#fires of devotion

You can’t prevent the heat rushing up your cheeks or the sudden rise in your heartbeat. But you’re dammed when this tease of a man manages to make you stumble during the very dance that is supposed to announce the union of the Empire and the Sanctide Court.

So you only grind your teeth, tighten the hold on his elegant hand, and take the lead with the next twirl. If you hoped that would bother the man in front of you, you’re mistaken.

Rafayel only smiles at you. That wicked, knowing grin that pulls his plush lips into a perfect curve. Oh, he’s so damn infuriating! But surprisingly, he obeys the new change of power and lets himself be guided over the pristine wooden parquet. Light-footed, he follows the complicated row of steps. The brightness of the majestic chandeliers throws specks of golden light into the enchanting colors of his eyes. A deep, bottomless blue like the endless oceans of his home planet, and pink, the shade of cherry blossoms in spring, now speckled with glimmering stars of gold.

For a moment, you’re distracted from the hypnotizing play of colors in the mysterious gaze that never seems to leave you, and you find yourself bending backward in a risqué dancing figure. Rafayel used your short-hazed state to take back the lead. Quite helpless in his firm hold, you furrow your brows.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, trying to move your lips as little as possible. So many eyes are observing you and the Sanctarch, watching you and waiting for a mistake or a hint as to why you chose him of all options as selection for the Imperial Consort.

His face is so close now, and his warm breath caresses the heated skin on your cheeks. Pink full lips are only a hairbreadth away from yours, and his gaze wanders over the expanse of your features, with a short but noticeable pause on your mouth before finding your eyes again.

“I’m dancing, Your Majesty,” Rafayel whispers back, his voice barely hiding the amusement that sets the pink hue in his eyes on fire.

“This figure is not part of this dance!” you scold him through gritted teeth with a neutral expression as he lifts you again, now pressed close to his chest, clothed in a luxurious robe with intricate blue and golden details.

“No?” A turn to the left, past other dancing couples of ministers of your court and invited nobles of high status, a traitorous hand slips dangerously low on your back. “I must have mistaken the steps.” Another teasing grin before these enigmatic eyes sharpen into a cold, observing pierce to your soul. “You have yet to answer my question, Your Majesty.”

Letting yourself be pulled around the vast ballroom, filled with joyful music from the orchestra seated in a gallery above the grand hall, you focus on following the steps of the ceremonial dance and the unyielding lead of the Sanctarch. Your lover all these past months, since you shared that bauble in his private domain. But that doesn’t mean he can control just everything. Especially not you. And certainly not here. In this ballroom, during the dance that introduces the upcoming marriage with him. That is meant to unite the two warring factions in a bond that grants the empire long-term freedom. And Murya, the home planet of Rafayel and the center of the Sanctide Court. In two days, there will be the ceremony, and your enemies are only waiting for an opportunity to harm you because not everyone likes to see the empire’s faith becoming equal to the imperial reign. Or vice versa.

You scrutinize Rafayel under your lashes. There’s a subtle sharpness cutting through his hushed words, now clearly audible in comparison to the first time he asked you his question. You know him well enough by now that there’s always more than the Sanctarch lets on. So you choose your response wisely. “A ballroom is not the right place for one’s admission. If there is even something to confess to begin with.”

A sudden sharp twirl to the left, and you found yourself near one of the exits to one of the many balconies surrounding this hall. The cool night air curls around your calves and feet as it slips between the crack from the slightly left-open glass door and under the hems of your luxurious ballroom gown. The music comes to an end with a sudden crescendo, and so do the last steps of the dance. But Rafayel doesn’t move immediately, a firm hold still around your midriff, and a black-gloved hand is keeping one of yours. For a second, you’re confused why he won’t let go, but then his fingers intertwine with yours, and you’re swiftly pulled beneath the curtained glass doors that shut behind you with a discreet click.

In the blink of an eye, your back is pressed against a cold stone wall, and only the starry night sky above and the dark, piercing glare of the Sanctarch are in front of you. You want to open your mouth, asking him what the hell he’s doing, but no words leave you as his hands are beside your head, trapping you with his body.

“Tell me,” he demands,his voice cold and bare of any emotion. “Why is it that every time I come to the palace for rehearsals and preparations, the weekly charge of Aestuspith that was sent here due to our contracts, mysteriously vanishes. And today of all days, a battleship, filled with Imperial Troops, was about to enter Murya.” The blue shade in his eyes flares dangerously cold at his last words.

“What...?” you can only stammer as all blood leaves your face, making you freeze on the spot between the cage of his robes, and trembling slightly from the cold night air. The lights from the ballroom can’t reach the depths of his bright hood, hiding his amethyst hair under the veil of darkness and his magnificent eyes from you. Through the magical bond caused by the potion you shared, you feel his anger, disbelief, and the sharp sting of betrayal.

But that also means he has to sense your innocence. The bewilderment of this news. The shock that someone, a traitor, was conspiring against you. And the union of the two most important factions in this universe.

Then the blazing inferno of anger flashes through you. Not only did this fool act on your behalf, as the Empress. No. They also try to drive a wedge between you and the man you have fallen helplessly in love with. How dare they!

“I swear, Rafayel. I knew nothing of this!” you hiss back, your body now trembling in hot fury instead of the cold night air. You look up to him, trying to find his gaze under the shadows of the pristine robes. But without success. The Sanctarch is as distant as ever before. “Damn it! They will pay for this. I will let some heads roll.”

Still not getting another reaction other than a hooded, unrelenting stare, you cradle his face in both of your hands. The soft skin is vastly different from the cold that the man in front of you is emitting. “Please, believe me, my Angel. Can’t you feel it?” you’re now pleading to him and slipping the white hood from the purple hair to reveal his face to you.

You focus on his eyes again, still hoping that you somehow manage to transport sincerity; that he will feel that you’ll never act so cruelly against him. Not anymore. Not since he became the most important part of your life aside from the weight of your crown that always sits heavily on your well-dressed hair.

“You really think I’d wait so long to get my justice?” Rafayel’s gaze suddenly softens, nuzzling his face into the warmth of your palms. “This matter has been resolved as soon as we started to dance.” Now, a confident, cold smirk tugs at his plush lips, and the ocean of his eyes locks at yours again.

With a scoff, you withdraw from him, only to smack hard at his firm chest. “You!”

But you don’t reach your aim, as Rafayel catches your wrist before your fist can even come in touch with the golden intricate ornaments of his ceremonial robes. Two fingers of his other hand caress the curve of your chin, then tilt it up. “Say it again.” Plush lips drawn into a satisfactory smile, the blue and pink of his eyes twirling with endearment and tenderness.

Enchanted, you forget the original question, and a weak “Huh?” escapes your mouth before you can stop it.

“What did you just call me?” A hot breath glides over your lips, and the butterfly touch of them sets your whole body on fire.

“M- my Angel...” you whisper, entranced and weak in front of the sinful temptation that is the Sanctarch to you.

“Mmmh.” Rafayel hums. “I like that.”

Then his lips are melting into yours, and you can’t suppress the relieved sigh. Finally, you spoke a language that doesn’t need words, where you both are only you. A woman madly in love. And a man who burns the same for you.

His left hand finds its place at the nape of your neck with possessive purpose, keeping you gently in his hold, making it impossible to free yourself. Not that you ever wanted to. His tongue glides, demanding above your bottom lip, trying to slip into the wet hollow of your mouth.

A yearning moan from Rafayel, filled with an aching need, is your reward for letting him in. The taste of fresh sea salt and burning embers conquers your buds and lets you whimper into the kiss. There’s nothing that compares to that heavenly aroma; nothing else can make you submit to your cunning angel. And you want more, more of him, more of his fire and the sins he asked to hear from you earlier, so you sling your arms around his neck, pulling him closer into the depths of your desire.

He fills all your senses as Rafayel deepens the kiss even more. An arm sneaks around your waist, pressing you against his firm body, no longer touching the cool wall at your back. Now you’re completely engulfed in radiating heat and him. Hungry lips devour, leaving nothing to doubt that he wants you as much as you desire him. Forgotten are all the nobles, ministers, and others in the grand ballroom. Or the various maidens and servants that started frantically searching for the Empress and the Sanctarch.

Only your personal secretary keeps watch with a knowing smile and her back discreetly turned towards the closed glass doors that led to the occupied balcony. It’s really a fun activity to send out the nosy ladies-in-waiting and the nervous attendants anywhere but your position. Finally, some excitement at this boring evening as long as whatever is going on with the pair, is being kept a secret from the rest of the ballroom. But as loyal as the secretary might be, she knocks three times at the glass to signal the lovey-dovey couple that they have to come back to their senses.

Hearing the sound, you unfold yourself from those tempting lips. “Rafayel...” whispering lowly to make him stop, but that greedy man only listens half-heartedly. Peppering your neck with short pecks and soft nibbles, the sole thing that proves he recognized your call out is a little displeased grunt below your ear.

“We need to go back,” you giggle as he targets a sensitive spot with sucking at your skin.

Wet lips continue to torture you deliciously, and you are so tempted to let him have his way, if it weren’t for the hundreds of people waiting inside. But you can’t. Not when the future of the whole Empire is at stake.

Maybe he felt your emotional retreat more than your physical attempts, as his face ascends before you again. The wet, glistening, plush lips adorned with red lipstick marks are drawn into a tiny pout that lets the saturated color shine in the dim lighting through the balcony glass doors. Rafayel leans his forehead against yours as his sunset eyes search for you once again. “Already? Don’t want to.”

A strange feeling rises inside you, flooding your whole body with an unfamiliar warmth and bliss. “Yes,” you smile fondly at your lover’s reaction. If you were to say you hate to experience this side of him, you’d be lying. Nobody would believe that the Sanctarch sulks about losing the chance to exchange more kisses. And you adore it because this is not the cold, scheming head of the Sanctide Court. This is only Rafayel, the man who owns your entire heart.

“Two days until we have all the time in the world for more kisses.” You reward him with a short peck and clean his mouth from lipstick marks with swift swipes of your fingers. “If there aren’t going to be any more incidents...” you add, hesitating. You don’t want to jinx it.

Blue and pink, now sharp as usual, pin you to the spot. “There won’t.” The voice of the Sanctarch is now crisp and cold, and he turns away, ready to leave the secluded place and enter the bustling hall again.

Before his gloved hand can touch the glass doors to open them, you grab the hem of his robe at the wrist. “Wait.”

Rafayel freezes, a side glance revealing he listens, waiting for you to elaborate. So you step closer to pull the white hood of his ornate robe back over the lilac waves of his hair, hiding the mussed-up mass under the heavy fabric, as well as your shared time together.

“You owe me an explanation. Tell me what you discovered,” you demand calmly. There’s no way you forget the reason that brought you here in the first place.

A brief tug at the corners of his lips, something you wouldn’t notice if you hadn’t watched him so carefully already, a millisecond of hidden admiration. “Not here.” A short flick of his eyes to the inside. “Wait for my message. At midnight,” and with this, he steps around and out to the venue, vanishing among the mass of moving, dancing people like a shadow.

Your secretary hushes beside you, only a second later, closing the balcony door again and handing you a piece of cloth and a little handheld mirror. “Here, your Majesty. For your lipstick markings.”

With a shocked face, you look at her, “You know?”

And the secretary now gets a little shy, a lovely red hue coloring her cheeks while she averts her gaze. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Since when?”

“Since your return from the banquet of His Quintessence. Your Majesty was missing for a long time, and when you came back, something about you had changed. I couldn’t pinpoint it at first, but then I put two and two together and...” she sighed, “I hope Your Majesty can forgive me for not saying anything.”

You chuckle and start to wipe away the traitorous traces of Rafayel‘s kisses at your neck and lips. “It’s alright. Are you the only one?”

“Yes, I don’t think anyone else has caught on, Your Majesty. And I plan to keep it that way.”

“Good. Thank you,” you finally smile at her. “Your loyalty means much.”

That seems to let the woman who’s assisting you with everything, your right hand, glow a little.

At midnight, you’re following a step behind an unknown maid. That poor thing is apparently under the will of the Sanctarch, according to the flashes of blue in her eyes. And you’re sure she won’t remember anything about this late-night encounter when released from the mind control. The room you and your secretary are escorted to, is plunged in nearly pitch-black darkness and hidden deep in the basement of the palace, as you both enter through a sleek metal door. You need a moment to adjust to this and blink a few times to take in the new location.

Only one ray of harsh, cold light from somewhere in the ceiling shines upon a human body that is slumped onto a metallic chair. Bound with broad cuffs, the blinking of the controls signals that they hold the captured male person effectively. At the side, leaning casually against the dark stone wall, waits the looming figure of the Sanctarch. Rafayel’s face is drowned in shadows beneath the familiar bright hood, and his arms are crossed above his broad chest. Some guards are covering the entrance you just passed, part of the Sanctide Court, according to their dark blue and sand colored uniforms.

The heavy metallic door slides shut behind you, leaving you and the woman at your side alone in the room with the Sanctarch and the prisoner. Rafayel‘s voice cuts the dusty twilight, veiled in coldness and the ceremonial tone of his duty. “Now that our special guest has arrived, you have been given the chance to confess your sins and to ask Her Majesty for forgiveness and her mercy.”

The words are not meant for you; you register with a moment’s delay. They’re directed at the man who now lifts his head to look at you. Glaring dark eyes roam over your figure, the now grayed out beard, formerly black, is dirty and stained with blood that drips from a small cut on his cheeks. The droplets tangle up in the trimmed part at his chin. The bright, filthy hair - you remember it as dark and full – is now lank and not as meticulously dressed as once.

Nathaniel, the secretary of the former emperor continues shooting looks of disgust in your direction as he only scoffs. You recall your meetings with him in the past. The elderly man was always by the side of your predecessor, or better, three steps behind - A loyal shadow of the mad ruler Lysander who has found his jurisdiction at the Sanctide Court. You also recall that Nathaniel never acknowledged your claim to the throne.

“As if this... Girl...” the former secretary coughs heavily, the last word sounds more like an insult, than as a mere description, “deserves that title.”

You’re beaten to raising your voice, as Rafayel coldly warns him from the side, “Careful, old man. You’re talking about the legally crowned empress, the legitimate heiress of the Throne of Eros.”

But the old man only scoffs again, before glancing at the hooded figure. “What do you want to prove, boy? You’re not much older than her. Do you think your title impresses me? You both are children, playing around with what does not belong to you.”

The young woman who stands behind you inhales sharply. “Father, your words can easily be called treason.”

That gets the full attention of Nathaniel, and his dark eyes, still sharp despite his age, are locking onto your secretary. A barking laugh is heard that turns into coughing. “Of course, you’re here. You’ve always been a fan of that girl. You’re as useless as her,” he waves with a hand that is bound by the cuff.

“Enough.” The Sanctarch interrupts, again, before you even have a chance to gather your wits. You can only glare at him as he shoots you a discreet, playful wink from underneath the white cloth that covers half his face.

Pushing himself off the wall he leaned on before, he strolls towards the prisoner. A short flicker of blue light, and the old man raises his head, now forced to look at the Sanctarch. “Confess your sins, and maybe you’ll be granted mercy.”

A barking laughter erupts again, shaking the whole body of the old secretary. “Keep your mercy, child. I know that you want the throne. But your little Court of fanatics will never rule over the Empire.” The old man’s voice grows increasingly frantic with every word. “I continue the will of Emperor Lysander. The Aestuspith belongs to him, and only him. Not in the hands of children. And especially not in those of weak and stupid women. Crawl to her feet as much as you want, or tangle with her in the sheets. It doesn’t matter.” A short, hateful spit in your direction as Nathaniel adds, “Your justice can’t reach me as I’m acting on behalf of the true ruler. Murya and its Aestuspith belong to Emperor Lysander. Not the Sanctide Court! You are nothing compared to him!” Eyes, gleaming with a manic haze, stare at Rafayel, as if daring to question him.

And you don't know what you expected, but surely not the nearly relaxed reaction from the Sanctarch as he walks a few steps away, as if pondering over something, only to return and continue as if nothing had happened. “So, you think that stealing the weekly shiploads that are sent to the Empress as part of the recent contract is legal? And that calling the troops for a devious attack on Murya is reasonable, despite the union of the head of the Empire and the Sanctide Court?” All his misdeeds are listed further by the Sanctarch, and the elderly man shows no sign of remorse for doing all this.

As Rafayel finishes, you chime in. You didn’t want to interrupt your fiancé, who is rightfully doing his work in the jurisdiction of the Empire. But now your blood boils. All the anger that this madman was about to push all the suspicions on the man you love, trying to sabotage your wedding and the peace you and Rafayel have so carefully crafted, you can’t stay silent. “To bombard this arrangement and the peace accord is treason against the Empire, old man,” echoes your commanding voice through the dungeon.

Now Nathaniel looks at you, those hateful eyes glaring daggers at you. “You are not the Empire, you are only a foolish girl! And I refuse to leave the legacy of Emperor Lysander to you. You have no right to judge me. Only the Stella Ocean and our true ruler have the right to do it!” he nearly screams, his voice turning into a maniacal yelling and hysterical laughter.

You step forward towards to the chair, now standing beside Rafayel, and bending down to the height of the elderly who has apparently lost his mind. “You forget about one thing, old man.” Now your face draws up a cold smile. “I am not the one who will bring judgment over you, since that jurisdiction lies with the Sanctide Court. Always has, and always will be.” And with that, you ease back. Your fingers intertwine with Rafayel‘s. "This man will be my consort, not an emperor. Rafayel will continue to lead the Court, and I will reign over the Empire. I do not intend to interfere with the power balance given by the Stella Ocean."

A surprised look appears on the face of the Nathaniel, as Rafayel lifts your intertwined hands to place a kiss on your knuckles. “And the Sanctide Court won’t ever interfere with imperial matters.” Then a sharp gaze pierces the old man. “Prepare for your judgment, as it is suitable for treason of the highest regard. You may now have a moment with your daughter to say goodbye. Take this as a gift of mercy since I’m getting married in two days.” With this, Rafayel guides you out of the room with a gentle press of his free hand on your back, leaving the man to his only relative, and the two guards who are now entering.

A few minutes later, the secretary leaves the room where her father has found his rightful judgment. There’s one more thing she needs to do, as she already has sight of the Empress and the Sanctarch.

As always, when she catch those two in a moment alone, His Quintessence has a completely different aura. Usually, he appears cold, unaffected, and standing above everything, lofty even. But with his soon-to-be wife, there is this tenderness and warmth in his gaze, and his whole demeanor seems to be drawn to the woman to whom the secretary swore her loyalty. Like now, when his gloved hand traces the side of the Empress’s face with utmost care and gentleness.

And her Majesty is also different in those intimate moments, looking up to him with adoration, seemingly very fond of the purple-haired man.

The secretary was always concerned that the empress would never find happiness or love in an arranged marriage. But seeing her now, her doubts and worries are all gone. The Sanctarch might be a difficult choice as Imperial Consort, but if he makes Her Majesty happy, then so be it. And from what she has seen so far, Her Majesty looks radiant around him. Envyingly so. And with a little smile, the secretary calls out to the loving couple a few feet away, “Your Majesty? Your Quintessence?”

The change is instant. The Sanctarch retreats, keeping a proper distance, and all softness vanishes from his demeanor. The Empress turns around, a little scowl on her face.

“I want to express my sorrow that my father was causing so much trouble and warmongering, and I hope Your Majesty and His Quintessence don’t think the same of me. My loyalty belongs to you, Your Majesty.” She bows her head and sinks to one knee on the cold stone ground in the dark hallway.

Like this, she doesn’t catch the short flicker of surprise and the soft gaze that settles onto her crouching figure.

“It’s alright. I’m aware that you are nothing like that traitor. And I’m looking forward to having you in my services for many more years to come.”

Relieved, the woman on the floor exhales. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“The Empress is blessed to have you as her helping hand. ” the handsome young leader of the Sanctide Court adds calmly, and the secretary nearly wants to cry, but of course she keeps her composure.

“You are released. The Sanctarch and I will find the way back to our chambers on our own.“

"The guard will lead you back to your room." And Rafayel adds and in an unusually soft tone: "The sins of your father are not yours."

“As you wish, Your Quintessence. And thank you." And with a slight nod towards the Empress "Your Majesty.”

As the guards carry away the dead body to release it into the Stella Ocean‘s endless embrace, you follow them together with Rafayel. On a cliff, the traitor is disposed of through a window in the Illusion that surrounds the Empire’s main planet and your home. You watch the inconspicuous capsule being shot into the dark space, and as it vanishes from your sight, you turn to look at Rafayel. A grin spreads on your lips. “Now we’re truly conspirators.”

Your beaming smile is returned by your lover and a soft twinkle of mischief in his ocean eyes before he draws you into an embrace and leans in to kiss you. But before Rafayel’s lips touch yours, he whispers, “We are.”

Not about two days later, the night after the quite performative and stiff wedding ceremony, the morning sun shines warmly into your bedroom, highlighting the room in soft hues of yellow and orange. Amidst this colorful spectacle lies your newlywed husband, the Imperial Consort and Sanctarch of the Sanctide Court - Rafayel.

The chiseled torso bared to the rays of sunshine and your admiring gaze. His legs and lower body were merely covered by royal blue sheets, tauntingly showing off his abs and V-line which are decorated with countless bite marks, long lines of nail scratches and crimson colored hickeys.

Balancing a plate filled with violet grapes and two glasses of water, you step beside the bed and his splayed out figure. Rafayel stretches in bed like a lazy cat, the ocean of his eyes never leaving your figure as you walk around the room to the side of the shared bed. Presenting the exact reason why you hadn’t let the maid in with the refreshments. No way anyone gets to see Rafayel like this. This view of your husband is a blessing for your eyes only.

You set up the plate carefully on the wooden nightstand, and he extends one of his hands to lure you back into bed. His wedding ring, a broad gold one, is adorned with a big blue stone of Aestuspith which catches a sun ray and sparkles in the serene morning light. It matches the slightly more slim one on your own hand.

“C’mere...” his hoarse voice whispers. And you take the invitation, letting yourself be pulled back into the silken sheets and his warm, firm body.

Rafayel’s skin is soft under your touch as your hands roam his beautiful figure freely, coming to rest on his neck as you lean in for a kiss. Which your lover, and now officially husband, does obey. You’ll never get enough of the feeling of his lips on yours, of his taste, and the scent of him that quickly invades your senses. The magical bond in your system is bustling and humming, filled with more emotions than you can discern. And even if happiness and the soft tendrils of devotion are settling into a tight, fuzzy ball in your lower belly, one thought keeps you occupied.

“Are you really content with being the Empress’ consort instead of being Emperor yourself?” you ask the man who is cuddled comfortably in your arms, worried that this might not be what he truly desires.

And Rafayel only smiles - that unreadable, mysterious twist of his plush lips that always leaves you wondering what he’s up to. By catching your wrists and rolling you over, you find yourself suddenly pinned beneath his naked figure. Half-lidded eyes roam your wiggling body; the pink in them getting darker. Now it looks like embers of desire and hunger. His slender hips press delightfully into the still sensitive parts of your body that are already yearning for him again. And with a voice, tinted with the sound of a lazy morning and something more primal, Rafayel answers “I said it before, and I’m not going to change my mind.” A soft kiss on your eyelids. “I don’t want the imperial throne.” A tender peck at your nose. “It is only you that I desire.” Full lips touch yours, worshiping the shape of your mouth before his tongue glides out to start the dance you are already familiar with. It steals your breath and leaves your whole body tingling and filled with a want that aches deep down in your belly, a hunger for a closeness that is barely to satiated.

And Rafayel doesn’t feel any different as the spell of your union emits, and the way his mouth starts to descend on your thinly covered body. The flimsy excuse of a nightgown was wrinkled long ago, clinging to your skin in places that betray how much you’re desperate for the man who is conquering your whole being.

Numerous reverent touches and hoarsely whispered words filled with devotion later, deliberate hands are pushing the sheer fabric up your belly and chest, and with an impatient grunt, over your head. Your body is now left to the cool air, trembling and bare to the hungry gaze of the purple-haired man who has caught your heart. He’s admiring the offering that lies at his knees, entranced by the art that is you.

“Rafayel...” you lowly call out to him with outstretched hands, unable to stand the distance between you.

With a hungry kiss, he’s closing the gap, diving into you like a man starved. As if he hadn’t ravished you all night long. Eventually, you’re skin to skin again, engulfed in his body heat and the burning flames of your desire.

Swept away in the waves of want and need, his hard and hot length glides into you without resistance, your inner walls still pliant from sinful activities of the night before. Both your moans are filling the spacious room, but Rafayel stops moving as soon as he’s fully sheathed inside you.

A heated gaze caresses your face, devouring you with eyes alone. “This is all I want,” he whispers with a breathy voice, as his head goes down to nibble and kiss at the sensitive skin of your throat. “All of you and only you. Until times end, I shall occupy your every thought.” Hot wet kisses are placed on your cleavage, and more love bites are added to the skin that is already bruised and marked all over. It stings a bit, but it only adds fuel to the flames that are burning you from inside.

Your fingers sink into the lush waves of his lilac hair, scratching the skin underneath. “And I’m yours. Until the Stella Ocean vanishes and this universe collapses.” Then you cradle the handsome face, forcing him to stop his worship and to look at you. “And you’re mine. Until this universe burns and everything comes to an end.”

Rafayel’s gaze grows even darker, a desperate feral hunger taking over the depths in the mirrors of his soul. “I am.” A solemn vow from a faithful being to the person who holds the most power in this universe.

Then your lover moves his hips. Slowly. With an agonizingly leisurely pace, he drags his cock along your greedy, clenching walls, until finally only the hot tip remains. You whimper and whine out of desperation, trying to coax him back to where you ache for him with your legs slinging around him. Pushing, stroking, tempting him to do something, anything to come to the place you feel like you’re dying without him. Eventually, the Sanctarch hears your prayers and in one go, using a powerful thrust, your walls are stimulated and bullied in the most delicious, sinful way. The queen-sized bed screeches together with your scream of pleasure and triumph. Your slick, aching core is finally being filled again by him.

And Rafayel whispers in your ear as his hot breath tickles the skin beneath, “Take me, my beloved, all of me.”

Hungrily, he bites the junction of your neck and shoulders, dragging his lower body away from you again. Only to add another desperate, powerful thrust that sends you into the Abyss of endless pleasure. And the bed once more against the walls.

The rattling continues and is nearly drowned by your moans and cries, the slapping sound of body to body, stifled under sheets, but still loud enough to reach your ears.

Rafayel‘s pace is ruthless. Owning. Consuming. Until all that is left is the overwhelming feeling of your impending climax and his passionate, high-pitched moans and groans. He is lost in the desperate chase for the highest of heights, but still wants to drive you over the edge first.

Blown out pupils nearly hide all of the blue and pink in his eyes as he looks at you through the sweat-damped strands of his purple hair. Cheeks glowing in a lovely red hue, only highlighting his ethereal beauty. Swollen, kiss-bitten lips half parted from his breathless pants and whimpers. You’ve never seen something more astonishing in your life.

“Together,” you choke out. Demanding or begging, you’re not sure. But the mighty Sanctarch grants your prayer regardless.

A fierce kiss swallows your “Please” before you can complete it, and some unrelenting, deep thrusts later, you’re thrown into your orgasm like a buoy at sea. Your whole body spasms, toes curling, and your legs wrapping in a vice-like grip around his waist. You scream and cry, eyes squeezed shut as the fireworks behind your lids shoot lightning of pure pleasure into your system.

And like you wanted, Rafayel follows, unable to hold back any longer. Hot spurts of creamy liquid, adding to the aftershock of your climax, and the twitching of his cock stimulates your still quivering walls. He bites your bottom lip in an attempt to stifle his primal moan, but to no avail. His body shuddering from the waves of his own climax.

Eventually, the movement of his hips slows down until a lazy, relaxed pace remains, riding your climax out into overstimulation.

Whimpering, you try to push him back, to get him out of your core. “Stop... Please... S’tomuch.”

A deep, desperate rumble is all you hear, but at least he stops. The hot length is still resting in the heat of your body’s core, but now mostly unmoving. Only some twitches remain, that send delicious tingles up your spine.

Ragged pants shake his chest, the waves synchronizing with your own heavy breaths as his face lifts to take you in. His gaze hazed, eyes glossed over with the afterglow of your ancient dance. “Don’t push me away...” words whispered with a hoarse voice, unveiling a vulnerability you didn’t know he’d ever show you.

Huffing and with a loving smile spreading over your lips, you cradle his love-drunk face. “Never, my Angel. But grant me a break, will you?” completed by a tender peck at the bridge of his nose, which results in a satisfied sighs and Rafayel nuzzling his head into your warm palms.

Disclaimer: This is an original fan work for ‘Love and Deepspace’. I only own the rights to the plot idea.

Caleb is fourteen years old and there are twenty-seven Imperial Heirs left. 

It’s fewer than half the number that they started with, a galaxy’s worth of children shivering in the throne room a mere five years prior, their anxious hearts pumping that precious royal blood through their fragile arteries. 

He’d stood there in the eerie grandeur of that hall, cold despite the balmy artifice of the Skycurtain, and thought with the ache of phantom limbs that this new home was not so different from his old one, after all. That the teachings of his old masters would serve him well under the new: that is, that every being in that hall was an asset or a threat who must be wielded accordingly; that there is nothing more poisonous to the preservation of self than a genuine friend… 

Then his eyes landed on her, and he was reminded anew of what it means to be utterly helpless before one’s fate. 

Still, despite the odds, Caleb has managed to keep them both alive – a fact he reminds himself of whenever he wakes cold and sticky with sweat, the thick scent of fear lingering in the air. He has offered double of himself to time’s slow erosion, chipping away at morality, at empathy, and, not the least, at his surplus of siblings. 

The first murder was the hardest by simple nature of it being the first: a young boy from a mercantile sector who had inherited only a little of his family’s financial cunning and none of their diplomacy. The next few were significantly easier: children with fragile dispositions he could coax to illness; children with violent enough temperaments that their servants could be turned against them; children with access to fewer resources with which to defend themselves. 

His fellow Heirs had run their own gambits, their successes weeding out the competition and failures, well, also weeding out the competition. Neither the court nor Lysander tolerated a half-witted schemer, and those who were discovered were quietly shipped off to planets with those who either needed the political marriage or enjoyed a… naive sort of spouse. 

The Heirs that still remain are of a different calibre. They require more than juvenile desperation and an innate talent for subterfuge. 

Which is to say that, when Lysander gathered them all into the throne room to announce the Empire would be hosting a showcase from Valkyrie’s illustrious military academy, the assembly of whom included the rising prodigy that had even the court leaning close with interest, the best of them correctly identified the exchange for what it was: a chance to gain allies. 

The banquet hall has been refurbished into a particular kind of splendour for the occasion. The death of the former Imperial dynasty and Sioh’s brief regency coincided with the obsoletion of gold, and the fresh blood of the new emperors brought its own aesthetic. Warm, passionate reds and yellows were exchanged for sleeker indigos, gilt accents shaved down in favour of rhodium’s noble shimmer. A cooler, costly palette. 

Caleb thinks it fitting, a preferable alternative to the lie that any comfort might be found here. 

Lysander has ordered the teenager to stand at his right hand, today. Usually, Caleb would consider this a useful honour – though the term ‘honour’ does little to smooth over his feelings of revulsion – a means to leverage the court’s opinion of him against the ire of his fellow Heirs, but not today. Today, there is a crowd of people from across the galaxy, eager to watch the upcoming tournament, and his position at Lysander’s side means that she – his beloved little sister, destination of his dreams and empress of his heart – has been left alone without him. And everybody who has survived this long in the palace knows that the only thing more dangerous than being alone is being alone in a crowd. After all, the palace is home to so many strange accidents… 

The unpleasant buzz of anxiety crawls along his spine like the Fevrel wasps the menagerist showed him a few days ago. In the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of her hair. Her handmaidens have pulled it into formal, complicated braids befitting the occasion, combing it with scented oil and decorating it with jewels that catch light and attention with every elegant tilt.   

The actual outcome of today does not phase him – he beats even the most cutthroat of his siblings in strategy eight times out of ten and often one of those losses is of itself a concession calculated to gain something more valuable in exchange – his real concern is that she makes it through the day unscathed. 

Everything else, Caleb thinks as the first matches are paired and he is guided by attendants to a waiting table, is secondary. The court’s esteem, Lysander’s expectations, his siblings’ veiled stares, his own personal wellbeing… 

Fortunately, he makes a practice of executing multiple objectives at once.

“I see your little shadow is happily fraternising with the opposition,” Mareva says with a smile the colour of old blood. She is a year his senior, and one of the few siblings Caleb can admit to being even slightly close to. 

At times, he regrets that they are required to kill each other. 

Caleb eyes her most recent manoeuvre: a sudden warp of an innocuous transport vehicle away from her supply lines. “Leave her alone,” he murmurs. He has recently been forced to adopt the habit, so as to smooth over any awkwardness caused by his fracturing, pubescent voice. “I just want her to have a happy childhood.” 

It’s suspicious. Too suspicious. 

But, also, too obvious. 

He considers the young woman before him. Her penchant for bluffs and double-bluffs. 

Her smile sharpens: a blade glutted, but only for so long. “Too good to sit in hell with the rest of us?” Her eyes are the crystalline yellow of topaz, framed by coils of ebony hair that fall in tight ringlets around her shoulders. When she leans closer, he catches the scent of the desert after rain: sun-baked petrichor and earthen spices, cardamon and sage, cinnamon and thyme. “Don’t think I don’t know blind adoration when I see it, little brother. You think you’re raising a bitapup but, really, she’s a Thytche scorpion.” 

The warning needs no consideration before it is dismissed. Instead, Caleb considers the play, considers his options. The board is set too simply for a layered attack – even if it turns out to be a trap, he will have at least one defensive move. 

“I know exactly what she is,” he replies, resupplying a warship near a key strategic point. 

“Is that so?” Mareva asks, amused. She uses her next turn to warp a battleship next to the supply unit, placing one of Caleb’s holding planets under threat. 

He doesn’t bother to answer her question. His own knowledge is sufficient: the girl in question, currently giggling beside one of the Academy’s finest, is nothing less than his spiritual twin, his origin and original sin, the very starmap of his conscience. 

The planet is abandoned without thought as Caleb presses the offensive. 

Three moves more and Mareva is forced to yield, offering her hand, graceful in surrender. 

When Caleb goes to shake it, however, she abruptly twists her grip, leaning over to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist. 

A custom of her homeland, his memory supplies. An invocation of kinship and a blessing of protection. 

A daring move to make in front of a crowd filled with court members who demand Heirs sacrifice their individuality to prove their ‘unquestionable allegiance to the empire’. 

“Just remember,” she whispers conspiratorially. In the audience, he hears the faint giggling that he’s been keeping track of throughout the game cease, feels a flash of foreign rage and jealousy, a white-hot brand searing into his soul. “It is a scorpion’s nature to sting.”  

Caleb feels a wry smile tug at his mouth. He doesn’t, for a moment, believe that Mareva’s declaration of support is anything but a deliberate calculation – to believe otherwise would be disrespectful to the threat sitting across from him. 

A temporary alliance, then, he thinks, eyes drifting over the faces of their spectators. Amongst them, he sees a man with a full, kempt beard that does little to hide his clenched jaw. 

Caleb lets his gaze drift casually back to Mareva. He subtly inclines his head in question. 

Her yellow eyes glitter. 

“Then, she’ll fit in nicely,” he replies dryly. 

The elder sibling laughs, flashing her perfect white teeth at him.

“That, she will,” Mareva agrees. Right now, she reminds him of a desert cat, the anticipation of the hunt coiling tight. “Well played today, little brother.”

“And you,” he replies graciously. Then, adds more meaningfully: “Would you like to have tea with me later? It’s been a while.” Being owed her favour is only one aspect of it – Caleb makes a habit of knowing all the sordid details of his siblings’ games.

Elsewhere, he feels the jealousy sharpen, a knife to the throat in the gleeful hands of a talented torturer. 

It is as awful as it is exquisite. 

His smile widens, pleased. 

“Send the invitation to my secretary.” Mareva rises from her seat with perfect, effortless decorum. The betrayal of it is subtle, but those who know her well would recognise the accomplishment of her true objective. Caleb ponders the price he will exact for his help. “Good luck with the tournament.” 

The second game of the day lasts significantly longer than the first. Not because his opponent is more skilled but, rather, because he is not skilled enough to know when he is utterly defeated. 

Caleb understands this and lets the match play out, countering moves with a swift, deliberate cunning, putting his sibling’s incompetence on full display. Allowing for the spectators – the ones that matter, at least – to realise what is going on and reconsider their alliances in real time. 

By the end of the round, the win whose inevitability Caleb has held in his hands for over twenty moves is not nearly so sweet as the pale, furious face of his opponent’s preceptor, his sibling’s dawning realisation that he’s better suited to networking than he is to warfare. 

After the third match, the remaining contestants are allowed a brief recess, during which Caleb learns that the prodigy has, predictably, earned his own string of successes. If they both continue as projected, they will be each other’s match in the grand final. 

Between the bodies of sycophants pressing close and sips of lemon over crushed ice, Caleb catches glimpses of his opponent-to-be. 

At seventeen years old, Zayne Li has grown into most of his height. His hair is the colour of black velvet. The cut is neat and efficiently parted in a way that matches the rest of him: he has neglected to follow his fellow students’ attempts to embellish themselves for the occasion, but the Academy’s formal uniform is impeccably pressed and tailored to fit his developing shoulders, his compact waist. It speaks of a disinterest bordering on insulting, an impression inculcated by his perfect posture, etiquette that is respectful without fanfare, and a mask so smooth and frictionless the nobles’ teeth glance right off it. 

Caleb decides immediately that, while he respects the older boy, liking him is another matter. 

He also thinks that the prodigy ought to tithe a jewel or two to the Sanctide’s coffers, because Zayne’s only saving – and, perhaps, surviving – grace, is that his beauty begs absolution for his cold demeanour. 

There is nothing the imperial court finds more hateful than complete apathy towards its spectacle. However, there is nothing that coaxes the court’s forgiveness more than a beautiful talent and, even from afar, Caleb can recognise it: the sharp bones emerging from the soft youth of his face, the sturdy chin and defined jaw, the tapering of that full mouth into refined, daggered points. 

His is beauty undeniable but, more importantly, untouchable, and it is exactly the sort of thing bored nobles go mad for. 

Through the lens of their desire, his eyes become cut emeralds, precious and precise, and the fall of his hair becomes intrigue, curtains shrouding the treasures within. They throw themselves at him, clawing and cajoling in equal, fruitless measure, and Caleb watches in both pity and amusement at each new failure of high society to peek behind the veil. 

“Might you bestow upon me a moment of your time, Your Highness?” asks a wheedling voice then, restoring Caleb’s attention. 

The young prince smiles charmingly as he recognises Leveuro Caprize, a newly-invested Count from a planet recently discovered to have several large, remarkably pure deposits of at least three rare minerals. 

“Count Caprize,” Caleb greets him. “I’m delighted you’ve come. My condolences regarding the former Countess.” 

“Thank you, Your Highness,” replies the Count gratefully, bending to kiss Caleb’s signet ring. “You honour my mother with your sincerity.” He pauses then, glancing about before leaning in furtively. “Actually, I came today because I wished for your audience regarding a small matter.” 

Caleb’s smile stiffens slightly. “Is that so?” 

Caprize nods. “Indeed. It is a small matter, but of some urgency…” 

The prince breathes through his nose, then takes a look around the hall. Like a compass to a lodestone, he finds her almost instantly: his baby sister is now the centre of the Academy students, prodigy excluded, and positively glittering with the attention. Mareva reclines beside her. 

Sensing Caleb’s attention, the elder sibling gives him a smirk and a lazy wave. 

“Wait here,” Caleb tells the Count, before walking to the nearest guard. “You,” he signals to the man, who startles at the sudden address. “If the princess over there comes to harm before I dismiss you, I will make you watch as I personally execute your entire bloodline. Have I made myself clear?” 

The guard tenses immediately. “Yes, Your Highness!” 

“You’d best move closer, then,” Caleb dismisses. His shoulders are still tight as he returns to the Count. It’s nowhere near ideal, of course, but it’ll have to do. “Follow me,” he tells the nobleman. “And don’t forget to make it brief…” 

The final game of the day is announced with all its usual pomp – Lysander has always loved a good party. The voice of their adopted father, Emperor of the Cosmic Empire, fills the Banquet Hall as he announces the remaining contenders: prodigy versus Imperial Heir, the match the court has spent the entire day anticipating. “Caleb, our prince of Alore, defends against the Aggressor, Zayne Li of Valkyrie Academy. We have seen both of them acquit themselves with dignity befitting our glorious Empire, and…” 

As he talks, Caleb lets the fanfare wash over him. While he enjoys acknowledgement, he finds that ceremony strips sentimentality and makes anything with even a sliver of authenticity all the more rare in this glimmering, dispassionate place. Of course, authenticity is a knife to the throat, and therefore equally unappealing – what he truly wants is a quiet place where he can be alone with his baby sister. No games, no pretenses, no blood on his hands. 

Alas, she has set her unwaveringly avaricious sight on the throne and so here Caleb is, setting up his pieces on the board. 

“Classical rules apply. All moves will be judged according to the Empire Codex and current inter-galactic treaties. No time limit will be imposed.” Lysander informs them. “Now, if the contenders are ready, you may begin.” 

The game opens slowly, both boys attempting to get the measure of each other. Caleb pushes an early feint, which Zayne allows, turning it into his own trap within three moves. It’s an awful, artful retaliation, a variation on standard manoeuvres that the prince has never seen before. It’s both unsettling and exciting, adrenaline pumping through his arteries and turning his thoughts to crystal. 

When Caleb manages to escape the trap with his own clever compromise, he sees his opponent’s gaze sharpen, body subtly leaning closer, his posture shifting into something like actual interest for the first time in what has been a long day. 

Caleb feels it then: that fluttery feeling in his gut. That mutual recognition, the kinship one can only feel in well-matched competition. He’s aware that he’s the Empire’s darling, but so much of his work is done behind the scenes. Accidents on accidents, conspiracies buried under layers of feints and forgeries… It is rare that he gets to openly indulge in the thrill of an actual challenge. 

Of course, there are still stakes: now that father dearest has thrown his weight behind this match, Caleb must live up to expectation. He must be the proof of Imperial glory, unbeaten and undeniable. To fail will mean disappointment, and disappointment will mean pain. 

Nothing physical, of course – even Lysander must bow before the Empire Codex – but his father has countless ways of making something hurt without technically causing harm. 

A memory intrudes then. Caleb standing in the cold rain of a foreign, familiar planet, wondering to himself why he is clutching the bloodied, shivering creature in his arms when he never takes these kinds of risks. A voice, sultry and amused in a way that holds teeth: "This is a surprise. I was beginning to think that blood would be the only thing to bind us." Regret immediately seized Caleb’s throat, and he’d nearly abandoned the bitapup right there, but the voice was already continuing. "Well, I suppose there's enough blood. Still... are you sure you're not going soft, Your Princeliness?"

Caleb’s hackles raise, shoulders tightening in that way that happens only when he is being observed by a particular pair of lovely, mocking eyes. But when he glances subtly around the room, hunting for tourmaline, he finds green and gold instead, the cool way his opponent takes in his unwittingly clenched fist. 

Panic seizes the young prince. 

Behind them, he feels the pressure of his adopted father as he watches their match. 

Caleb does not look at Lysander, but the refusal of acknowledgement is damning in itself, because the Li boy’s gaze goes from his haphazardly composed face to the dais behind him, then back. It’s far too deliberate to be anything but keen understanding, and Caleb withers under an exposure he hasn’t felt in years. 

Still, his hand doesn’t shake when he manoeuvres a warship into position. 

Across from him, a dark eyebrow crooks ever so slightly. Barely a movement – only noticeable because of Caleb’s proximity – but it serves to deepen his alarm. 

A pale, graceful hand moves its own warship into place, and suddenly the natural formations of planets and asteroid belts that had looked like defenses now feel like iron bars. Caleb feels the metal teeth of a trap closing around him. 

He looks at the board, pondering seriously. 

There’s still maybe enough time to retreat, but not without revealing the move for the awful blunder it is. 

What else? he thinks as he gauges distances, re-catalogues manpower. Defense is not the only option to him – collaborator, as he is, with assassins and other suspicious ilk. An offensive, then? Are there any-

His eyes land on one of his opponent’s strongholds, and he has to bite back a smirk. As they say, ‘a house divided…’

He escapes Li’s trap through sheer audacity, forcing the prodigy to reroute his efforts towards defense while Caleb presses the attack. It’s an ugly solution, but effective. The warship that threatened him is turned into debris and disseminated within the asteroid belt. 

Unfortunately, this poses new problems: his move constitutes a formal declaration of war in a way that prior skirmishes had not, and a new set of rules governs their conduct moving forward. 

They trade blows back and forth, each rallying their forces accordingly. There is even a moment, a short, precious moment, where Caleb thinks that he has all but won. 

It is not that Caleb is arrogant – he is aware, for all his enormous talent, that things can always, always go wrong – but he is generally confident in his ability to do whatever is necessary, stoop as low as it takes in order to survive and crawl out the other side… 

Except then his opponent makes a move – a subtle repositioning of a piece – and it is like the handful of prophetic revelations Caleb has had the privilege of attending, the way the Sanctide’s clergy would unfurl the starmap and the secrets of the divine. 

Damn it, he thinks, illness forming in the pit of his stomach. 

And for all his ingenuity, all his moral flexibility, Caleb looks down at the pattern laid out before him and knows with a cold, brutal certainty, that he is going to lose and there is nothing that can save him from it. 

Should I resign? he wonders dully, feeling the eyes of his father on the back of his neck. He doesn’t look back – nothing that would break decorum. He’s too well-defended to force a draw… 

Still, ruling is not always about winning. Sometimes, a judicious monarch must also know when the cost of resources outweighs the victory. 

Nobody else has noticed the outcome is already set, but if he lets the game breathe for a few moves, they’ll catch on… 

He can do this, justify the loss with pardonable grace. 

Caleb closes his eyes and allows himself a single, tiny breath. Alright. Opens them. 

When he does, he sees curiosity in the green-gold gaze of his opponent. The way those eyes take him in, assessing his posture, his demeanour, the tension of his hands. 

The older boy understands that Caleb has seen the move and recognises it for what it is. Now he waits, quietly anticipating, to see what he does next. 

Caleb takes his main starship and, locking eyes with his opponent, adjusts its coordinates laterally. Damage mitigation. Preservation of resources. The feeble death throes of an opponent bound by the inevitability of loss.

The boy doesn’t dignify Caleb’s move with a glance. He remains motionless, his gaze so oppressive that Caleb feels like one of the countless defectors Lysander’s left to bleed on the battlements. He’s always felt that he’d be the type to face the bullet hurtling toward him, but this time Caleb lets his eyes fall.

The hall is quiet – the audience hushed with anticipation. Caleb would’ve thought he’d hear a grunt of victory from his opponent, at least. Instead he hears the slightest rustle of fabric as Zayne shifts forward. The quiet clack of a piece slotting into place.

Around them, court erupts with the furore of cannon-fire, but all Caleb can hear is a muffled ringing in his ears.