the last to leave.

Rafayel walks towards the only exit in the Courtroom, his posture as perfect as he. He doesn't turn around. His back is all you're left with.

You want to call his name. You wish to order him to stay.

Yet, whilst your right arm remains stretched reaching for him, your voice is lost and in a regretful minute...he's gone.

Three days go by with the moons orbiting planets in the midst of the brightest stars. Delegates of the Neon Galaxy cautiously lurk outside the Alore Galaxy before achieving orbital insertion into Aiden, the most habitable planet and of course the capital and center of the Empire.

Aerobraking doesn't take long and soon the alien vessel makes a safe landing on Lenkon, the outskirts of the Empire's capital city.

Citizens of the Empire, dignitaries, members of the Sanctide Court, Generals and all who may have heard of Prince Helios' arrival gather in masses to take a glimpse at the rumored prince who sought the Empress' hand in marriage.

The moment the delegates of the Neon Galaxy step out in a simple group of ten, all eyes lock on the last being at the back.

It need not be said he's the Prince Helios all came to see. For his regalia, his charisma, his beauty strikes even your heart...momentarily.

Arrayed in white regal attire, his red hair like flames swaying back with wind, golden eyes as bright as the Milky Way's sun, he's more a god than a man.

The muttering of the Empire's citizens are louder than whispers. With every stride Prince Helios takes towards you, the voices grow louder.

"Oh my word! He's dashing."

"Do you think he's returned to seek Her Majesty's hand in marriage again? Will she accept this time?"

"They do look good together."

The whispers are loud. Loud enough to reach the ears of the Santarch who stands beside you as with the other officials of the Alore Galaxy.

Your eyes linger on His Quintessence, he seems unmoved by the whispers. Not a smirk. Not a smile nor a frown. As has been for a week...nothing.

Perhaps he really no longer cares for you. Maybe he never did.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet the radiant moon of the Alore Galaxy. I am Prince Helios, sun of the Neon Galaxy. I think it a great honor and privilege to be in thine presence, Your Majesty." The Prince takes your hand in his and bows.

Prince Helios' voice is one as charming as his looks. Calm but with a certain rough edge to it. A voice that easily calls for obedience and one that stills the heart.

Yet. Tis' nothing compared to the Sanctarch's voice. A silken tune and melody that sets your heart aflutter every time he speaks.

Madness. How can you think of him while in the midst of duties.

Calling your heart to caution, you smile at the Prince before you.

"The Alore Galaxy is happy to receive you. Though your visit was unexpected, considering my refusal to your request." Reminding the Prince of being rejected might show you who he truly is. You keep your eyes peeled as you speak, observing every shift, every slight change in his expression.

"Ah yes. It took a while to mend my broken heart. But I cannot claim a broken heart when we haven't met until now. I'd only heard good things of thee, Your Majesty and the wonders of the Alore Galaxy. In my foolishness I thought it best to suggest a union between our galaxies. The sun of Neon and the moon of Alore. A force to be reckoned with. I do ask that you forgive me for making such a move without meeting you in person first."

Quite the charmer. He's hard to read but surely his mask will come off soon. After all, as Empress you've seen many like him from other galaxies and planets.

Men who present themselves as polite and gentle but often end up being the worst scum to exist.

"Well, coming to the Alore Galaxy to apologise in person is a first step to earning my forgiveness." You reply, taking your gloved hand off his. A show of distrust so he understands the need to show you loyalty. An act of subtle rejection so he doesn't think you're one so easily swayed by a pretty face and sugar-coated words.

The Prince smiles "And if I may boldly ask, what is the second step, Your Majesty?"

"That would be how you and your delegates decide to behave upon your stay." While you speak your eyes dart to the large space ship behind the Prince.

Your eyes and words hint a warning that you're ready for war should the troop hiding in his vessel act in hostility.

Of course there's an army in his vessel. He won't fool you by walking out of his ship with just ten officials. What stupid monarch would visit another's Empire without an army. Security is the most primary need for a head bearing a crown. Tis' one of the first things you learnt during your studies as crown princess.

A wide smile plays on the Prince's face "You truly are wise, Your Majesty. Forgive me but I do hope my actions do not come off as deceit but precaution. After all, this is a strange land."

"Anger toward you would only be justified if you'd attacked upon landing. However, the basic rule of the Stella Ocean is to put one's self in their neighbours' shoes to understand them. Thus is the root of love and peaceful coexistence. If I were you, I'd do the same. So worry not. I take no offense in thine actions."

"Your mercy is most appreciated, Your Majesty." The Prince takes your hand in his and lays a chaste kiss to your hand. It's a norm greeting and one charming, but you're not swayed.

Tis' easy to stand stern and come off cold to the Prince for two reasons.

One, you've never truly trusted anyone in your life. Two, your heart already belongs to another.

Right. Another.

In that moment you take a glance at the Sanctarch. He remains the same. Steady, calm, at peace. But...for a second it seems his left eye twitches at the prince for kissing your hand.

No.

You won't be deceived by your feelings for him. You won't let your mind paint images that don't exist. Delusion is not an option.

"Then...welcome to the Alore Galaxy, Your Highness." You give the Prince a sweet bow of courtesy. A simple bend of the knees and a slight bow of the head as thought since childhood.

"Helios. Call me, Helios, Your Majesty. I'd prefer it that way." With your hand still in his, Prince Helios' golden eyes lock into yours. The radiant suns giving Alore Galaxy warmth send their bright rays into his eyes. His irises glow like the yellow of hot flames. He really is one worthy of his name.

To call him by name. Where have you heard such a thing before?

Ah. Twas' the request of a certain Sanctarch, who you thought was smitten with you.

Your eyes drift to Rafayel for a bit. He turns his face away. How annoying.

As though seeking vengeance of the sort your heart thinks upon a ploy and sweetly you cup both the Prince's hands. Eyes staring into his with the sweetest smile you can muster.

"Welcome to the Empire, Helios."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." The Prince replies satisfied with your sudden warmth.

He lifts an arm, slanting his elbow at 90 degrees like the courteous men would do often while accompanying a lady.

Your hands slip into his inner elbow until you're both linked by arms, a regal and beautiful pair to the eyes of all who behold you.

As you walk with Prince Helios through a cleared path to the royal carriages prepared for him and his delegates, the whispers once mumbles grow louder.

"I told you they'd make a great couple."

"He's so handsome upclose."

"Perhaps Her Majesty should reconsider the marriage alliance."

"Sun and moon? I've never seen such a perfect pair. It'll be great for trading between both galaxies. We might just be part of a new and better governance."

"They should get married."

You can see Prince Helios smile from the corner of your eye. He's loving this. Surely tis' just the attitude of one who finds another attractive, nothing more. And what he finds attractive might just be your crown, not the head wearing it.

There's only one person who's praised the part of you deemed hideous — your scars. Tis' only this person's attention you seek.

You turn back to see how the Sanctarch feels about the whispers and mutters of the people.

Perhaps hearing the citizens of the Empire suggest a marriage between you and Prince Helios, might make him angry. Perhaps he'll approach Prince Helios or you. Perhaps he'd do something to cut the Prince's visit short.

It's Rafayel the Sanctarch of the Sanctide Court. He's capable of such but all your hopes become shattered when the moment you turn back, you realise...he's gone.

"After you, Your Majesty." The Prince's voice awakens you from the sea of thoughts. His hand stretches towards the door of the fanciest royal carriage.

"What a gentleman. Thank you, Helios." Courtesy beget courtesy. Surely caution with the prince is required but build too high a wall and his true intentions may remain unseen.

"I'm thrilled yet surprised that the Alore Galaxy would rather carriages like these than hovercrafts, Your Majesty." Prince Helios says once you're both in the coach of the carriage.

"My predecessors chose to keep the traditional ways after their arrival from Earth 23B in the Milky Way. Horses are a pride since they're one of the few animals our predecessors took with them after the great catastrophe on Earth 23B. Hence, we prefer carriages to hovercrafts. Unless during missions or travels to other planets and galaxies of course. We do use hovercrafts and ships for travels between countries and cities. However here at the capital for simple journeys, members of royalty and the upper class use carriages. Horses are a rare find, hence any with a carriage is considered what we call a 'gold citizen'. The distance from here to the Palace is barely a walk, so a carriage like this is much preferred." Your reply is more a recitation than an explanation. While you speak, your eyes are fixed out the windows of the coach searching for the Sanctarch.

But. Tis' for naught. He's disappeared and the crowd is much too large to find the head of one who's often in a hooded cloak.

Sitting straight, eyes forward, you focus on your guest intent to render hospitality and unmask his agenda in the Alore Galaxy. After all, tis' a far important task compared to matters of the heart.

During Prince Helios' stay at the Empire, rumors of an expected union spread across the Alore Galaxy like wildfire. There are talks of a proposal at hand.

Some make preparations ahead, with dreams of a new life should the Neon and Alore Galaxy become one through marriage.

A few discuss the proceedings and expectations of a new governance. Others express their dislike for the thought, saying the ways of Neon are much too different from Alore.

Everyone has something to say, be it opinion or complaint. Yet, whatever words slip off their tongues, tis' in regards to your relationship with Prince Helios.

Your relationship with the crown prince of the Neon Galaxy is one hard to define to the eyes of onlookers. But you know better. He is but a tool to get the Sanctarch's attention sadly.

The notion is unfortunate because so far, the Prince has been nothing but kind, honourable and so charming, that if the Sanctarch hadn't stolen your heart already you'd be head over heels for Neon Galaxy's monarch.

That annoying Sanctarch, Rafayel. By Stella Ocean you wish him damnation, then the next moment you pray for blessings on his soul and his presence.

Whenever he does show up around you, often by your command or coincidence, your acting skills become more polished than the professionals at theatres.

You'd lean closer to the Prince, press your body close to his, laugh loudly at his jokes, brush non-existent dust off his attire, hold his hand, pretend to fall so he catches you...all for the Sanctarch's attention.

And does he give you the attention you crave?

No.

He remains unmoved, unfazed. Not a twitch on his face. Not a change in his demeanor. Not a shake or quiver on his limbs. Steady and stern as he'd been before your first kiss with him.

Ah. Perhaps truly he's no longer taken by you.

The kiss? Perhaps it was a dream. And if it wasn't, he probably only succumbed to emotions that overwhelmed him at that moment.

Or worse. Perhaps the Sanctarch is indeed a coward and lied about his feelings in fear of offending the Empress after an embarrassing confession.

"I really am a fool. I should know. No one cares or sees me. None ever will. I've given my lips to him and cannot take it back. Now I've lost any respect he had for me. Not that he respected me before. Oh Stella Ocean, do forgive me for being a fool and cleanse my lips of his taste. Wash away the feel of his touch from my skin. Bring back my heart from whence he's hidden it so it might be mine again. Deliver me from the Santarch's temptation, Oh Stella Ocean so divine." You'd pray night after night in your chambers.

Three days have gone by since Prince Helios' arrival at the capital of the Empire and you've ordered a banquet to properly welcome him. It's a welcome you hope would become goodbye, because despite his charm, the Prince' isn't to be trusted. Your guts tell you so.

It could either be your guts or...your love for the Sanctarch that's made every other potential suitor a blur in your eyes.

Damn that Sanctarch.

On the day of the banquet, feet of subjects in their tens scamper about the Palace, each with a heart set to fulfil their tasks the best way they can.

Floral decorations ride over the railings of stairs, corners ignored often and on tables prepared for a grand feast. Gold, white and purple embroidery weave with radiance across the halls for thus are the representative colors of the Alore Galaxy. And at the ballroom and Banquet Hall, the colors gold, white and red twist and curl at corners in glowing ribbons for thus are the colors of the Neon Galaxy.

Chandeliers glow, windows also radiant all spick and span since curtains have been brought down as par your instructions in attempt to show off Alore's night skies.

The stars at the Alore Galaxy become a river of wonders. One can clearly see the Whalefall Nebula during this time of the Astrid month. Radiant interstellar clouds form a shape similar to the Tydefall whales at Muyra. An astronomical beauty of pink and blue with shimmering diamonds at night. It's a sight one must show off especially on an eventful night.

Dancing in the ballroom kissed at walls by floral decorations and scented lamps. The scent of Muyra spices in the air. The glow of stars and space surrounding you, seen clearly through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the ballroom.

Tis' a romantic setting truly. One your subjects think intended to charm the Prince with, since you've fallen for him.

Ah. That's right.

They all think you've fallen for Prince Helios' charm. Why won't they? Your actions to gain the Santarch's attention have sown seeds that shouldn't be sown and now that they've bloomed, they tell the tale of a love that is untrue — at least to you.

But all of this. The decorations, the music, the setting. None of it was done with Prince Helios' in mind save the colors of his galaxy which should be displayed as courtesy and hospitality demands.

Every line you've written as instruction. Every decree you ordered as command. Every opinion you've shared in regards to taste and decor...all of it has been for the sake of one person. The thief of your heart — Rafayel, The Sanctarch.

You don't know Rafayel quite well. Perhaps not as much as he knows you. However the few things you've observed about him since he crowned you Empress, have come to light.

What things make him smile? What makes him frown? He seemed to enjoy seafood during royal feasts. Tis' only right to make seafood the theme of the banquet's menu.

Why does he love Honeydew yoghurt so much? Perhaps it should be the ideal drink of the night at Prince Helios' banquet.

You've seen him cater kindly and tend to Flame Lilies with dedication that borders on obsession at the rear garden of the Sanctide Chapel. Perhaps there should be more Flame Lilies added to the floral decorations at the palace.

There are more elements you've taken into account about the Sanctarch. A hundred more you could make part of tonight's banquet. But be it far from you that an Empress should come off as desperate all to win a holy man's heart.

“Your Majesty, truly is the moon of the Alore Galaxy. You glow so radiant and bright." A lady-in-waiting renders praise.

"Truly, Your Majesty. You shimmer so much brighter than the stars that they may not show tonight in embarrassment of how much you glow in comparison." Another lady-in-waiting echoes.

They render praises as usual this evening whilst preparing you for the banquet. They always do but tonight their words aren't void. For the mirror before you show they speak the truth. You do look radiant, gorgeous and breathtaking...as you intend it.

Arrayed in a beautiful white silk gown with glowing purple iridescent lines due to special threads made by Reynbow worms at Muyra.

It's a strapless mermaid gown that accentuates your figure. A thigh high slit runs down the left side of the gown to deliciously show a hint of skin. How daring.

Your hair is woven into intricate braids laced with gypsophila and silver hair jewels. A silver choker encircles your neck delicately. Its pendant shimmers, bright enough to blind the eyes for seconds. The pendant is the gleamdrop the Sanctarch had gifted you on the night of Moontide.

"I was shocked Your Majesty requested we paint thine fingernails. You've never asked such before and might I say, it was the right choice, Your Grace." Another lady-in-waiting says.

Ah. That's right, your hands.

Tonight you wear no gloves. Your fingernails are doused in lilac acrylic paint. The scars are painted over by brilliant makeup artists. Each scar is now a branch connected to another. A gorgeous pattern made to resemble vines bearing cosmos flowers.

A banquet themed with elements of his favourite things, a dress worn to tempt and to dare, the gleamdrop he gave you made into jewellery and worn on your person...

What better way to demand the Sanctarch return your heart than this?

"He either returns my heart or gives me his." You mutter to yourself and none other.

The maids and ladies-in-waiting exchange glances. It seems they heard. Even if they did, they'll probably think your intentions for Prince Helios as every other citizen in the Empire.

None knows the truth. None but you and you hope to the Stella Ocean the Sanctarch too. For tis' a greater risk that he should think the rumors true as well.

"Your Majesty, General Amund requests an audience with you." One of your guards reports.

General Amund is one of the most stubborn men in the Empire but like many of your subjects his loyalty to the Empire is unwavering and he has a good head on his shoulders.

"Send him in." You reply gazing at your reflection in the mirror while ladies-in-waiting and the royal seamstress make a few more adjustments to your flamboyant attire.

"Honor of the Stella Ocean be with you, Your Majesty." The elderly General salutes on one knee, hand over his heart. It takes him a few more minutes to get up. You wonder why he does it so often when out of kindness you've abolished that greeting for subjects on the older side knowing it takes a toll on their knees. Still, Amund like the older subjects believe in loyalty and will until death continue their traditions of old.

It's a good thing — following the old ways. Yet, it can be a bad thing. For if a new era is unwelcome then surely the words of a young Empress are of no importance to subjects like Amund.

"To what do I owe this visit, General Amund?" You ask, eyes still on the mirror, reading his expression. His eyes scan your dress. His lips curved downward. He's not impressed. It was expected. The elderly like Amund with no kindness towards the new are oft the first to judge.

"It concerns matters that are paramount, Your Majesty." Amund replies.

'Paramount'. It's his way of deeming the attention paid to your dress and the banquet's preparation, 'trivial'.

A smirk curls your lips "I'd rather you spoke quickly of these 'paramount matters', General. Tis' not wise to anger the host of an elaborate banquet that will determine war or peace between the Neon and Alore Galaxies."

He understands your message and bows once more "Forgive my words, Your Majesty. I'm here to humbly request for more soldiers at Lenkon, where Prince Helios' vessel is stationed. In moments of distraction, the Prince's secret troop within the vessel is sure to make a move. It's best we move ahead of them. Hence, my request for more soldiers."

"And what pray tell, do you plan to do with your army, General Amund? Rip the vessel off its landing pad?" Sarcasm kisses your tongue. You think the matter serious but you can sense stubbornness and intent in the General's words. Tis' best to handle him with a stern hand. He's the type to bite his ruler as the faintest smell of fright.

"No, Your Majesty. We'll simply watch the vessel and prepare for an attack should there be one." The General replies.

You maintain silence for a while as makeup artists beautify your face in colors and shimmering gloss.

Patience. Calm. Tis' not rude to make a time bomb like Amund wait. Tis' wisdom so he understands you're above him and would act of your own accord and timing.

"Yours is a brilliant proposal. I do not deny that." You finally speak after a lipstick the last of your makeup is applied. Eyes still on the mirror. An almost unseen smile plays on your face when you realize how beautiful you are. A goddess.

The Sanctarch must see you this way. But first, to rid the night of unpredictable factors. You turn to Elder Amund, while ladies-in-waiting spray your dress with perfumes from a mix of rose water and Murya spices.

"And where do you require I get these soldiers from, General Amund. Every member of the army under my command is assigned to their designated tasks tonight. Surely you know this."

"I'm aware, Your Majesty. However, I hear the finest soldiers have been assigned to the borders of Muyra and I..."

"No!" Your voice bleeds boldness, cutting General Amund's statement short. Icy. Cold.

"But Your Majesty it..."

"I said no! You will not dwindle in the affairs of Muyra. Not in its seas nor its soldiers. That place has been assigned to the Sanctarch and the Sanctide Court and I will not have any tension between them and the Empire. Not while trying to figure out the Prince's intentions to Alore. More importantly, Murya is the home of Aestuspith mines. It's only wise I send the best men to protect its borders. Or do you think contingencies regarding an unseen troop from the Neon galaxy more important than protecting the Empire's greatest treasure?"

Your eyes peer right into the General's soul. How dare he meddle with Muyra? How dare he not think of the Aestuspith? How dare he tread the Sanctarch's territory?

Oh.

You are angered at the thought of the General thinking so lightly of the Aestuspith but it seems your blood boils at the old man for speaking of leaving the Sanctarch's home unprotected.

Sanctarch. Sanctarch. Sanctarch.

You see him everywhere, in everything you do, in every word you say. This isn't love, tis' madness and one you need to be rid of soon.

"You're right, Your Majesty. Protecting the Aestuspith is of greater importance. I apologise." General Amund replies.

How confusing. He's quite quick to retract. It's suspicious. However, it's only normal he cower at the voice of a yelling monarch. He is one of your most loyal subjects after all.

"Tis' well with thee General. Apology accepted. Just leave Muyra to the Sanctide Court and should war start from the Neon's hidden troops, you have signal flares to alarm the soldiers at the Chapel and around Lenkon. Also, you forget you can easily alert the captains of Alore's war vessels with the push of a button." You point at the transparent tablet peeking out a pocket in the General's cloak.

"We're ready for any situations that may arise tonight, General. Worry not."

"I shall return to keeping watch over Prince Helios' vessel then. I apologise for troubling you, Your Majesty." General Amund bows again.

"Tis' well with thee, General. May the Stella Ocean be with thee. You're dismissed."

"May the Stella Ocean be with thee as well, Your Majesty."

With that, General Amund leaves your chambers. The ladies-in-waiting and seamstress continue their finishing touches to your outfit. A little pick here, a little toss there, some folds and bends hither and thither.

The timbre of violins and other stringed instruments can be heard echoing from the highest and largest rooms in the North Wing of the palace. The banquet is officially about to begin.

Silvery rays of light shimmer through the parted curtains in your chambers, bathing the room in a pretty dazzle that makes the iridescent patterns on your dress and jewels glow. You're literally the embodiment of a star.

Oh, may the Divine Stella Ocean save the Santarch's soul.

If...

If he'd give into this temptation that is you. Either way, you're gorgeous to your own eyes and tis' all that matters. You need not a man to tell you such.

Damn the Sanctarch.

"Did anyone else desire or seek an audience with me?" You ask the royal guards at the door of your chambers as you step out.

"No, Your Majesty."

Ah. So everyone wanted to speak to you tonight except the one person you truly wanted to see.

Tsk tsk tsk. Damn that Sanctarch.

  The silver rays from the Whalefall Nebula can be seen perfectly from the hall where the banquet for Prince Helios takes place in the palace.

The pretty fickle red of flames glow dimly on lanterns and chandeliers, giving the hall an ambiance of warmth. Gold, silver and gems of all kinds on attires and jewellery catch light bouncing off them.

All about the night is beautiful. Gorgeous. Radiant. Still, your heart is far from joyful and your soul unsatisfied.

How can it be when Rafayel, the one you yearn for despite sitting across the table from you won't even spare you a glance.

The seafood is his favorite but he won't take a bite. The flame lily bouquets are praised by all but him. Your attire has been complimented so many times tonight, hearing another feels like noise, you've grown accustomed to.

But the Sanctarch...he doesn't say anything. Not even a word. Not about the food, the decor, not about your dress.

He speaks to delegates who approach him, instructs members of the Sanctide Court in whispers, seeks answers for whatever questions he might have from even the ladies-in-waiting but not you.

"You really look like a star, Your Majesty." Prince Helios smiles, taking your right hand in his for a kiss.

He is charming. His lips feel warm but...tis' not the lips you want.

Mutters fill the room. Mutters and whispers of excitement at what a beautiful couple you and the Prince are.

Is he looking?

Your eyes gaze across the table.

Ah.

He's not.

The Sanctarch's eyes are fixed on a book and a dagger he's playing with. He really must no longer care for you.

"Your Majesty? What troubles you?" Prince Helios' palm caresses your cheek, shifting your gaze to the dazzling gold in his eyes. He's close. Too close.

"No...nothing. Just worrying if tonight was to your expectations." Lies. You couldn't care less how he feels about tonight. Or maybe you should. He looks...gorgeous this close.

One thud. Two. Your heart starts to skip beats.

"The only expectation I looked forward to upon my arrival at Alore Galaxy was you, Your Majesty. Being in your presence. Tis' enough."

His palm feels so soft, its heat seeps into your skin. Butterflies you didn't know exist for him try to spread their wings.

But no. The hold the Sanctarch has on your heart is much too strong.

"I must say, Your Majesty, I thought you'd be adorned with rubies or diamonds if you're going for pendants..." Prince Helios caresses the fragile glowing gleamdrop at the center of your silver choker necklace.

"...what manner of object is this? Surely tis' nothing compared to fine gems. Why do you wear it?" The Prince asks. You're annoyed at how bold his hand is. And how dare he speak that way of the gleamdrop Rafayel gave you.

"Tis' a gleamdrop. One of the rarest seashells from the Muyra's seas...Prince."

Your eyes widen at the voice that speaks. Neck instantly tuning to its source.

He speaks! The Sanctarch speaks!

"Also, don't you know it's discourteous to question a lady's jewelry? Especially when she looks that radiant. Your words are disrespectful to Her Majesty, Prince Helios." Rafayel speaks for the first time tonight. The pink and blue in his eyes dimmed to hues of purple and red. His brows furrowed. Is he angry? For your sake?

"I meant not discourtesy, Sanctarch. I'd never seen a glee drop before."

"Gleamdrops." The Sanctarch bites back. Eyes at the table darting from Rafayel to the Prince and back.

"Whatever they may be called, it wasn't my intention to be rude. I'm sure Her Majesty knows that. And it's 'Your Highness' to you, Sanctarch."

"And it's Your Quintessence to you, Prince." Rafayel spins the dagger in his hand, eyes locked not on Helios' eyes but his hand still on your neck, caressing the gleamdrop pendant.

"If you weren't a man of the cloth I'd..."

"I'm not a man of the cloth. I'm Sanctarch of the Sanctide Court. Ours is a faith different from what you've assumed, Prince."

Murmurs and whispers sail the air around the banquet table.

"What is the Sanctarch thinking? Is he trying to ruin things for Her Majesty?"

"We all know he doesn't like the Empress or any monarchs before her but this is most certainly crossing the line."

"Why is he ruining a romantic moment?"

Members of the Sanctide Court caress weapons beneath their cloaks. Delegates from the Neon Galaxy clutch their unsheathed swords. Tension is in the air. One you have to break soon.

"We're both gentlemen, Sanctarch. Why don't we ask Her Majesty if I've offended her by my actions with the gleedrops and if I have I will apologise." Prince Helios smiles. His charm in the room is radiant.

What? Ask you?

Your eyes dart from the golden glow in Prince Helios' eyes to the pink blue hue in Rafayel's.

Should you say you've been offended, the Prince will apologise as he said but it'll also be embarrassing for him and may ruin the peace with the Neon Galaxy.

Should you say you're not offended, Rafayel will be embarrassed and further scrutinized by the ones at the table.

"I...I wasn't offended in the slightest, Helios. You were just curious." You smile at Prince Helios, taking his hand off your choker and holding it in yours.

Joyful squeals and exclamations can be heard at the table. The people of Neon and Alore are satisfied, that's all that matters to you now.

Why should you bother with how the Sanctarch feels? All this time he never glanced your way. Never spoke to you. For an entire week he acted like you didn't exist. To shun him now is simply repaying his actions.

"How about we head for the ballroom?" Gently stroking Helios hand you gaze into his eyes hoping the Sanctarch does see.

And he does. For at that moment the Sanctarch takes his leave for the night.

What have you done?

"I shall love to dance with you, Your Majesty." Prince Helios plants a sweet kiss on your hand. One clap, then two and officials, delegates and ministers who attended the banquet all move to the ballroom next door.

On your way to the ballroom, arms linked with Neon's Prince, a lady-in-waiting approaches you. The pool of her eyes with qualm. She reaches out offering you a letter. Her hands tremble. You smile at the sight.

Only one person in Alore Galaxy would send a message this way.

"Is something wrong, Your Majesty? Is that maid alright?" Prince Helios asks.

"All is well, Helios. Why don't you head into the ball. The Chief Minister will get things started. I have something to do quickly and I shall be with you shortly." Snatching the paper from the lady-in-waiting you hide it behind your back. Why? You're unsure. Guilt perhaps.

Maybe this is what forbidden love feels like. You stifle a laugh, almost chuckling out loud at the thought. Your heart skips beats a thousand, your cheeks and neck burn softly with the heat of yearning.

"Alright then. I shall save my first dance for you, Your Majesty. Don't stay too long." Prince Helios kisses your cheek and with the other officials heads for the ballroom.

At that moment you read the letter;

'Meet me at the library, Your Majesty. Should you keep me waiting an hour I shall keep the things I intend to say to you with me until death.

- R.

Smiling you wipe your cheek, as though the feel of the Prince's lips remain. You don't want it. Don't need it. The lips of another are what you desire.

With hands lifting your dress you rush to the library. Some jewels on your hair come undone as you pick up the pace. The timbre of violins echoes in the Palace. The Whalefall Nebula casts its silvery and golden rays lighting your path.

At the door of the library you turn left and then right making sure no one sees you.

While lost in caution, arms open the library door and pull you in so strongly, you almost fall but in a blink you're caught.

With his arms around your waist, you look up at the eyes of the Sanctarch who smirks at you.

In an instant, he pins both your wrists with one hand, his second hand tilts your chin and without warning, his lips crashes into yours.

His wet tongue glides over yours with heat that soaks your core and causes your knees to tremble. Completely melting in the feel of his kiss, his letter slips off your hand.

Oh how you've craved this kiss.

You tug at the collar of his cloak pulling him closer and the Sanctarch responds cupping your face with both hands, deepening the kiss like your mouth holds the air he needs to breathe.

When he breaks the kiss, a saliva string follows, shimmering in the light from the Whalefall Nebula.

He kisses you once more, licks your lips and tilts your chin with his left hand. His right still locking your wrists above your head. Trapping you between his body and the doors of the palace library.

"Tell me, Your Majesty. Did you have fun torturing me with that mannequin prince at your side?

Days have gone by and nights too. The universe thrives on with its countless galaxies sailing in an ocean of celestial bodies.

According to the Sanctide Court's Astrologists, the true foundation of the Empire's faith on the Stella Ocean, the Moontide Ceremony that occurs once in a hundred years is to take place.

It's a rare event where Lunaris, the largest moon in the Alore Galaxy draws its closest path to the Empire. Its silver rays settle over the cities, bathing all beneath it with radiance and glow.

The moon itself sits over the clearest lake at the centre of the Empire where the ruler renders a dance offering to the moon.

This occurrence and its laws are only in petroglyphs and paintings as old as time. Each one kept safe in the Sanctide Chapel.

A hundred years ago, the members of the Sanctide Court at the time made sure the event was successful. And thanks to their recordings, preparations for the new Moontide Ceremony have begun.

"Your Majesty truly is a beauty to behold. Surely none would shine brighter than thee beneath the Moontide's glow." A lady-in-waiting renders praises while adjusting the skirt of a beautiful dress around your waist. Its ruffles embellished with jewels and shimmering silk.

"I hear Your Majesty was gifted the voice of a siren simply for this moment."

Another lady-in-waiting chants, smoothing out wrinkles on the off-shoulder sleeve of the dress.

It's puffy sleeves buoyant in a way that boasts of wealth. Its deep opening draping over your shoulders exposes your collar bones and cleavage.

"How daring. I wonder what he'd think when he sees me." Your lips curl up to a smile.

"Your Majesty truly must be happy about the event." A third lady-in-waiting says, adorning you hair with more jewels and gems.

"Yes, I do believe I am." The words leave your lips with ease but your heart ponders on thoughts of what should be truth.

Are you happy because of the Moontide Ceremony? Or does your joy stem from the fact that the Sanctarch might see you looking so flamboyant for the first time.

The Empire is soon graced with the silver rays of a full moon. Each corner and crevice kissed by moonlight.

Over the Borsith Lake at the center of the capital city, Lunaris settles. Her glowing snow white surface reflected on ripples.

It's even more beautiful than the recordings at the Sanctide Chapel.

Wearing your dress prepared for the Moontide Ceremony, while eyes a thousand and one watch, you step on stones leading to a platform in the middle of the lake.

It's the place where you must sing and offer a dance to Lunaris. A sacred act bestowed upon your shoulders to ensure blessings on the Empire for eons to come.

As you step on the pavement barefeet, the cold stone sends its icy chill up your spine awakening you.

The jewels on your dress, waist, and ankles jingle. The sound weaving itself with whispers of the Empire's citizens who speak of how beautiful you look.

While lifting your arms ready for the dirge of the night, your eyes skim over the heads afar, searching for one you should not seek.

The Sanctarch. Where is he?

Dignitaries, Nobles, Generals, members of the Sanctide Court. They lurk at the front of the crowds. But he whose status precedes them all is nowhere to be found.

Oh, confound it! Why should you seek him in the first place?

With a deep breath, long and steady, your lips part when your voice mellow and sweet rides into the night.

The Sanctarch stands at the rooftop of the highest building at the center of the Empire. His blue pink irises watching you. Ears perked to your beautiful voice.

It is said that the monarchs truly blessed by the Stella Ocean are gifted with the voices of angels. Hence hearing the pleasant tune of your voice is expected.

However, to the Sanctarch, it's a sound he finds more enchanting than any melody ever played.

He clutches his chest, feeling his heart thrum frantically without restraint. His yearning for you is likened to a sickness that bears no cure.

But perhaps...there is a cure.

Your touch.

Sin! Blasphemy! How dare he?

The Sanctarch pats both sides of his face. A slap to the self required for awakening the sanctity in him long slumbered the moment he decided this rooftop was the perfect spot to see you.

When you're done singing, the Sanctarch's ears perk at the sound of drums and cymbals. It's time for the sacred Moontide dance.

His eyes follow your every step. Each sway of your hips, turn of your feet, blessed with grace known only to swans.

Tis a dance offered to Lunaris. But at that moment the Sanctarch thinks it a gift to his eyes and his eyes alone.

Lunaris'rays rays kiss every jewel about you. Each one catching light that bounces off you like stars dropped from the heavens. The scarf once on your shoulders glides over your wrists and arms like wings.

Rafayel the Sanctarch smiles. His heart completely smitten. His soul stolen. His body given to the beauty of your existence.

"She's more radiant than Lunaris or any star across galaxies far and near. My beautiful Empress." He smiles as the night goes on.

Once the dance is over and prayers rendered, the people celebrate with food, drinks and merriment of all kinds.

According to tradition written by members of the Sanctide Court from eons past, after the monarch has rendered their offering to Lunaris, they should return to the Palace and dwell there for two days making supplications in prayers.

You've always bid by the law. The perfect Empress but lately, your soul has become quite rebellious.

Rather than be confined to the palace immediately, you'd rather seek the Sanctarch.

Why? You're unsure.

Maybe he caught a bit of your performance. And if he didn't?

It did not matter. All your heart desires at the moment is to lay your eyes on him.

"Stop the carriage." You call to the coachman, knocking at the roof of your cabin the moment the royal entourage rides in front of the Sanctide Chapel.

"Your Majesty, do you face any troubles?" A soldier asks, her grip tightens on her unsheated sword.

"No trouble at all. At ease, soldier. I simply wish to pray."

"Pray? Isn't Your Majesty supposed to head for the Palace instead?"

"That is true. However, I wish to make supplications for the people at the house of the Stella Ocean. Is that so wrong of me? It is a significant day after all." Stern in your voice and gaze you step out of the carriage, holding up the sides of your dress.

"Forgive me for my words, Your Grace. Ofcourse you can pray at the Chapel. I shall inform the ministers and delegates of your decision." The soldier succumbs.

"Good. You do that. Besides, it's been a hundred years since the last Moontide Ceremony. Surely, traditions can change. Could they not?"

"Of course, Your Majesty. Shall I stay and..."

"No. No. I'd rather not be disturbed. I have a dagger made from Aestuspith strapped to my thigh for self defence. I assume there would be members of the Sanctide Court inside. And what fool would attack anyone in the Sanctide Chapel?"

The words ride off your lips with ease. The art of conviction. You know someone else who's just as skilled in the field. A knowing smile plays on your face.

"Very well, Your Majesty. We shall return to pick you in an hour. Please stay in the Chapel." The soldier makes a bow and lifts her hand.

In a few seconds no less, the entourage is dismissed leaving you behind.

A hot puff of breath locked in your chest escapes you. Your shoulders slouch slightly. It feels like sudden peace found. The burden of duty lifted off you for a moment.

Turning to the front doors of the Sanctide Chapel, your eyes crawl over the tall building from roof to ground and to doors.

There's yet another burden you feel the need to release. Or rather, a feat you seek to accomplish — Finding the Sanctarch.

Steps once light become heavy as you walk to the huge mahogany doors of the Sanctide Chapel.

It takes some effort to push open one of the doors.

Once inside the Chapel, you make your way to the altar. Eyes scanning every pew in search of the one your heart seeks.

The Chapel is quiet. Serene. Calm.

Lunaris' light runs through stained glass, painting the walls of the building in the prettiest colors your eyes have ever seen. It's like a sight that should only grace dreams.

You stand at the center of the Chapel, arms spread wide as you watch the patterns and colors glide over your dress and skin. It's beautiful.

With a heart light and a wide smile you spin around watching the colors ride with you.

"You really are a sight to behold, Your Majesty." A familiar voice calls.

Your feet halts its joyful spin and your eyes focus on the direction the voice travels from. Then you see him. Rafayel, the Sanctarch.

Standing at the front doors of the Chapel, legs crossed. Arrayed in his hooded outfit. A book in his hands.

How long has he been watching you?

With a smile on his face the Sanctarch walks to you. His steps doused in pride. The kind that makes anyone know he's uncommon. It is unique, yet subtle but somewhat bold.

"What does Her Majesty seek in the Chapel?" He asks. Snapping his finger, a tongue of flame flickers over his digits. With the fire, he lights a few candles at the altar and drops the book.

One with a power to control others and an ability that makes him able to ignite flames. He's invincible.

"I...I...I came to pray. Tonight is special and I shall like to make supplications to the Stella Ocean while the Lunaris hovers over the Empire." There's truth in your words, yet the lies you try to hide make themselves known in cold sweat.

The Sanctarch turns to you. A smirk on his face.

"What a righteous monarch you are, Your Majesty. And that is all you've come for. Prayers?"

"Yes." No.

"Very well. I shall leave you be. But before I do, I'd like to show you something. Please follow me." The Sanctarch turns, leaving the altar, and in hasty steps you follow him.

As the night's black thickens and Lunaris draws farther from the planet, the Sanctarch leads you to the rear garden of the Sanctide Chapel.

Moonlight casts its silvery streaks over leaves and petals open to the night. But something radiant catches your eyes.

In the middle of the garden is a pool. And in it tiny rocks glow brightly like stars beneath the water surface. Each one catching the beauty of Lunaris' light.

"They're called Gleamdrops." The Sanctarch says picking up one of the stones.

"These are rare shells found only in Muyra's seas. Beautiful isn't it?" The Sanctarch asks, placing the glowing shell on your palm. His skin lingers on yours. Warmth seeps into your flesh and your chest tightens.

"Y...yes." Your stutter, eyes locked on the gorgeous blue pink cosmos in his.

"You glowed like his gleamdrop today, Your Majesty." He says, ears now red.

"You...you saw me?" It's a question but also an exclamation of joy.

"Yes. You danced beautifully and your voice was truly that of an angel. I'm sure Lunaris was pleased." The Sanctarch's cheeks grow a deeper shade of pink likened to his ears.

The butterflies in your tummy take flight at his words.

"Than...thank you, Your Quintessence."

"Rafayel." He protests.

"What?"

"You can call me Rafayel, Your Majesty."

"Is it allowed to call the Sanctarch by his name?" You tease with a smile. He looks cute when he's blushing.

"Tis' not a sin and I'd rather you call me by name when we're alone. I am one of your subjects after all."

"Very well. Thank you for the compliment...Rafayel."

Hearing your voice call his name becomes the Sanctarch's undoing. He walks closer to you, eyes darken with hunger.

With every step he makes forward, you take one back, until you're cornered between a tree and the Sanctarch's dark gaze.

Your chest heaves at his gaze. He stares at you like a predator would at prey.

No words. Only the sound of your heaving breathes and the trickling echoes of water at the fountain.

The Sanctarch tilts your chin with one hand, the other on the tree, trapping you in his space.

"Radiant. The sight of you would make any man grovel at your feet." The Sanctarch's words melt into a husky tone that ignites the heat in your lower abdomen.

"Tha...thank...you, Your Quint...Rafayel."

Again, you say the Sanctarch's name and he shuts his eyes as though savoring your voice.

Rafayel closes what little distance is left between you and him in a hair's breath. His lips near your ears. So close you can feel his hot breath fanning your neck.

Your chest heaves with expectation. Lips parting naturally. Your body knows what it wants.

"You're wearing them again, Your Majesty." The Sanctarch whispers, slowly taking off the lace gloves on your hand.

"I told you not to hide the scars, but let them be. They're as lovely as you."

Rafayel plants a chaste kiss on your left hand and then another on the right, letting his lips linger. Then without warning, he licks one of the scars on your right hand.

He looks into your eyes as though waiting to see if you'll pull away and when you don't, he smiles cupping your cheeks.

"You're much too lax around me, Your Majesty. I'm unsure if that's a good thing or bad." His hand wraps your neck, adding a pressure all so slight but not the kind that threatens life.

"And you're too bold around me, Your Quintessence." You gasp.

"It's Rafayel." He whispers to your ear, while his fingers slip down your neck, tracing circles over your collarbone.

The Sanctarch looks down and his eyes linger on your cleavage. Oh what he'd give to press his face there.

No.

Tis' a sin. He must remain holy.

Seeing his eyes on your breasts gathers the pools in your core. Your legs part willingly, subtly. Your body craves that which it seeks.

No.

Tis' a sin. You must remain untainted.

Rafayel draws a slow deliberate path over your collar bones, threateningly close to your heaving cleavage.

"You should think more highly of yourself, Your Majesty. You're flawless despite what any might say. You should walk the planet in boldness. Do you know why?" He asks, fingers pulling away from your chest. He can't give into temptation. He mustn't.

Like one insane you grab his hand desperate to feel more of him. Insanity.

Before embarrassment settles heavy in your heart. Before your mind phantoms the concept of being shy, your tongue speaks in an attempt to distract him from your actions. His hand still in yours.

"Why should I walk the planet with boldness, Rafayel? I'm merely Empress."

His brows furrow. Your words have annoyed him it seems.

"Mere? You're no mere Empress. In fact the title should never be seen near the word 'mere'." Rafayel moves closer until you feel the trunk of the tree behind you, scratching at your back.

His breath brushes your lips. One of his knees pushes softly between your thighs, gathering the ruffles of your skirt with it.

The feel of his knee pressing close to the wet pool gathering at your core draws out a moan from you.

Your eyes widen at the sound. You've never heard yourself make such a sound before.

The Sanctarch watches your face closely and at the sound of your moan he chuckles, tilting your chin and locking your gaze in his.

"You're not just Empress to me, Your Majesty. You're a goddess." He smiles. The blue and pink swirls in his eyes peering right into your soul.

He moves closer, his knee slightly grazing your folds. Another moan escapes your lips. You can feel your essence drip down your thighs beneath your dress.

"And a goddess...is meant to be worshipped." The Sanctarch coos, his lips only a strand from yours.

Your heart thrums loudly in your chest. Your chest heaving with expectation. Your core pulsing with need.

You want him inside you.

Rafayel feels his heart race like the hooves of horses set free. His mind in a haze. All thoughts of principles and morals far gone.

All he sees, all he knows, all he wants...is your lips. Those soft, precious lips.

He's desperate to lick them, bite them, suck at them.

And your flesh.

He brushes your shoulders with fiddle fingers.

If your skin is this soft. Then what would it feel like to be...inside you.

You watch Rafayel close his eyes. It's as though he's at war with himself. Probably the same way you are right now.

Does he feel the same way you do?

Perhaps you should throw caution to the wind and kiss him. No. Tis' not befitting of an Empress.

Oh but how you crave the feel of his lips all over you.

Instinctively, you draw closer to the Sanctarch until your breasts push up against him. He feels so warm. So sturdy.

Rafayel groans. His hands snake around your waist pulling you even closer. His lips parted.

Just. One. Kiss.

You see him gaze into your eyes and then your lips. The moonlight bathing his hoodie with radiance befitting a god.

The god and his goddess in the chapel's garden, kissing under moonlight. No prettier romantic tale has ever been told before.

If....

If this were a dream or a reality you could control. But it's not.

The Sanctarch of the Sanctarch Court and the Empress of the Alore Galaxy should have no such communion.

Yet. For the sake of hope or rather faith in the feelings you have for him and the same he may have for you, you keep your eyes closed, expecting his lips on yours.

The Sanctarch looks at your face. Eyes closed, ready for his lips. Your chest heaving with need. Skin warm and supple craving touch.

Just. One. Kiss.

Hearts pump blood too fast to brains and the only thought the mind can phantom, is lips on lips.

One breath long with nervous pauses.

Another more steady as the Sanctarch's lips slightly graze over yours. Barely a touch.

Three. Just when he tries to add more pressure so you feel his taste on you...

A cat jumps out of a rose bush in the garden.

Curses! A million and one curses!

You open your eyes and see the rage in Rafayel's eyes. His eyebrows furrowed. His corneas burning red with branched veins.

Is he truly upset? Then his feelings for you must be true.

Or is it?

The Sanctarch closes his eyes for a moment, lets out a deep breath and takes a step back, his hands leave your waist.

He kneels before you, nuzzling his cheek against your hands.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I have no right to be with you in such a way. I have no right to taint what is flawless and without blemish."

"Rafayel I..."

No right? Blemish?

Those things do matter but not at the moment. At least not to the heat pooling in your core.

"Should cravings not be satisfied, Your Quintessence?" Your knees find the floor with him. Cupping his cheeks you gaze into his beautiful eyes with a smile. Then you see it.

Shame. Regret.

"If I thought you unworthy, I'd have pushed you or run away. But I stayed. That's all that should matter to you, Rafayel. I stayed."

"Still..." He kisses your palm sweetly. A single tear catching the moonlight falls down his right cheek. You could swear it was a pearl brilliant and bright.

"...the meal you crave should be served on a unique platter. Not in some garden like a maid. And the meal itself...should be worthy of an Empress' palate. The commoner's delight is not suitable to thine regal tongue." The Sanctarch's forehead meets with yours. He places your palm over his chest.

"You sell yourself short, Rafayel. You have a statue in the Chapel. You're powerful, intelligent, wise...if anything, I think Your Quintessence worthy of this Empress' palate." Desperation sullies your words.

"Besides, I have good taste. And if I deem a meal delicious, delicious it shall be." You pout.

The Sanctarch laughs. You've never heard him laugh this way. So freely. So loudly. Like a child would when full of joy.

He stands and lifts you with him. After one long gaze into your eyes, the Sanctarch plants a chaste kiss on your forehead.

"I bless thee, my dear Empress. Tis' not the will of the Stella Ocean that we be together. But I hope somehow, we both find peace."

The Sanctarch cups your hands in his, the gleamdrop in yours.

"Keep it." He whispers. "It belongs in the hands of a beauty like itself."

With those words, the Sanctarch takes three steps back, tilts his head with a smile and after a bow, he leaves you to Lunaris and the beauty of the night.

A while later, a few minutes to be precise, the royal entourage returns to pick you up and take you to the Palace.

The three days of supplication required of every monarch after the Moontide Ceremony comes to an end.

Usually, your first stop once free to roam the city again, would be the library or the royal seamstress' shop.

No longer. For there is something or rather someone your heart has yearned for these three days —Rafayel, Sanctarch of the Sanctide Court.

You need to see him again. You need to know if he's yearned for you these three days and nights, the same way you've yearned for him.

Does he still think of you? Why would he lean in for a kiss if he doesn't? Why didn't he go further even with your consent? What is he afraid of? Does he not fancy you as much as you fancy him?

Oh a hundred questions and maybe more, but soon...soon they'll be answered. For in the blink of an eye while lost in thoughts you find yourself in the Sanctide Chapel.

Once at the front doors of the Chapel, you push them open with force. Your eyes scan the empty chapel and stop on a familiar figure lighting candles at the altar with flames on his fingertips.

Walking down the Isle with haste, the thrums of your heart echo loudly within.

"Rafayel. Rafayel." You call his name desperately, now a few steps from where he stands.

When he turns to you, his eyes look unfamiliar. His gaze cold. Different.

His stare halts your steps and you find yourself a nervous mess.

"Rafayel I..."

"Your Quintessence. Tis' only right you address the Sanctarch properly, Your Majesty." He corrects you.

You want to argue. You wish to remind him that it is he who told you to call him by name. But, that's not important right now. You need to know how he feels about you.

"Your Quintessence. I have a confession. Would you please join me on the Sanctis Bench?"

"Of course, Your Majesty."

The Sanctarch follows you to a special bench, the shape of a semi circle. It's only used during trails or confessions.

When the Sanctarch takes a seat at the bench, you stand in the middle, as is expected of a confession.

"What is your sin, Your Majesty?" The Sanctarch asks, crossing his legs. His tone without an ounce of warmth.

Perhaps this is a lost cause. Perhaps he feels nothing for you. Perhaps you were mistaken and he was just horny at the moment.

"I...I have sinned against the Divine Stella Ocean. I've committed the grave sin of fiddle fingers." Your words cause him to sit up straight.

"Fi...Fiddle fingers, Your Grace?"

"Yes, Your Quintessence. These past three days after our last encounter, I find myself thinking of you in ways I shouldn't. At night...at night...I...my fingers...they..." Your eyes are stuck gazing at the floor. Pinching your fingers you start to sweat. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Rafayel says nothing. You want to stop, but you need to know how he feels, so you go on.

"I find myself caressing my breasts while thinking of you, Your Quintessence. I imagine what your fingers would feel like on them. How your tongue would feel on my nipples, my tummy and down..." Your breath catches in your throat and you look at him to see his reaction.

He's covered in sweat.

The Sanctarch once unshaken, with his legs crossed now sits with his legs spread apart. A hand over his chest. His free hand clutching at the bench as though grounding himself.

Oh. Maybe he does feel the same way after all.

"Then...I imagine how your mouth would feel between my legs. Your tongue circling and flicking my clit. Then with a few kisses, you'd lick my slit, spreading them apart to drink off me. When I imagine this, I circle my core with my right fingers, while tugging at my nipple with my left." While you speak, you feel your waters dripping down your thighs.

Rafayel shifts on the bench, pulling down the hoodie of his outfit. Streaks of the blue amongst his purple bangs stick to his sweaty forehead.

His chest heaving just as quickly as yours.

"I close my eyes and imagine your tongue licking at my core slowly, sweetly then lavishing me with sucks and flicks. Faster. Deeper." Your legs lose strength for a bit but you stand steady.

You stop talking, wanting him even more than you have these three days.

Just one kiss. Just one bite. Just one touch.

The Chapel is swallowed in silence as you stand in the middle of the Sanctis Bench.

You need him to say something. Anything will do, but he doesn't. Rafayel sits still, eyes on you like you've gone mad.

Then you realise. You've embarrassed yourself.

"Clearly I was a fool to think my feelings would be reciprocated!" Your chest feels tight. Your heart sinks when he still doesn't speak.

In anger you walk out of the bench and down the Isle. Tears blurring your sight.

"Your Majesty, wait. Your Majesty!" Rafayel calls but you don't stop moving. You're too hurt, too embarrassed to look at him.

"I said stop!" At his command, your feet halt. Purple translucent threads keep you in place against your will. He's using his powers.

You wish to scream. You wish to curse at him. You wish to punish him for his actions, but a broken heart has no strength.

The Sanctarch walks towards you in quick steps and the moment he's before you, his once cold gaze grows soft.

"Oh foolish Empress of mine. I thought myself the siren, but you've enchanted me with your spell." He confesses.

"I've always wanted you, long before you wanted me."

The Sanctarch's words are quite a shock but pleasing to hear nonetheless.

"I crave you daily like a man dying of thirst. To drink from your waters..."

His lips meet yours first, with tenderness. Flesh on flesh.

"...would be divine. May the Stella Ocean forgive me, for you're a temptation I cannot resist."

With those words the Sanctarch's lips meet yours again in a lick and then after a bite, his tongue dances sinfully with yours. The warmth of your wet tongues sliding over each other, while his arms pull you close like this first kiss is not enough.

Loneliness. Tis' the word only you could phantom. A word only you understood. For despite being called Empress with a thousand to do her bidding, none was a true companion.

Life had set you on the highest pedestal of glory for as long as you could remember. A role heavy on the shoulders and a crown that could break the neck was yours to bear. The people of the Empire and its dignitaries would oft chant eulogies of support, and they did – only in words.

For this reason you never thought much of any. Not as friends, nor as foe. Save one person in all of Alore Galaxy. The Sanctarch, Rafayel.

Known for his power rumored to be unrivaled, decorum and charm befitting a prince and beauty not even gods could create, he'd caught your attention.

Twas not for his looks maidens found desirable, nor the fear he instilled in past monarchs, nor the faith the Sanctide Court had found in him.

No.

Yours was an ill feeling you could not define. For every moment around him had you on your toes. Every word he uttered made your blood boil. Every action he took somehow made you question your supremacy as ruler.

"Tis' not a rivalry. Tis' not love. Then why do I concern myself with him so much? Why does he anger me so?”

The question was one you'd oft ask yourself before bed and at the morning lark's call.

On a cool noon, you received a letter from delegates of the Neon Galaxy a few light years away. The content of the letter was one you'd avoided the moment you came of age. But for one regal, twas only a matter of time it'd come to light.

An arranged marriage.

One proposed by the Neon Galaxy as an alliance. They claim it'll further strengthen the Empire, and grant you, it's Empress more power. Yet, you know they have their sights set on the Aestuspith in Muyra, a region under the Empire's control.

Still, should you refuse, it could cause tension between both galaxies. With the bad blood between the Sanctide Court and the Empire, another brewing war isn't one you can afford.

The letter had been discussed earlier this afternoon between high ranking officials of the Empire and members of the Sanctide Court. As expected they all agreed it was best to seek peace.

Hence, as always your choice means naught. You could've ignored the matter but for a woman who's over two decades old, the universe seems to bow yet again to its old ways.

You could reject it. You have the power to.

But.

Would any really care? You do have a voice but it's never really been yours. The words you've issued, decrees you've made, they've been echoes of rules set in stone. Traditions passed from generations of monarchs like you.

So why refuse? When none sees you for you. It's best to be still as the seas calm and move whence the wind chooses.

Lost in thoughts, you bump head first into something. The worry in your heart becomes anger the moment you lift your face.

"What thoughts could possibly have you dreaming, Your Majesty?"

That voice. The hairs in your skin stand. Your chest tightens and the moment your eyes meet his, your heart once steady beats in a way it only does at the sight of the one before you.

Blue pink eyes dazzling like tiny universes gaze into your soul as though seeking truth. Porcelain smooth skin kissed by beauty marks, three sit on his pretty face. Purple hair swaying beneath the hoodie of his cloak.

Pink lips so perfect, one look could tell one how soft they were.

How would it feel to kiss him?

You shake your head the moment your mind carves the question.

How dare your mind think upon such. And for him? Madness.

"Are those colorful eyes of yours for fancy?!" You did not mean to yell. An Empress must be calm at all times, but not to him.

The Sanctarch smirks, a puff of breath escapes his lips curling up at the side.

"My eyes see clearly, Your Majesty. Twas you who bumped into me. An apology would be courteous of the one wrong. But of course, pride is a priority to people like you. All monarchs are the same." He folds his arms, eyebrows furrowed.

Ah. This feeling of hate is not unrequited.

The Sanctarch Rafayel is well known for his hate of monarchs and the Empire. Rumors and facts say his people in Muyra were exploited time and time again for their energy source — Aestuspith.

It's why his gaze upon you has always been one of unease since you became crown princess and now Empress.

He's not unlike the rest of them. Seeing only the crown and not the one who wears it.

It annoys you. Boils your blood. How can one who judges on sight alone lead the prayers to the Stella Oceans at the Chapel. How can one who should hold the secrets of confessions dismiss the colors within your soul so easily?

Perfect? Holy? Good? Hah! What a joke. He's just like the rest of them. No one sees you. Not even him.

Pain seers in your throat, burning the muscles within. Your heart beats twice its pace. Tears blind you for a moment.

"How dare you speak to me in such a way?! What subject demands an apology from their ruler?! I should have you sent to the dungeons!" Every sense of calm is gone. Rage is all that remains. Rage and regret for tis clear you shouldn't act this way.

"And what kind of ruler is unable to control their emotions? If the waters within your soul are troubled this easily, how can you rule with a clear head, Your Majesty?"

He's calm. Poised. Yet, his words sting. They always do. You want to throw curses at him, but you must maintain composure.

"Tis' my duty to rule the Empire and rule I shall. You should focus on that haughty Court of yours who hoard the Aestuspith under your command. Tis for the good of the Empire, not your greed, dear Quintessence."

Your words elude you like a blade. A smile plays on your face hoping you've cut him, but Rafayel's expression doesn't change.

"A Sanctarch has no greed. No sin. Your words have become blasphemy, Your Majesty. You should seek deliverance."

"You should go to hell!" Your voice echoes in the Palace Garden, but you couldn't care less.

As though the thought of marrying a complete stranger for the good of the Empire isn't enough, the Sanctarch dare demeans your authority with wits.

While drowning in fury, a General walks towards you. Each step is ridden with uncertainty and fear. Uncertain of how hot your rage burns and fearful of the Sanctarch.

"Your Majesty, the officials are calling for another meeting." The General announces.

"Another?!"

"Yes, Your Majesty. It concerns your marriage with the crown prince of the Neon Galaxy. We've received another letter demanding a wedding date."

Your stomach churns. For some reason your eyes dart to Rafayel. He seems indifferent. Of course he is. Why look at him?

"Your Quintessence is also asked to join the meeting of course, as the Sanctide Court's input on the matter is crucial." The General turns to the Sanctarch.

He simply nods and makes his way to the Courtroom in the Palace.

And you? You stand in the garden unable to move.

Maybe you should run away. Maybe you should do what you've always done. Stay silent.

But this is a sentence to life with another you haven't even met. Still, peace must come to play first.

In the Courtroom, delegates and officials chatter about wedding plans. Colors, themes, food. Each person at the table shares their thoughts on a gallant wedding with wine in hand and faces with fake smiles.

Your wedding to the Prince of the Neon Galaxy is of no concern to them. It's what comes next.

Through your marriage with the prince, the Empire will certainly grow stronger. And to win your favor with the new regime that's to come and guarantee their positions, they smile and laugh as though happy for you when they're not.

You can't blame them. They're only looking out for themselves. But it's sickening to see them joy over your headache.

"Does Your Majesty wish to go through with the wedding?" A voice echoes loud, bold and true in the Courtroom. Tis the voice of the Sanctarch.

Every movement. Every sound. Stops. Silence veils the room.

"Wha...what do you mean, Your Quintessence?! Of course Her Majesty desires to go through with the marriage. Tis for the good of the Empire!" One of the officials speaks.

"Yes indeed! Why make enemies with the Neon Galaxy when we can strengthen our alliance. I'm sure Her Majesty is aware of this." Another rants.

Rafayel ignores both officials like they're non-existent and repeats his question. This time, his eyes fall on you. Gaze locked on yours.

"Is Your Majesty willing to go through with the wedding?"

Why is he asking?

"Why ask Her Majesty such a foolish question, Sanctarch?! It is clear that..."

"Silence! Tis' not you I asked. Or are you the Empress of the Alore Galaxy?" The Sanctarch snaps at one of the Generals, cutting her sentence short. His eyes glow fluorescent blue.

Aestuspith. His powers.

In fear, the Courtroom falls silent.

"I ask thee again, Your Majesty. Is it your will to go through with the wedding?"

Why is he concerned? Surely, his question isn't out of care. He's always had a battle of wits with you but care? Never. Not that you know of.

Could it be he's threatened that the Sanctide Court would lose its power over the Aestuspith in Muyra if you got married and formed an alliance with the Neon Galaxy?

Or...

You gaze into his eyes. The fluorescent blue now a brilliant shade of azure, bearing rosy pink within.

Does he really care?

Whatever his intentions are, this is your only chance to either succumb to the will of the Empire's Officials or for the first time, speak your heart.

But wouldn't it be selfish to reject the marriage proposal from the Neon Galaxy? What if they declare war?

As though reading your thoughts, the Sanctarch speaks up, eyes still on yours.

"Should Your Highness reject the proposal, the Sanctide Court shall stand with you."

"With what armies?! The inferior army of Murya? Her Majesty is..." The words of one of the Generals is short lived when he picks up a table knife, slowly pressing it against his own neck. Blood trickles down his trembling hand.

All eyes in the room turn to the Sanctarch with fear. His eyes glow fluorescent blue once again.

"I said...be quiet. Do not speak if you're not spoken to." He seethes and turns to you.

"What's Your Majesty's say? Do you agree to a marriage with the Prince of the Neon Galaxy. Or do you not?"

"I...I..." You pinch the fingers of your gloved hands. This might be the biggest mistake you ever made or this could be freedom you've never had all your life.

"The Alore Galaxy will always be my priority and I will do all in my power to make its Empire the strongest force there is...but my heart can't do so if caged. And I believe that's what I'll be, should I marry for alliance." With every word, your heart feels lighter.

"Agreememt to an alliance by marriage with a galaxy that's only after the Aestuspith is a sign of weakness. And this Empire is anything but weak."

"But Your Majesty, it's foolish to..."

The knife in the hand of the General controlled by the Sanctarch sinks deeper, breaking through skin and tissues.

"If you don't want that knife buried in your throat, you will be silent." The Sanctarch threatens.

"Foolishness is me not finding my voice until now." You continue.

"Should war be inevitable, I reckon the Sanctide Court won't withhold the power of the Aestuspith for our victory." You turn to the Sanctarch. He smirks and nods.

How confusing. He agreed, just like that. Then is it not the Aestuspith he wishes to protect by questioning your marriage alliance? Did he...try to protect you?

No. Impossible.

"Then according to Her Majesty's wishes, there shall be no marriage of the sort. The Sanctide Court will issue a letter to the Neon Galaxy regarding this decision. As the will of the Empress is the will of us all." The Sanctarch declares on his feet.

An applause echoes in the Courtroom, as all agree and commend you for your choice.

The meeting finally comes to an end and everyone leaves the Courtroom. When the Sanctarch is about to make his way out as well, your lips move without your mind's consent.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what Your Majesty?"

"Help me." You can't believe you're saying these words. Help? You?

"I did no such thing, Your Majesty. How can one help one who needs no help? Or do you think yourself incapable of ruling?"

There he goes again. Saying things that sting.

"Who said I'm incapable?!" Rage once calmed burns quickly in your soul again.

"Do you think you're incapable?" The Sanctarch asks once more, his arms crossed over his chest.

His eyes truly demanding an answer you know well. Yet you find yourself stuttering.

"I...I..."

The Sanctarch walks to the door of the Courtroom and turns back, eyes not holding an ounce of enmity but something you consider worse — pity.

"There are many sins we commit towards the Stella Ocean, Your Majesty. But yours is the worst of them all. You have no faith...in yourself."

Your heart drops at his words. Anger, embarrassment and denial play a game of tag in your mind. You wish to defend yourself but the words are trapped in your head.

With those words that shake you, the Sanctarch takes his leave out of sight until the weekly Tideprayer at the chapel.

The bell at the Sanctide Chapel tolls and with rage still burning your nerves, the voice of the Sanctarch rings in your ears despite the moment being days ago.

In the Chapel while the Sanctarch speaks the will of the Stella Ocean and the Sanctide Court, chants fill the building.

"Long live the Sanctarch! Long live the Sanctide Court. May the Stella Ocean bless us all!"

In just a few years of his position as Sanctarch, Rafayel has gained the faith of the Empire. So much so, his name is now a prayer.

Usually while on the altar speaking words of faith and prophecies alike, he'd have eyes on each pew, peering into the souls of the guilty and innocent for he knew all in the Alore Galaxy by heart and thought.

But today. Today. He's different.

Though his sight skims over the congregation at the Chapel, you could swear they linger on you.

He'd utter a sentence, glance at the congregation and gaze at you for a few seconds.

It's uncomfortable. You wish to move. To change seats even, but tis impossible. Not while you're seated at the first pew. All eyes on you.

Soon, your heart receives ease when the ceremony ends.

Everyone has left the Chapel, but you.

You love the quiet of the Chapel when it's empty. The scent of rare spices from Muyra wafting from burning incense. The golden dance of the sunset through stained glass. The shimmering tiles radiant.

It's your sanctuary. The only time you can breathe free of duties, thoughts. Just a time when the only sound in the universe...is you.

Seated amongst the first pews in the Chapel, you stare at the statue of Rafayel, a maiden with six wings and a gold crown between.

"He's no priest but a god." The words leaving your lips come straight from the heart.

"A god? You flatter me, Your Majesty." A familiar voice whispers behind you.

In shock you turn to see the Sanctarch. His eyes glowing with warmth you've never seen before.

The hoodie of his outfit lowered, exposing the fluff of his purple hair in its fullness. You're almost tempted to tousle it.

"Tis' inappropriate to sneak up on the Empress, Your Quintessence." Your voice bears no ill, but the sudden warmth about him calls for caution. So unlike earlier this week, calm comes before rage.

The Sanctarch chuckles. You've never heard him laugh before. He circles around the pew behind you and in a few steps he's seated right next to you.

It feels unsettling. Suffocating even.

You've never liked him. He's never liked you, so why does his voice feel calming?

"Would Your Majesty behead the Sanctarch for merely startling Your Grace?" He asks, a smile brightens his face kissed by the orange hues of sunset.

You've never looked at him like this before. Not this close. Not without anger. He's gorgeous. How annoying.

"What if I'd died of fear then? Won't your prank warrant death?"

"Your Majesty isn't one to die from fear. You do not have a weak heart." His words melt your heart. Your arms once crossed fall to the sides. Each heart beat skips faster. Heat crawls over your skin and your chest tightens.

Did he just give you a compliment?

No. You mustn't fall for his trickery. The Sanctarch is well known for his intelligence and charm. A sugar coated tongue must be one of his skills as well.

He takes your hands in his, eyes sinking into the depths of yours.

"You're strong. But strength isn't found in loneliness or without others. True strength is the courage to ask for help."

In anger you pull your hands from his.

"Who says I need help? Help with what?!"

"I did not mean it that way, Your Majesty. I'm simply saying you often bear burdens alone and never speak even if something doesn't sit right with you. You accept anything given to you. You have no complaints over food, clothes. Not because you have no preference but because speaking your heart seems a burden."

While he speaks, the Sanctarch slowly takes off your gloves, but his words pierce your heart like a sword. Your heart is in too much pain to concern itself with gloves.

"Even when you don't like a meal you stay silent. When clothing isn't your taste you still wear it. You don't wish to be a burden or inconvenience to anyone because you've grown up without being heard. Now you're used to it. So you feel it's best to stay silent."

His eyes trace the scars all over your hands. Tis why you always wear gloves. An Empress must never have scars. It devalues a woman. It's unpleasant to see.

Tis the words of the people and the laws etched in the heart of men. Words based on prejudice and cruel judgement none has the power to make.

Hence you've always hidden your scars.

They were inflicted upon you by the former Empress. An evil woman, not your mother by blood but by marriage.

Whenever you'd speak up for yourself or showed signs of discomfort towards her rules or choices for you, the punishment was pins left in the fire for hours. With those hot pins, she'd make a mark claiming each one the number of times you've sinned.

"Children must obey their parents or be punished. Tis' the will of the Stella Ocean." She'd say.

Upon her death you gained some form of freedom. Or so you thought.

The trauma and fear of voicing your opinions lived with you until adulthood and the scars remain a testament to the former Empress' reign as your mother.

You hated the way the ladies-in-waiting looked at the scars while tending to you. Even at special banquets and balls hosted in the Palace when you were younger, not one person asked you for a dance due to the scars. Even those who have no intention of being rude would stare at your hands brazenly.

So you decided to cover them up and once you became Empress, the first and only change you made to your wardrobe was wearing gloves to hide the scars.

When you try to take your hands off the Sanctarch's he pulls them back. His fingers tracing and caressing the old wounds on your skin.

Your heart races at the sensation. It's one you've never felt before. Heat maps your skin and your chest heaves with each breath.

The Sanctarch's palm brushes over your hands once more and comes up to rest on the left side of your cheek.

Warmth. Softness, yet subtle calluses probably from years of wielding a paintbrush and sculpting knife. After all, you've heard the Sanctarch is gifted in such.

"You don't have to stay silent anymore. You're free to be as loud as you wish and I shall be your weapon in hand if you need me be."

"Why?" It's the only word you can mutter. The walls in your heart have been broken by his touch. Your soul is in melancholy as your mind ponders upon the truth of his words. Sight blurred by tears that refuse to fall.

Does he really see you? Has someone finally seen you?

"Why?" He smiles. "My duty isn't to the Sanctide Court alone, but to the Alore Galaxy and she who governs it."

"I thought you hated monarchs like me. What changed?"

The Sanctarch's palm slides down your cheek, neck and rests on your shoulder. Each road he treads over your skin leaves a flame flickering at its wake.

What is this feeling?

"Hate you? Tis' treason to hate you, Your Majesty. Truth. I've never been friendly with monarchs in the past nor considered friendship with them...until you." He smiles.

"I always found you intriguing but I couldn't trust you. I wasn't sure if I could. So to test the waters I'd engage you in a game of wits." He chuckles.

"Game of wits? Wait...You're telling me every moment you'd make a snark comment or argue with me...tis' wasn't out of hate but a test to know if you could trust me?" Your eyes twitch. How dare he?

"You sound offended, Your Majesty."

"Who won't be?! You often kept your distance, gave me a condescending look at all times and cunningly spoke rudely. Now you're confessing it was all a test? Am I fun to taunt?" The sweet heat in your skin turns cold with rage again.

"I did steer clear from you because you're a monarch, Your Majesty and in truth I found you quite pompous, haughty even but what angered me the most was how you'd let anyone tell you what to do."

The Sanctarch rubs gentle circles over your palm, as though releasing the knots of rage beneath.

"I was never angry at you, Your Majesty. I was angry for you. I have no right to. Nor did I have a right to exchange words that angered you so. I simply wished for you to believe in yourself more and have a will of your own."

"So you didn't respect me. That's what it sounds like."

"I did, Your Majesty and..." He kneels before you, his left hand over the left side of his chest "...I still do."

You gaze into the eyes of the Sanctarch. First, with scrutiny. For how could one so powerful kneel at your feet. But then you see it within the dazzling cosmos in his eyes.

Respect, love, devotion. And you remember loyalty isn't commanded by the crown alone, but by heart.

The Sanctarch takes your hands in his and to the scarred flesh, he kisses one forelimb before the other. Pressing his soft lips over your flesh and letting the feel of him linger as though sanctifying the scars with his holy touch.

He nuzzles his face against your hands. The smoothness of his skin exciting the warmth on yours. Then he looks up at you.

"And these scars. Do not hide them, Your Majesty. They're not stains to your person, but a testimony of strength. They're lovely like the woman who bears them."

The steady beats of your fragile heart become one quite frantic. The calm pools of your soul disturbed.

What is this tight feeling in your chest?

Hate? Love?

Absolutely not.

Confused by emotions tangled within, your cheeks, neck and chest burn with a heat you only feel around him. Except this time rather than having your feathers ruffled, you melt at his touch.

The Sanctarch catches the turmoil within the pool in your eyes. One side of his lips curls up into a smile.

He graciously gets off his knees and sits beside you. A smirk on his face. Eyes somewhere between condescending and reverence.

Tilting your chin with his fingers the Sanctarch's voice grounds you in reality. Shattering the short moment of delusion.

"Whilst I bear no ill will against thee, nor approve of a marriage of convenience for thee...this doesn't mean I'm smitten, enchanted nor taken by thee, Your Majesty."

His voice trails into your ears, an octave lower. The sound tugs at your heartstrings, but his words burn away any sense of reason in rage.

"You must've lost your mind, Your Quintessence! Smitten? Enchanted? Why would I desire such things of thee?!" You pull your hands from his, up on your feet in seconds and with haste.

Stepping out of the pew, and walking towards the front doors of the Chapel, you turn to take one more glance at the Sanctarch.

The colorful glitters of the sunset's rays filter through the stained glass windows, painting his face like art. The wings of the sculpture at the altar align with his figure like they're his.

At this moment he's what any would call a heavenly being.

"If you believe every maiden in the Empire seeks to be taken by thee, then perhaps you think too highly of yourself, Your Quintessence. You're not as comely as you think." Lies. Of course he's comely. He's the most gorgeous being you've ever met.

The Sanctarch laughs "My my, Your Majesty. Do not let anger blind thee nor conform thine tongue to lies. Not as comely? Surely you jest."

Rage. Anger. Yes, he's aware of his beauty but how dare he be so pompous about it to the point he thinks the Empress yearns for him. How absurd!

"You may accuse me of the sin of having no faith, Your Quintessence. But I advise you to take a closer look at thine reflection and surely you'd see the sin of pride has you in shackles."

With those words, hoping it tears at his very soul, you step out of the Chapel fuming with rage unsettled.

The sun drowns into a sea of darkness and glittering stars after you leave the Chapel. Now in your chambers at the palace, you stand face to face with your reflection on a mirror.

"How dare he? How dare he think so little of me? Taken, smitten?! Such sinful words. And he calls himself a Sanctarch?!" You rage at none but the mirror.

You don't think yourself uncomely or likened to a goddess but being an Empress tis no surprise that the Sanctarch be taken by you.

"I would not let his words put my worth to question." You console your heart, trying to break free of the turmoil within.

It's always like this.

Every time you engage in a conversation with him, it leaves you mad, quite unsettled, in thoughts.

Tsk. It was insane to think he'd fallen for you simply because he disapproved of your arranged marriage to the Prince of the Neon Galaxy. Of course his intentions were to himself.

"Bastard." You curse under your breath but then the tightness in your chest loosens a bit when the scars on your hands come to sight.

His words repeat in your head "...they're lovely, like the woman who bears them."

Your cheeks flush hot. Your chest heaves in response to your racing heart.

"That charming idiot." The words leave your lips with a smile you did not plan.

Thoughts tempting move your muscles and you find yourself kissing the very spot the Sanctarch's lips touched on your hands.

Your hands still smell of him. Rare spices from Muyra. Enticing. Charming.

How indecent!

You call yourself to composure searching for a handkerchief to clean your hands. Perhaps that will rid them of his scent.

Where is it? You try to remember where you dropped the handkerchief. Then you recall the fact that you had in your person when you went to Chapel.

Another item lost.

Every now and then you lose something of yours. If not a hankie, then a jewel. If not that, a hair tie or a veil. They're often a small item so you never bother.

Despite the Empire's posterity there are thieves lurking about.

Stealing from the Empress is a sin worthy of death and should not be heard of. For one who can take items from you so easily without being noticed might be able to take your life as well.

Still, tis' a matter you cannot bother with. Not right now when your heart and head are riddled with emotions stirred by the Sanctarch. Perhaps another time you shall revisit the matter.

Taking another hankie out a cabinet close by, you wipe your hands but his scent remains.

"I need a bath."

Whether your words carry disgust or not, you can't tell, but for now a bath will do.

Back at the Chapel, your absence leaves the Sanctarch pondering on thoughts. Thoughts he'd only kept to himself.

He sits at the pew staring at the inanimate objects on the altar.

A statue of himself, one of a being with six wings and at the centre a crown - you.

The Sanctarch walks to the altar in silence. Gracious. Calm. Still. Like the seas untroubled at night.

His fingers graze over the surface at the base of the crown sculpture. One tug then another and he shifts a slab at the base revealing a locked drawer.

With a key he takes out from his cloak, the Sanctarch unlocks the drawer. He slowly pulls at it to reveal relics belonging to you, the Empress.

Rings, necklaces, handkerchiefs, veils, bracelets.

Every moment he'd engage in banter with you, he'd sneak a piece of you with him. You never noticed. Not once.

"How careless, Your Majesty." The Sanctarch smiles, taking a handkerchief from his cloak. It's the one you hand on your person today.

He presses the handkerchief over his nose, drawing in a long breath.

It smells like you. Dainty yet strong. Beautiful. Enchanting. Wise.

With each inhale, the Sanctarch feels heat gather at his core. His lower abdomen burning with a desire he shouldn't have. His length twitching beneath his outfit.

Madness. Sin.

He takes your handkerchief from his nose and gazes up at the statue bearing six wings.

"O Divine Stella Ocean. Forgive my sins. Each moment I gaze upon her tis impossible to hold back the desires burning within me." The Sanctarch confesses pressing the handkerchief to his lips.

"My chest tightens when she's near. The air around me becomes unfounded. It is as though I cannot breathe. My mind spirals, all thoughts lost. But for sanity I have to pinch at my legs and speak words that sometimes angers her." He glides the handkerchief in hand over his arms and chest.

"Tis' not out of hate. Being like that to her...it's the only way to single out myself from the crowd of subjects who serve her. I may be Sanctarch but what if she doesn't see me? For this reason, I must become one she thinks of be it from a place of hate or friendship. As long as she sees me. Tis' all that matters."

The Sanctarch wipes his neck with the handkerchief slowly.

His skin flushes with heat. Heart beating twice its pace, so loudly he can hear its thrumming in his ears.

"O Divine Stella Ocean. I know I should not fall in love with her. All monarchs are the same. Her predecessors have trampled on my people for the sake of the Aestuspith. Vengeance should be my cause but...I can't think straight. Not with this temptress around me."

The Sanctarch falls to his knees clutching the handkerchief to his chest.

"Sin. This is sin. Feeling this way. Tis' not right. There is no rule of celibacy to the mouth pieces of the Stella Ocean but...it's wrong to desire the Empress this way."

"Sin. Oh tis' a sin so grievous of one who should be holy. The Empress...she's a temptress I confess. Oh Divine Stella Ocean how can I release myself from the chains of obsession that bind me so."

He throws the handkerchief over his face. Letting the silk material cover his eyes, nose, lips. Breathing in the scent of you as though you're present.

Rafayel the Sanctarch groans beneath the handkerchief veiling his face.

"Why make the devil so much stronger than a god walking amongst men. Tis' cruelty O' Divine Ocean. Cruelty. Save me."

With those words, the Sanctarch's length now erect drips his nectar so sweet.

The night lanterns in your chambers glow dim when the Abbyswalker holds you close whispering in your ear.

"Would someone kidnap the princess? Isn't Your Highness afraid I might actually do just that?"

Your eyes burn into the flames of crimson & bluish purple in his irises. You do want to leave. You always have.

When he sees the silent plea in your eyes, he smirks.

"I see no fear in this princess' eyes."

At that moment, the clanking of metals and heavy steps tread a trembling path into your room.

The King's guards. Tens in their numbers with arrows & swords at hand, seething at the one who has you safe in his arms.

"Filthy Lemurain scum! Step away from the princess." The royal advisor hidden like a shrivelled vine speaks from behind the guards. The coward.

"You killed Sir Lorentard! He's a noble and one of pure blood, and all for what? So the sea may return? We may have caged your kind, and we'll do it again if your intention is simply to flood Philos." Ah, tis the voice of another member of the King's Court. Their name you no not.

You never bothered to. Why should you? They've ever only seen you as an accessory to the Throne. A dainty figurehead the people respect and fear for a heart she'd been blessed with by the gods they say.

No one sees you. Truly sees you. Save the title you bear or the glory your household is known for.

Someone's daughter. Someone's acquaintance. Someone's princess.

That is all.

Should your name be called, it is always mentioned with another. Because that is how you've always been seen — as part of someone else's tale.

But no longer. Not tonight.

Ignoring the brewing calamity, you gaze into Rafayel's eyes once again.

"Take me away from here. Tis' my intention to live for me and none else...with you by my side. I have no desire to be a name penned down in history books' without a story I can call my own. And..." Your palms cup his cheeks.

The blood smeared on his face from a fight a while ago smearing your fingers. How many blades must've cut him before he made his way to you. The thought alone aches your soul.

"...my darling Lemurian. My heart thrives and burns for you. I'd rather have shared mornings together than stolen nights. So whisk me away with you, for tis' with you, I choose to weave my future."

A smile curls Rafayel's lips, that familiar way it does. His eyes darken for a moment, and with no respect for the Knights keen on taking him down, he plants a chaste kiss on your forehead, covers your eyes with his hand and whispers in his silken voice

"Alright then...close your eyes for this next part...Your Highness."

Flux Art studio is bustling is with the thrums of music that prove blissfully the merriment of the season. Faces a hundred cast smiles fake and true. Paparazzi taint the darkness of the night with flashes after a thousand clicks repeated. The weather outside may be frightful but the warmth of connections shared within the studio is quite delightful.

The snowy night truly is a delight to all save the star of the show – Rafayel. Unlike the guests doused in merriment, Rafa seems on edge. His motions, quick, precise, controlled, but you know him all too well and you can easily tell from the shift in his eyes. He’s uncomfortable and wants to leave. Though given the charisma, flair and wisdom to thrive in such spaces, Rafayel’s social battery drains fast.

He keeps glancing at you in the blue velvet strapless gown you’re wearing. Every moment he greets a client, for a brief minute his eyes lock with yours, then stroll down your lips, then up your eyes again, pausing for a second before glazing down your dress and up again. His gaze holds so much intensity you can feel him undress you with his eyes. Afterall, amongst the beings gathered at the studio today only he knows what lays beneath the velvet gown.

A smirk curls the right side of his lips. A sight you know too well, and a wink too fast for anyone to see while he courteously raises the glass perched in his beautiful hand towards you. You respond in like manner with a smile as well.

To others, it’s a greeting exchanged between employee and bodyguard who may have a scandal brewing. To Aunt Talia, it’s a teasing glance between lovers. To Thomas it’s something he wishes to ignore and never know. For he knows too well how lovey-dovey you and Rafayel can get. And he’d rather feign ignorance than stare at the desire lurking between the star of the night and you.

To Rafayel and you, its words unspoken but louder than the sounds reverberating off huge speakers much too loud.

“I want to take you in that gown and fill you up until you’re dripping me beneath that dress.”

He doesn’t say the words. He doesn’t mouth them either. There’s no need to when his eyes say it all. For a moment stolen from time’s passing. Just between you both, you see the blue and red in his irises glimmer dark tints of pink likened to red and the azure blue drowns in an abundance of purple. Underneath those long-feathered lashes fluttering over his blushed cheeks, when he looks down after he notices you understand him, you can tell.

He wants you.

And a truth if you dared – you want him too.

At that moment an idea hits you. Rafayel has been busy with preparations for tonight. So much so, you haven’t really had a moment with him all week. Just a few stolen glances like the present, garnished with ‘hi’ an ‘hello’. It’s something perhaps. A recognition of each other’s existence but it is nowhere near satisfying.

Eager to accomplish the plan you have in mind, you send a message to Rafayel through Thomas “I have to go now, but I’ll meet you at home.”

While taking your leave, now a step away from one of the openings at Flux Art studio, you turn to find Rafayel in a slight panic. His eyes skimming over heads he thinks fleeting while searching for the one face he’s committed to memory – yours.

Ah. What a pity.

Still, what awaits him would surely suffice for the hurt he may feel upon your hasty departure.

At Whitesand Bay, you make preparations aplenty. The thoughts of what could happen tonight make giggles escape your lips like a young maiden stricken by a crush who knows her not. Except, this isn’t your crush you think on. It’s Rafayel the love of your life, and tonight he craves you as much as you crave him – perhaps even more.

Your red bottom heels click-clack across the marble floor in Mo Art studio when you make repeated journeys to and from the mirror. Everything needs to be perfect. Every plan accomplished. Every desire fulfilled. For you and for him.

Waiting on the long brown couch next to the floor-to-ceiling windows in his mansion, your eyes follow the calm drops of snow trickling down like feathers and painting the Earth a shade of white you know Rafa would love.

“It really is cold outside.” You mutter to none. A sigh accompanies your words. You’re starting to get bored.

Where is he?

Did Thomas really decide to take up his time after you left?

Is he okay?

Just when worry sinks in, the front door of Rafayel’s home drift ajar and familiar footsteps echo in the mansion. Bold, confident yet hasty steps. You feel your heart flutter frantically against your chest.

He’s here.

The moonlight over the glass dome ceiling of his home shimmer silver rays that dance gracefully on the streaks of blue interrupting the purple of his lush hair. Skin smooth like expensive porcelain made with dedication glow under the dim of the moonlight. Yellow hues from the candles lit in his living room catch on the white suit he’s wearing. Black intricate patterns running down the left side- stylish, perfect.

His steps not guided by sight. He’s much too busy with his phone. Perhaps sending a message to Thomas. Yet his feet tread a clear path to you. Italian leather shoes leave an impression of brilliance similar to the shine the silver chain on his neck eludes with every step he takes. The collar of the black shirt beneath his suit opened to reveal a hint of his chest. Pretty black studs pierce his ears in pairs of three down the soft flesh of his ear lobe.

The gorgeous Lemurian makes his way to you, covering the unbearable distance in hasty steps.

“Cutie, are you alright? You left so fast I…” His words get stuck in his throat the moment he lifts his head from the phone screen.

Rafayel’s eyes stroll down your figure and up again as slowly as possible. He bites his lower lip, hand under his chin.

Dressed in a sinfully short red velvet dress with white faux fur trims to match the season, you stand with legs crossed. The pose and red bottom heels accentuate your figure. Thighs encircled in red garters and barely covered by the short flare bottom of the dress. Corset lacing quite tight but a worthy sacrifice clutches your waist. The skin of your beautiful neck and cleavage pushed up by the perfect bust cut is a view so delicious to Rafayel’s eyes. A Christmas hat with faux fur trim and a silly pompom is the cherry on top. An outfit fit for the season and the moment.

The sight of him staring at you with such intensity is as unnerving as it is sweet. It’s like he only sees you. He always does.

“You like?” You twirl once to the left, then to the right trying to get him to find his words again.

“Like?” Rafayel grabs your arm gently, pulling you to him. Your bodies cling in a warm relish you’ve missed for too long.

“I love it, cutie.”

He leans in close, until your foreheads touch. The heat of his breath fanning over your upper lips. A kiss. That’s what you need. It’s what you crave.

But Rafayel doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He stills, silent. Eyes locked on yours, letting the tension build between you two until all you can hear is his heart beating in sync with yours. That and quiet pants escaping heaving chests.

Rafayel looks down, his eyes settling on your cleavage. A sound that’s neither moan nor whimper escapes him.

“It was really really cold outside, cutie. But you…” Rafayel cups your cheeks. His touch feels slightly cold and suddenly it becomes warm sinking into your skin, melting and calming your heart.

“…you’re so warm. I like that.” His hands glide down your cheeks, tracing a chilly path that excites your nerves.

“Rafa…you’re cold.” Stutters. It’s all your mind can produce. All your lips can utter. After a week of yearning for each other due to the busy rush that comes with the Christmas season, you’d almost forgotten what his touch feels like. It’s engraved in your memories but imagination holds no standing where reality thrives. Your walls down there pulse restlessly at the feel of his palm on your flesh. You want more.

“Shh…I know cutie. That’s why I need you to warm me up.” Rafayel’s palm glaze over the supple skin on your collar bones, tracing the curve of them.

“You’re warm everywhere. Here.” His palm brushes over your cleavage in slow torturing circles. A moan escapes your quivering lips, feeling your nipples perk painfully against the sculpted bust of your dress.

Rafa leans close dragging his tongue over your cleavage. The taste of you familiar. A hint of salt, warm, soft.

“You’re…also…warm here.” He buries his tongue in the middle of your cleavage. Licking, sucking and nipping at the softness there. Your hand goes over his hair, pulling him closer. Rafayel chuckles on your breasts, the light mockery muffled on your flesh.

“Touch me.” You confess shamelessly.

Rafa pulls back with a smirk. His hand grazing over your cheek “Patience cutie. Let me savor this special warmth you’ve offered. Let me…”

His lips pat your neck once, twice then a glide of his tongue follow. He sucks on the crook of your neck and nips at it until it stings.

“…slowly get addicted to you.”

Rafayel’s right hand without a warning or hint rush down your waist and under the short flare skirt of your dress. His palm rubbing the surface on your left inner thigh and then your right. His soft pink lips still leaving dark prints on your neck and chest.

“You’re warm here too.” His voice trembles slightly as his palm strolls up your inner thighs to that place he knows seeks his touch.

“And here…you’re…ngh…f…warm too.” Rafa pants against your neck when his palm sits over your mound, rubbing the warmth and softness there. His words fail him slowly when he feels his length harden and drip against his pants from contact with your heat.

“Warm and…so…so…wet.” He whispers into your ears rubbing the slick beneath your panties after sliding them to the side. He rubs slow circles on the blooming pink of your outer walls. Tracing patterns he knows you love and relish. Then the moment his thumb finds your clit, he strokes it in a fast pace.’

“Rafa…ah…ngh…mph…” You tremble, feeling your legs give way. Scared to fall and in need of an anchor, your arms wrap his neck and shoulders.

“Steady now, cutie. I like how warm you feel.” The wet plops of your dripping core echo in his mansion when he increases the pace of the strokes over your clit. His length painfully pushing against his pants seeking freedom. The second your walls tighten, he doesn’t need to be inside you to know you’re close. He sees it in the way your moans grow louder. The way your lips quiver. The way your eyes roll back.

Yeah. You’re close but he won’t let you. The instant your walls clamp down on nothing, Rafayel bites down on your shoulder. The pain rips through you with pleasure at its side.

A squeal held back in your throat, grow into a scream, and a warm gush of your essence escapes you.

Rafayel’s left arm snakes around your waist keeping you steady so your buckling knees won’t send you to the floor. His voice a soft and sweet coo in your right ear.

“You know, cutie…” He pushes two fingers into your core. Warm. Wet. Tight. Just like he remembers.

“…I know your warmest spot. And…I want it.” Rafayel’s lips crash into yours. Teeth, tongue and lips lost to the heat of love and lustful desires that melt every ounce of control built around the soul.

He pulls from the kiss, thrusting you slow and steady with two fingers. The feel of his flesh grazing over that spot inside you is mind-blowing. Desperate you grip the collar of his shirt. Eyes locked on his with a burning desire reflecting the flames in his.

“Do you want me?” Rafa whispers against your neck. The sound of a zipper coming undone rides into your ears with his voice.

It’s madness that you’re both standing. He moves close, kissing you while guiding your steps. When your back is pushed up against the ladder next to a painting in the studio, Rafayel picks you up with one arm guiding to sit on one of the steps. The closest one to him –where your eye levels meet. The perfect access for a communion between your lower bodies.

“I should…” Your arms rake over your dress attempting to take it off. Rafayel grips your wrist. Gentle from love, yet a hold firm and steady from desire consuming his sanity.

“No. Take nothing off.”

His words roll out like a command and you stay as you are. Legs spread apart before him, dress quite disheveled exposing more of your cleavage now stained with dark smears. Heels still on your feet.

“I want you as you are.” Rafayel’s lips find your chest again nipping at the flesh like he needs to mark you more. Two fingers of his left hand thrusting you slowly, gently, dragging the arousal and heat in your lower abdomen. Keeping you on the edge, his thumb rolls over your clit daring you to tilt over. His right hand a firm grip on his length, erect and gloriously shooting out his fly zipped down.

Rafayel rubs the first translucent drops of his essence over his shaft. Stroking slowly at the same pace as his fingers thrusting your tight core. His moans muffled over your cleavage.

“Cutie…ngh…ah…f…so wet. So tight.”

“Rafa…ahh…ahh.”

Your moans sync in a perfect melody riding with the cold winds of this winter night. Wet plops a delicious meal to the ears, only heightening your arousal.

Feeling himself get closer, the moment your walls clench around his fingers, your back arching from the steps on the ladder, Rafayel pulls his fingers out of you. Without giving you a moment to breathe, he buries his length into your core.

Slow.

Wet.

Tight.

Warm.

When he fills you completely, he stills. Letting your walls pulse around his girth. Giving you a moment to get used to his length again. Afterall, it’s been a week. A long, long, week.

In a minute or two, Rafayel pulls out halfway and pushes back in, moaning three sweet words in your ear “I missed you.”

Your waters a warm caress not only to his throbbing length, but to his very soul.

The weather outside is frightful but the warmth between your legs, so delightful. For after a week without the touch of his bride, the Lemurian seagod finally basks in her softness. A taste like no other. A feeling like none.

"Rafa, did you get the flour? And the eggs...oh wait, I forgot milk..." In a slight panic, you scamper around the shopping mall with a trolley in hand. Making your way through isles for the last set of items on your Christmas shopping list.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you, cutie, and I've got them all in my trolley. Take a moment to breathe." Rafayel chuckles admiring the glint of the holidays sparkling in your eyes.

He loves seeing you so excited. It's like this season's magic awakens your inner child. It's in moments like this Rafayel realises they're still there in you. Precious, cherished, loved. If not by anyone, by him.

In an attempt to help you get more items off the list, Rafa's eyes quickly scan the mall while humming and bopping his head to Christmas songs thrumming from the PA system.

His blue pink irises glimmer bright and round. With rosy red cheeks, he hiccups when his eyes catch a scene displayed on one of the TVs in the Electronic Department.

On the TV, a man pulls out a rather strange plant, and with a smile, his partner kisses him. This scene repeats itself, but with other couples.

"Is that a thing humans do on Christmas?" Rafa tilts his head in confusion, muttering to himself it seems. For when he spins around to ask you, you're already over twenty steps away, busy with shopping.

"So cute." He giggles and takes out his phone. After a few clicks and swipes, his cheeks flush hot and blossom pink. He clears his throat, puts the phone in his pocket, and searches for you with a smirk on his face.

⋆꙳•❅*‧ ‧*❆ ₊⋆🌿🍒⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

When you arrive at Whitesand Bay, preparations for the season's celebration have begun. With Rafa's help, you've baked, steamed, fried, cleaned, and done all you know makes the moment sparkle the joys of yuletide.

"Cutie? Aren't you forgetting something?" Rafa asks after you place the last ornament on the Christmas tree.

"Hmm? What's that baby?"

Rafayel's ears redden whenever you call him that. After a short struggle to regain composure, he speaks, "It's the most important part of the decoration."

Rubbing your chin and thinking hard on what was forgotten, Rafa pulls out a mistletoe with a smirk curling his pretty lips.

"Tada!"

"Really?" You chuckle.

"Really, cutie."

"And who taught this sweet Lemurian about mistletoe?"

"I saw it on a TV in the mall and looked it up. Sooo...shall we? Or do you want us having bad luck next year." He pouts.

After a giggle, you cup his cheeks and tap your lips on his. Simple. Fast. But not enough for him.

"Tsk tsk tsk. You're not done." Rafa gently pulls you back. "I did my research, and the kisses can't end until all the berries are gone from the mistletoe."

Your eyes scan the green lush plant. He takes off a berry, and two remain. This slippery sly fishie.

"Fine."

"Wait. Wait. You've got to use tongue this time." Rafa proclaims. His cheeks burning red.

"This isn't spin the bottle." You protest playfully.

"My mistletoe, my rules. Kiss me, cutie." Before you take a step close, his arms go around your waist, pulling you close. His tongue sweetly caresses yours, igniting the nerves down there. He's such a good kisser.

"So...um...one more?" You stutter catching your breath. Eyes on the last berry after he plucks off another.

"Oh? My greed rubbed off on you, cutie. I like that." Rafayel takes a small piece of chocolate, placing it on his tongue. Before you can speak, his palms cup your cheeks.

"Last berry. Gotta make the most of it...mmph" With a moan, his mouth crashes into yours. Tongue dancing with yours as though tying a knot unseen but felt.

The wind at Whitesand Bay carry the scent of the sea – salty, fresh, satisfying with just a tinge of paint tint and spicy musk, all intertwined in the gentle whiffs of rose petals and scented candles. Rafayel’s mansion as always is a safe space to clear the mind, heart and soul after a tiring week.

Walking into your Lemurian lover’s home in a mini skirt, a sweater and thigh-high boots, your feet click-clack on the marble tiles, alerting the house’s owner. Hearing your footsteps, Rafayel lifts his head from a pile of paperwork on his table. Legs crossed, chin resting on his wrist encircled by a Rolex watch and rings, his blue pink eyes glow a subtle hue behind the lucid lens of reading glasses.

His eyes are perfectly fine, but he’s once confessed that wearing glasses sometimes makes the title ‘Professor’ feel like a part of him. Like an anchor it keeps him grounded during lectures and it instils a sense of discipline in students who think him too young or too pretty.

You couldn’t care less about what his students think or the role the accessory plays. He looks sexy in those glasses and he knows it. Especially today when he’s wearing that black turtleneck you love so much. The right side of his lips curl into a smile. He knows he looks good. He always does.

“Hey, cutie. I missed ya.” Rafa taps his brown couch twice, setting down the red pen in his right hand. He’s scoring his students. He’s so hot that you imagine shoving the books and piles of paper off the table, then kissing him senseless. But the thought remains imprisoned in your head – for now.

“Hey Rafa. Whatcha doing?” The question leaves your lips with a sweet tone as your arms wrap his shoulders. Your lips plant lovely warmth on his cheeks and nose in kisses. He chuckles. Ears and cheeks glowing a pretty shade of red. How cute.

“I gave my students an assignment to improve their skills in shading. Now I’m grading them. Looks good so far. I’m glad they pay attention in class.” His words carry a drop of ego and a dash of pride.

“Oh, anyone would listen to your Rafa. Your voice is like honey to the ears.” Flustered by your own words you avoid his gaze. Too quick to speak and you can’t bite the words back. It’s his fault for being so perfect.

“Oh? You think my voice ear candy, cutie?” With one arm, he guides you to sit on his thighs. His arms slide around your waist, pressing tightly yet gentle enough to feel your softness while giving you comfort.

“I hope other parts of me are just as sweet to you.” Rafayel coos in a husky whisper. His hot breath fanning your neck like it isn’t warm enough already.

“Those look really good. I don’t think anyone would get a bad grade.” You change the topic.

Rafayel smiles. One moment you’re riling him up, the next you’re a coward to your desires. How very typical of you, but he loves it. This side of you is what makes teasing more fun.

“Yeah. They applied what was taught. That’s how to be a good student you know?”

Your eyes remain fixed on the sketches. They’re all good but they’re nothing compared to drawings on his sketchbook sitting right next to the stack of papers. As always, Rafayel’s sketches are outstanding. Like his paintings each one reaches the heart, touches the soul and puzzles the mind.

“I wish I could draw like you.” The words shoot straight from your heart.

Rafayel gently turns your face to meet his gaze “Anyone can draw, cutie. You just gotta put your pencil on the note and go with the flow of your heart. You know…I can teach you things I’m good at pretty easily. Want a private lesson?” His voice rolls from a bold tune to a slutty whisper.

“P…private lesson?”

“Yes.” Rafayel’s lips press on your neck once, twice and then a bite.

“Professor Rafayel would be honored to give his favorite student a lesson. Just say the word and my time is yours, cutie.”

You can’t hold back the whimper that slips off your lips. This is a bad idea, yet it’s a good one. You might not learn a thing but you might learn something new.

After a deep breath not from hesitation but determination, you turn to meet his gaze, your words clear as the skies in summer “Teach me.”

A smirk plays on Professor Rafayel’s lips. He takes in a deep breath and lets it go. Loud, deep, hot.

“Good girl. I’ll make sure to teach you well.”

With those words, he pulls you close so you’re sitting between his parted legs. There’s something arousing about seeing your boots perched between his shoes. Your thighs look inviting from above between his legs. Too inviting. You already know this but it hits you twice as hard now – your skirt is much too short.

You feel his eyes on your thighs. The fiend in you loves it, but the angel you try to be gets flushed hot all over and spouts any words your brain can find “Why are we in this position, Rafa? Doesn’t proper learning etiquette require eye contact between teacher and student?”

“Mmm…” His voice rumbles in his chest like a purr. You love when he does that.

“True. However, this is my lesson. My class, my rules. Also, I’d like to show you a simple sketch for an example and I can’t draw if you stare at me. I forget to draw whenever a certain someone does that.”

A giggle leaves you. He speaks so boldly, yet you don’t need to see his face to know he’s tomato red right now “Alright Professor. Do as you wish.”

Rafayel coughs burying his face on your nape “Rule number one. Don’t say things…like that.”

Maybe it’s the close proximity or the tightness of the fabric he’s wearing, but you can feel his heart beat rapidly against your back. Each thrum racing the last like galloping horses set free. His blood in a rush for you.

He lets out a hot breath against your neck. The hairs on your skin stand, heat flushes over every inch of you. Nerves set alight with a new frenzy.

“Let’s start with something simple, yeah? A fish.” Rafayel places his sketchbook on your thighs and in hasty lines there’s a gorgeous fish on the once blank page. The layering is exceptional and his technique unlike no other. The simple art of lines takes the shape of fish one could claim real.

“Wow. This is looks incredible and in just a few seconds? You’re a genius Rafayel” You can’t see Rafa’s face but you can feel him smile from ear to ear at your astonishment. He likes being praised.

He flips over the page and presents you with one blank. The pencil once in his hand slides into yours. He lets his hold on yours still for a few seconds savoring the feel of your skin and he lets go.

“Your turn.”

“What should I draw?”

“Same thing, cutie. A fish. And no, you can’t do it that cute way you always do when you literally draw the figure ‘8’ and clean off the bottom, replace it with a straight line for a tail and then call it a day.” His silken voice mellows with a rough edge. He sounds stern.

Flustered with embarrassment you try to snap back but your words are caught between silly stutters. His breath brushing over your neck doesn’t help either. He’s much too close.

“I…I…only did that once.”

“I know cutie. And I loved it. I love anything you draw. Even if you draw a fish like a kettle.” He laughs. The moment you try to turn your neck, his lips meet yours with a gentle tap. How cunning.

Feigning anger, you turn away from his gaze, eyes burning holes into the blank page before you. Sensing he’s teased you too far, Rafayel’s palm sits on your head. Your tight muscles loosen at the feel of it. You heart melts into his touch.

“Being a good artist does require a lot of skills, cutie. Some unique to every artist. But one of the most important steps when attempting art is experimentation. Drawing again and again. And that takes patience, cutie. There’s no need to rush. Take in a deep breath.”

His palm leaves your head and rolls small circles around your shoulders and arms “Flex your arms. Relax. You’re too stiff. You’ve got to flow with your imagination. Don’t fight your hand. Let it interpret what you see in your mind’s eye the way it knows how.”

Rafayel’s hands slide down your arms and pushes up the sleeve of your dominant hand “Your sleeve is too long. Roll it up like this…expose your wrist.”

He brings your wrist to his lips, takes in a long whiff of your scent like one gone mad and licks it. A whimper escapes you and Rafayel smiles against your exposed flesh. He lets go of your wrist and presses his chest closer to your back. His racing heart drums against your skin with every breath he takes, every word he offers.

“My darling favorite student. I just had a fun idea. Wanna hear it?”

“Okay?”

What is he planning this time?

“The first lesson for Professor Rafayel’s private class is ‘Focus’. You need to be able to ignore distractions to be a good and efficient artist, because distractions are everywhere. So, while you draw, I’ll be your distraction. You can’t stop drawing. You mustn’t. Remember what I said about going with the flow of your heart and flowing with your art? It means no broken lines, no rogue marks, no mistakes. Not today.”

His hands slide under your sleeves, massaging your waist and the soft folds of flesh there. They feel so warm, so soft, so you. Rafayel bites down a moan and licks your nape.

“Should you make a single mistake, you’ll have to start again. You have only four tries. At the fourth time I’ll punish you.”

Your blood races through your veins in rapid pulses. Heat settles over your skin. Breathing seems a harder task than it should and not in the painful way like when anxiety would ruin you with panic attacks. No. This is different. With each stifled breath, a butterfly takes flight in the blooms within your tummy and chest.

“P…punish me? How?”

“I’d rather my favorite student be unprepared for her punishment should she get one. Now cutie, draw.” His voice travels with the breeze laced with something so intoxicating, shivers take control of your hands.

“You’re trembling, cutie.” He whispers next to your ear after a chaste kiss on the slant of your neck. “Relax.”

Taking in a deep breath and a shaky exhale, your fingers trace a curve slowly on the sketchbook. Then a pause when you feel Rafayel’s chest push close to you, like he seeks to merge his scent with yours. Despite having you between his thighs, he craves more of you.

His hands settle lazily on your calves, gliding up your knees and now your thighs. Every inch of his palm tracing over you as though committing the shape of you to memory. Each touch a light and teasing graze that sets your heart ablaze and burns your skin with want. No. Need.

“Keep going. Yeah just like that. Good job.” Rafayel’s praises ride into your ears in a sultry tone. His eyes focused on your trembling wrist as he feeds on your cute struggle. However, his hands don’t stop.

His fingers dig into your flesh when he reaches your thighs. You hear a muffled moan escape his lips. He buries his flushed face into to the hollow of your neck. Calloused hands and steady fingers now gliding up your waist and underneath your shirt. Then without warning he cups your breasts, pressing against the softness of flesh and smooth cotton of brassiere.

“Ngh…” You break at his touch. The once smooth curve on the sketchbook now a hasty line that runs across the page. Pulses echo between your thighs as sticky pools begin to gather. Your teeth finds your lower lip keeping the soft flesh trapped. You want him.

“What did I say about mistakes, my darling student?” Rafayel’s voice drops an octave lower.

“I want none.” He rips the sheet with your half drawing off the sketchbook and folds it. Your eyes catch him bury it in his pocket. You stifle a laugh. Even now he remains a yearner, obsessed with all you do and seeing no wrong in your work.

“Again.” One word and its command get your fingers moving. Pencil scratching over paper with both intent and a hint of fear.

A curve. Now another. A line and you pause yet again.

Rafayel’s hands massage your tummy and slides up your bra again. What a wrong day to wear a front closure bra. In a second with one finger he snaps at the zip and it comes undone, setting your girls free under your sleeves.

“You need as much comfort as you can possibly get…to draw…cutie.” His voice is stained with moans when his palms begin to knead your bare skin. Massaging your breasts. Kneading both with gentle circles and subtle pressure like he would clay.

“Rafa..ngh…I…I…”

“Shh…you’re squirming, cutie. Who said you could stop drawing? Eyes on the paper or you’ll get your second strike.”

You’re desperate to avoid the punishment he speaks of. Yet you’re eager to receive it. It’s a sweet torture you relish. A troublesome kind that’s sweet. While struggling to do as he says due to fear of the unknown, arousal flourishes at his wicked teasing. Delicious. Like him. You need him.

Fingers twitch with pencil as you start drawing again. Faster this time. Perhaps if you’re quick enough drawing this fish, the fish behind you won’t have any more reason to continue this torture – not that you want it to end.

“Don’t rush, cutie. Gently now. One stroke…all…the way…down.” Rafayel counts his words and without warning drags his tongue down the curve of your neck. The cold track over your burning skin draws a long moan from your parted lips. You need him inside you like you need air to breathe.

“Rafa…I…”

“It’s Professor to you. Focus.” At his words, Rafa sucks on your neck and bites down gently. His palms caress your breasts in one motion and in the whiff of a breath, he traps your painfully hard nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, pressing softly. The waters between your legs drip, soaking your panties shamelessly. Your legs as though on instinct part wider, meeting with his thighs.

Rafayel scoffs “You’re a naughty student, cutie. Careful now. Two more strikes and I’ll have to punish you.”

He presses on your nipples again, drags his tongue up your neck and like a devil born for lustful torture, he starts rolling your nipples between his fingers, tightly pulling.

Caution be damned. Bring on the punishment already.

Your hand grasps at the fragile pencil desperate for an anchor. The lid pierces into the paper and in a failed attempt to draw, your mistake tears right through the page. Professor Rafayel laughs. His voice thrumming in his chest and against your back.

“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Strike two. That punishment is getting closer, my dearest étudiante.” He rips off the torn page and like the last one folds it neatly and keeps it in his pocket.

“You’re getting messy, no?”

Your breath halts for a second at his words. What mess does he speak of? The ripped paper or the smear dripping down your thighs. Your walls pulse with desire, clamping down at nothing.

Torture.

“Again.” Rafayel coos next to your ear, nipping at your earlobe. His hands stroll down your tummy, grazing over the waist band of your mini skirt.

“You’re so warm.” His honeyed voice muffles against your left shoulder when his left hand sinks down the elastic waistband of your mini skirt, burying itself between the warmth of your thighs. His right hand caresses your right breast. His thumb brushing over your hard nipple quickly, bringing you to the edge.

“Rafa…I can’t…”

“You can’t what cutie? Draw? You can. Lesson one. Focus.” Pushing down the slacked neckline of your sweater, he sneers biting down on your shoulder. He palms your mound, dragging slow circles over your flesh. Riling up nerves that shouldn’t be excited during an art lesson.

Parting your legs wider to give him more access, your moans become clearer, sweeter, longer. Professor Rafayel bites down his lower lip keeping a moan in his throat but a grunt escapes him nonetheless.

“Eyes on the sketchbook, cutie. Keep drawing or I’ll stop.” He threatens. His fingers grazing over your clit in devishly slow circles. His free hand now working your left nipple, pinching, pulling, rolling as your waters spread more soaking his fingers.

“Don’t…ngh…stop…ah” Sritching over the blank page, your fingers make an unsteady attempt at a curve once more. It feels too good for him to stop. If drawing is what it takes to keep this sweet torture going, then draw you shall.

“You’re enjoying this way too much, cutie.” He whispers and his thumb smeared in your essence presses down on your clit.

A long moan tears through you and the curve on paper becomes a messy straight line once again.

“Strike three.” Rafayel laughs peppering your neck and exposed shoulder with kisses. He rips off the paper, folds it and places it in his pocket like a routine registered to muscle memory.

“Fourth strike and you’ll be punished, Miss.” He blows cool air through his lips over your left ear and whispers “Would you like to get more comfortable?”

You can only manage a nod, panting like the breath in your lungs would be nonexistent in any second.

At your response, Rafayel coos “Pull yourself up for me cutie.”

When you get off the small space between his legs, Rafayel pulls down your soaked panties. His fingers slowly pulling down the fabric while worshipping your skin in soft grazes leaving your bootheels on. He takes the panties off completely, sniffs the material and throws it to the end of the couch.

He pushes leans against the couch, back straight. “Sit”

You settle comfortably between his legs. His chest heaving against your back. “Relax your wrists, cutie. You can lean against me. Let me be your sofa.”

Taking a deep breath, legs spread apart, the sketchbook lifted in one hand, your dominant hand holding the pencil with a slight crack, you start drawing.

Rafayel doesn’t do a thing. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t kiss you. His eyes remain focused on your drawing. Finally, you can breathe. How unfortunate.

Just when you’re right at the edge of the second curve drawn on the sketchbook, Rafayel’s right hand quickly palms your mound. He inserts one finger long and slow into your core. You’re wet. Tight. And he loves it.

His voice eludes his soft lips unsteady. Despite his attempt to maintain composure he can’t. You feel so good. He’s missed you.

“You’re holding the pencil wrong, cutie. Flex your wrists. Curl your finger.” While his words roll of his lips, Rafayel’s finger curls inside you. His free hand palms one of your breasts, nipping at the flesh and teasing your nipple.

“Mmm, curl it a bit more.” His tongue leaves a wet cold trace over your neck. He slides in a second finger and stills, letting your walls clamp down and pulse against his digits.

“You should be drawing, cutie.”

Draw? Right now? That word no longer has meaning. Your hand feels weak. The pencil is sure to slip off your fingers, as you feel your grip on it loosen.

Desperate for friction, your back archs against him. Your eyes widen at the feel of something poking your backside. It feels pointy, full, huge, a tad wet. He’s hard.

The thought of Professor Rafayel getting hard from merely teasing you is arousing. Only it’s neither a thought, nor a figment of your imagination. It’s happening right now. He wants you just as much as you want him.

You circle your waist and hips. Subtly grinding and rubbing your backside against his bulge painfully pushing at fabric to be set free. Rafayel lets out a grunt. His face falls into the crook of your neck.

Feeling precum escape him, he bites down hard on his lower lip trying to regain composure which he does soon enough.

Rafayel takes his hand from under your sleeves and pinches your neck until you wince. He cools off the pain with his tongue whispering into your ear “You’re being a bad student.”

“Draw or I’ll take my fingers off you.”

Trembling, your dominant hand draws a shaky line over the page on the sketch book held up with your second hand.

“Good girl.” His praises follow slow thrusts into your core with his fingers, curling the way you love it.

“Ngh…ah…ah..,.Rafa…” Your moans echo the paces of his fingers thrusting you and he loves it. With a smirk Rafayel increases the pace of his thrusts. His free hand rolling one of your nipples. His thumb pressing down on your clit.

You feel your walls clench around his fingers and he feels it too. Wet. Tight. Greedy. The feel of your walls clamping down on his skin, makes Rafayel soak his pants more. He yearns to be inside you, but he wants to enjoy this a bit longer.

Essence sticky and warm eludes you with every thrust getting deeper with intent and purpose. His fingers skillfully curling to graze over that sweet spot you love so much. Your legs part wider, now hooked over his knees. The sketch book becomes a tale of the past. The pencil long gone – both on the floor after slipping off your hands somewhere between moans and the first climax.

“Come for me, cutie.” Rafa’s voice silken with love and made heavy with lust graces your ears, slowly pushing you off the edge.

His fingers thrust faster. The plops of your wet core echoes in his mansion. Your moans loud, raw and free. Hands once holding art tools now thrown over your head gripping at his neck.

One. Two. Three. On the third slow thrust, deep and curled just right, his thumb presses against your clit, stilling your body for a bit. Your back archs like a bowstring ready to snap. Legs and thighs spasm and frail about while toes curl.

Rafayel feels your walls clamp down on his fingers and pulse. He pulls out his fingers half way letting a gush of your essence escape you in indecent squirts. He pushes back in. Not halfway, but as deep as he can go. Curling his fingers and thrusting you through your orgasm.

Your hands grip his but he doesn’t stop when your moans clearly show how much you enjoy this.

“What a messy student. Come for me again.”

At his words, your walls clench around him hard, sucking him in deeper. Your eyes roll back. It’s maddening but not enough. You want something else. That precious Lemurian gem poking at your back and leaking at the tip.

“Rafa I…” Before your words make a sentence of coherence, Rafayel pulls his fingers out of you and lifts you with one hand. With his second hand, he sweeps the piles of paper, textbooks, notepads, pencils and everything else off the table in haste, leaving the furniture bare.

He lays you on the table gently like a fragile flower keeping your legs parted with a knee. Pushing the glasses now crocked on his face, he lifts it up his hair like a headband. A smirk plays on his face. His eyes with a glint you know too well. The blue and pink within his irises glimmer dark shades of red and a deep blue likened to purple. His bondmark glows bright red through the turtleneck he wears.

Keeping you trapped under him, his hands on either side of your head so your eyes are fixed on his, Rafayel leans in and smiles “Strike four, cutie. You deserve to get punished.”

His lips crashes into yours. Tongue and teeth communing in heat and warmth. While his tongue slides and swirls sweetly over yours, one of his hands finds your mound, circling your clit. He keeps your moans silent, kissing you deeper with greed only gods can boast of.

Pulling away from the kiss with a bite to your lower lip, he smirks “Do you know what’s amazing about getting punished in Professor Rafayel’s island?”

Rafayel leans close. His cheek pressed against yours as he whispers right into your right ear with a puff of hot breath “No one can hear you scream.”

You feel your walls pulse his name.

He pulls away only slightly, grabbing your chin with a hint of kindness and a drizzle of fright.

“Now, tell me cutie. Are you ready for the second lesson?”

Thank you so much for reading darlings. If you enjoyed it, feel free to check my masterlist for other works of mine.

This fiction was inspired by one of my darlings' prompt on X.

Most of the dialogue was also inspired by Rafayel's secret times, 'Drawing Time'