Lace-up heel boots crunched in the snow, and Moon's light tail swayed behind her, creating a winding path as she headed back inside her estate after spending hours in her greenhouse. That greenhouse had become a quiet safe space for Moon; it was a warm place that contrasted with the harsh cold outside. That nice warmth also relaxed her muscles... like the warmth she found in someone familiar who had vowed to stay devoted to her for reasons she'd never be able to truly understand.
Years had passed since Soltero made that promise when they were both ten, and he had managed to stick by that promise no matter how intensely Moon grew more mad by the days. She could snap at him, yell, harm him—anything—and Soltero still looked at her like she was the kindest person in the world. When he did that, it just made the energy inside of Moon boil, and a strange fluttering she kept buried deep down that she refused to acknowledge would rise ever so slightly, only to be pushed and beaten back down for Moon to ignore.
Walking inside her estate, Xiox, her assistant of 7-8 years, joined at her side—well, walking four feet behind her, as was proper protocol for a servant of his station. His arctic fox tail was now more elegantly groomed than in their earlier years, swaying gently as he kept pace with his empress.
"My lady, you have three new reports we have gathered that need addressed, a meeting, and..." Xiox kept talking, his voice measured and efficient, but Moon just drowned out his words like she usually did. After so many years, Moon had somewhat learned to hone her demonic hypersensitivities, allowing her to filter out what she didn't wish to hear.
"...and Soltero will be visiting later today for your time sessions," Xiox concluded, unaware that most of his report had fallen on deliberately deaf ears.
Moon stopped in her tracks, causing Xiox to stop as well, almost bumping into her. The mention of that particular name had cut through her practiced indifference like a knife through butter.
"Soltero is visiting again?" The slightest bit of amusement tugged at her features, but a smile never quite met her lips. There was something in her tone—a softening, perhaps—that betrayed her interest, despite her careful composure.
"Ah—yes, my lady," Xiox said, noticing the shift in Moon's demeanor. Obviously, everyone in Moon's estate knew the relationship dynamic between Moon and Soltero. They were rulers of two different empires on different sides of the world, yet they still managed to play cat and mouse with each other. Who was the prey and who was the predator? Who knows—only time and fate would determine that.
Moon turned around, beginning to walk onward. She waved her hand dismissively, her fingers elegant and adorned with rings bearing the crest of her empire. "Xiox, have Lucian draw me a bath and prepare an evening outfit."
"Yes, my—" He barely got the chance to respond before Moon was already off to attend to her royal duties. "Lady..." Xiox sighed, but he did as he was instructed, turning on his heel to find Lucian, who had remained Moon's loyal companion through all these years.
She stepped into the cold water that could be considered an ice bath—perfect for a northern demon. The cold water caressed her skin, molding around the peaks of the luscious large lumps that rested on her chest. She was perfectly pale, yet the flush of her nipples was a light pink, like the blush on the rest of her body. Moon had grown into her succubus body perfectly, as perfect if not more than her dead, futile mother's.
To keep it simple, her appearance could be described as having those bright emerald green eyes that pierced into anyone like the monster she was. Like stated before, her skin was pale, but that was normal for a northern demon. Besides the paleness, every ounce of flush and sensitive parts were a light pink color. Every curve was luscious and plump—her breasts large on her chest that she held high with confidence. Her hips curved from her thin waist into a round rear that could make anyone wish they were buried underneath it, and by gods, those thighs could make anyone gladly suffocate between them. You could only imagine the heat of paradise that rested between them.
Her body itself was a fantasy, a dream even, to any man... or woman.
Besides her body, her hair had ended up becoming more puffy and curlier—orange-brown tresses that curled into luscious waves and bundles, somehow never getting knotted in the red horns that curled around her head to frame her mature face. Her features were designed with striking cat eyes, a straight bridge complemented by a slightly bulbous or rounded tip nose, and last of all, those plump, kissable, luscious lips that could devour anyone in seconds—but who wouldn't want that? Her long dalmatian tail, complemented with a black curled puff at the end, hung off the side of the bathtub as well, occasionally flicking and sending droplets of water across the marble floor.
Lucian gently ran her fingers through Moon's surprisingly smooth and untangled hair. Her hand had a fancy and exotic mix of shampoo and conditioner on her fingers to run through Moon's hair. Lucian was the only one allowed to touch Moon like this, but then again, even as Moon's personal maid, she was her mother figure and someone Moon trusted dearly. The years had been kind to Lucian; though silver now threaded through her light hair, her hands remained just as gentle and skilled as they had been when Moon was a child.
Lucian hummed a quiet tune while washing up her master, finally somehow managing to clip and hold up Moon's massive floor-length hair that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Lucian was just skilled like that, after Moon refused for years to cut her hair. Actually, long hair was a beauty standard, so it didn't quite matter anyhow.
"Lucian... where did you learn that song?" Moon's voice was soft, almost vulnerable in the privacy of her bath chamber.
"I believe, if I remember correctly, my mother sang that song when I was sick. I'm not quite sure where she learned it, my lady." After Lucian gave Moon her reply, she washed the soaps out of her master's hair and skin, the water cascading down Moon's pale form like a cleansing waterfall.
Heels clicked on the marble floors as Moon made her way back to her office. She had been dressed in a tight-fitting black top that molded to her breasts; the peaks slightly pointed through, but it could go unnoticed. The lower part of her dress joined the black fabric at the top of her torso. No corset was needed—just skin-tight fabric that highlighted her like a spotlight, accentuating every curve and edge of her demonically perfect form.
She always seemed to wear heels—anything that matched the outfits she currently wore. Thanks to her mother, who had harshly disciplined Moon into wearing the standard heel, Moon could always remember the way her heels used to bleed from her mother's wrath when she would fall in them. She hoped her mother's haunting ghost felt jealousy at the way she appeared now—powerful, confident, and utterly in control in a way her mother had never been.
Golds and laces used as accessories adorned these outfits as well. Despite how simple the outfit itself was, it was still somehow the most elegant-looking article of clothing in her empire. Moon preferred comfort over trends, which is why Moon only had her clothing custom-made by seamstresses she preferred—artisans who understood that power and comfort were not mutually exclusive.
Her hair swooshed and swished when she walked. Her mother would've gone into a raging frenzy if she had seen how her hair looked—messy and free up top but slowly forming into a big braid that could outline her entire silhouette. She didn't care much for hairstyles; it was already enough that she let Lucian touch her hair to begin with. It was one of the few intimate connections she allowed herself, a remnant of the child she once was, seeking comfort in the maternal presence Lucian provided.
Click. The door of her office opened. Sitting down on her office chair that now perfectly fit her frame, no longer dwarfing her down as it had when she was ten, confidence radiated from her when she sat in that chair and began working on those reports. The chair, made of dark mahogany and upholstered in crimson velvet, had once belonged to her father. She had kept it, a daily reminder of what she had done to claim her power, and what she would do to keep it.
Slave ring reports. Moon felt disgusted at seeing these countless reports on a daily basis—just men who desired to be deeply in charge for once, these rings being allowed to form by the old rulers, her mother and father, who were sure these were beneficial. Her lips curled into a sneer as she read through the documents, each one detailing abuses and exploitation that her parents had not only permitted but encouraged.
Just as Moon was getting started on this boorish paperwork, amusement came springing in.
Knock. Knock.
Moon's attention shifted to the burgundy door, the sound momentarily breaking her concentration. "Come in," she commanded, her accent heavy in Nyxovian, like the proper commanding empress she was. The words rolled off her tongue with authority that had been years in the making, no longer the tentative voice of a child who had just seized power, but the confident tone of a woman who had held it for years.
A small maid hesitantly shuffled in, nervous to meet Moon's piercing gaze. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched the hem of her apron, eyes downcast in appropriate deference.
"My lady... Lord Soltero is here to see you again," the maid announced, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking his name too loudly might summon some unstoppable force.
Hearing his name again made that annoying fluttering attempt to filter into Moon's chest once more. It made her sick, angry—and yet, there was something else there, something she refused to name, even to herself. The sensation was both irritating and intoxicating, like a drug she despised but couldn't quite quit.
"Let him in," Moon commanded, straightening in her chair almost imperceptibly. Her tail, which had been lazily draped over the arm of the chair, now flicked with interest, betraying the anticipation she would never admit to feeling.
As the maid backed out of the room to fetch the visitor, Moon's fingers drummed once, twice on the polished surface of her desk. Then, composing herself, she picked up a report, feigning interest in its contents, determined not to appear as though she had been waiting for this moment all day.
The stage was set. The predator and the prey would dance again, as they had so many times before. And as always, Moon was left wondering which role was truly hers to play in this dangerous game between empires... and hearts.
Heavy footsteps erupted in the hallway outside her office, but they were scattered—not like a normal walking pattern, but like he was swaying in a dancing rhythm. Each step carried a deliberate lightness, as if the visitor couldn't be bothered to adhere to the solemn decorum of the palace.
Obviously, this caught Moon's attention, though despite how she had been anticipating his visit anyhow, she quickly straightened herself in her chair. Her expression became monotone and blank, the practiced mask of indifference she had perfected over the years. She wanted to make it appear as though she were upset to see him here again, but even with the amount of rage and anger she held towards him, that might've just been a facade she put up to hide the feelings she kept buried down. Fuck him, she thought viciously. He doesn't deserve all of her, he doesn't deserve her attention... he doesn't…
Moon's mind started to wander despite how little time there was between him about to enter and her wondering mind. In those brief moments, she slowly started to imagine his hands trailing over her skin in those tiny moments of contact they had—like when his hand would graze over hers when they were both about to touch something, or when they shared an embrace during balls to put up the front of important leaders doing their duty to appear as they should be. His skin was always so warm, a stark contrast to her naturally cool demon flesh.
Moon remembered his warmth, the way he gazed at her differently than any other man had. It wasn't lust—at least, not merely lust—but something else Moon always refused to acknowledge out of anger and frustration towards him. Remembering his touch, her mind only led her to think about what it would feel like if his hand grazed in more sensitive places. What would the warmth feel like on her peaks of flesh, in the space between her flushed legs? What would it feel like if his hands traveled down the arch of her back to her hips, those large, calloused hands that had always seemed so careful with her despite her cruelty?
Thinking like this made a quivering sensation form between her legs instinctually, a warmth and need that contrasted with the eternal cold of her nature. Moon's hand slipped from the desk to her thighs, slowly pushing themselves through the fabric of her dress to sate this uncomfortable feeling she felt so suddenly. Her breathing deepened, the faintest pink flush creeping up her neck and across her cheeks as her imagination took dangerous paths.
Creak.
The door opened, and Moon immediately gathered herself, appearing as she did once before these... lewd thoughts had started. She had no idea why such thoughts would intrude at this moment, of all times. Embarrassment slowly crept up her spine like ivy, but Moon had beaten it back down with ruthless discipline. Fuck feeling embarrassed for someone like Soltero, she chided herself.
"Hello, cara mia! 'Tis a lovely evening, isn't it?" Soltero's voice rang out, rich and melodious, filling the austere office with unexpected warmth. He had started calling Moon that endearment a while ago; she had no idea where he had learned that phrase, but when he had started calling her that, she definitely wasn't pleased. She had made that obvious to him in a harmful way—a punch to the groin, to be exact—and yet he was still calling her that, undeterred by her violence.
Though she kind of enjoyed it in a way when he did call her that, not something Moon would ever willingly admit, even to herself. The foreign words rolled off his tongue with a sincerity that made that fluttering in her chest return with a vengeance.
Soltero waltzed in, a sly and bright smile on his face, baring his fangs not out of being protective over himself but in that gleeful demeanor that was so uniquely his. He was a tall demon, nearly a head taller than Moon herself, with broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. His horns, larger and more imposing than Moon's, curved upward before twisting inward like a crown of thorns, adorned with gold rings and delicate chains that caught the light with every movement of his head.
Moon let out a small sigh, analyzing his every appearance. He dressed in his usual rough and ragged clothing, what best could be described as country and, well, cowboy attire. No cowboy hat, surprisingly, though that was because his large horns wouldn't allow it. Instead, a bandana was tied around his neck, deep crimson against the tanned column of his throat. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of the muscled chest beneath, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms marked with the occasional scar—testaments to a life lived without fear.
He also held an expensive wine bottle in hand. Golden Ember Reserve was the name of the wine; it could cost well over 3,000 in currency. He definitely came with the intention to share the bottle with Moon, possibly to get her drunk, not that she minded getting drunk—just not with Soltero. Getting drunk with him would lower her inhibitions, and that was a risk she wasn't willing to take. Not with the way her thoughts had been wandering lately.
"Only you would think a blizzard outside is lovely. What is with the wine? Better yet, why have you come again?" Moon bared her own fangs, not in the same way he did, though; hers was to radiate authority and, well, frustration with his lack of consideration and modesty. Her tail flicked irritably against the side of her chair, betraying her agitation.
"Don't be like that, Moon. I know you'd rather see me than sit here and do that paperwork." His voice was teasing, the slight accent of his homeland lending a musical quality to his words. His golden eyes—so different from her emerald ones—sparkled with mischief and something deeper, something she refused to name.
He sat the wine bottle down on the desk, which Moon hastily moved her paperwork aside so that the wine bottle wouldn't harm the fragile information. The bottle made a soft thunk against the polished wood, the amber liquid inside catching the light from the windows. Scoff.
"You've no idea what I prefer. You're a curt, Soltero," Moon replied, her voice cold and dismissive, though lacking the genuine bite it might have held years ago. It was a familiar dance between them now—her rejection, his persistence.
"How sweet of you, Moon. You make my heart flutter," he teased, placing a hand dramatically over his heart as if wounded. The gesture drew attention to the numerous rings adorning his fingers—one for each province under his control, a visual reminder of his power that matched her own.
Moon glanced behind him. His own personal assistant had followed behind him—a fennec fox girl with large ears that twitched at the slightest sound. Her name was Alvera Sigryn, and she usually had the look of someone that was tired of Soltero's antics. Her expression now was no different—resignation mixed with professionalism. Despite her apparent exasperation, she was loyal and obedient, which was good for a personal assistant. She carried herself with quiet dignity, her uniform impeccably neat despite what must have been a long journey to Moon's northern domain.
She came in carrying paints, brushes, and a few canvases, the tools of Soltero's unexpected hobby. The supplies were of the highest quality—nothing but the best for the ruler of the western empire, of course. The canvases were pristine, stretched over frames of dark wood that matched the general aesthetic of Moon's office.
Soltero noticed Moon's glances at Alvera, and he formed a wicked grin, leaning on the desk. The movement brought him closer to Moon, close enough that she could catch his scent—a heady mixture of spices from his homeland, leather, and something uniquely his own. It was intoxicating in a way Moon found deeply irritating.
"I've lost my sense of muse recently," he declared, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "I figured I shall travel to find my one and only muse. Would you do the lovely honor of joining me for a painting session?" His eyes held hers, challenging and soft all at once. "Hopefully, the wine is a good enough bribe."
After he suggested that, Moon stared at him, blank-faced, annoyance radiating off of her face and body, making the room much colder than it already was. But Soltero's warmth battled against that chill, as it always had. He was like the sun to her moon—an apt comparison given their names—bringing unwanted heat to her carefully constructed ice.
Although she didn't say anything, from how long they'd fought against each other in unspoken battles, he knew her answer wouldn't be no. There was a silent communication between them, built over years of this strange relationship that defied conventional description. Her silence was permission; her glare was invitation. It had always been this way between them—complicated, contentious, and yet somehow necessary, like two opposing forces that created balance through their very opposition.
Alvera began setting up the painting supplies, her efficient movements suggesting she had done this many times before. She arranged the canvas on a portable easel she had brought, mixed a palette of colors with practiced precision, and laid out brushes of various sizes. All the while, her large fox ears remained turned towards Moon and Soltero, alert to any change in the atmosphere between the two powerful demons.
Moon's fingers drummed once on her desk, a habit she had developed when deep in thought. The rhythm matched the beating of her heart, which had inexplicably quickened at Soltero's proximity. How infuriating that after all these years, he could still affect her this way.
"The wine had better be worth my time," she finally said, breaking the charged silence. It wasn't quite acceptance, but it wasn't refusal either—the closest thing to agreement that Soltero was likely to get from her.
His smile widened, revealing more of those gleaming fangs. He knew victory when he tasted it, however small and grudging. "Oh, cara mia," he purred, already reaching for the bottle, "everything I bring you is worth your time. You simply haven't admitted it yet."
The challenge in his words hung in the air between them, as tangible as the snowflakes swirling outside the window. Another round in their eternal game had begun, and despite herself, Moon felt that treacherous flutter of anticipation rising again in her chest.