Dove Caught in a Burning Bush

Warm amber light streamed in from stained glass windows, filtering out into the hallway in neatly space rows as it shone down images of countless watching eyes to the floor below.

The sun was setting on the kingdom of Edenara, and it was beautiful.

Promethiel watched as gilded light spilled across half of his sister's face, making Crucifel's caught iris glow like a fiery beacon.

There were certainly other beautiful things to be seen in this moment, but for Promethiel, none could compare to the cautious anger in his sister's gaze.

"It would be so easy," Promethiel said with a calm turn of his lips, "to simply kill you." Crucifel's eyes narrowed dangerously, and her jaw hardened.

"Then why don't you? You seem to be good at that," she hissed.

Promethiel laughed, a sound like a chime wrapped in silk, it didn't belong to such an wicked creature.

"I have better plans for you," he sighed, running his fingers through his pale hair as he tilted his head and grinned back at Crucifel. "Besides, your death wouldn't benefit me at all. You should trust your dear brother."

He leaned forward until their cheeks were nearly brushing, his breath warm on Crucifel's ear. "Be smart, Crucifel."

She growled, leaning back from him and raising her wings defensively. Always defensive. Never offensive.

"Don't you worry about me, you

snake

," Crucifel said evenly, turning her lighter yellow eyes away from Promethiel's rich golden ones.

"Oh, but I do," Promethiel replied, reaching out and brushing her bangs out of her face. "I'd hate for my darling sister to die because she couldn't keep her mouth shut."

Crucifel jerked her head away, daring to catch Promethiel's wrist and letting her palm heat with golden flame. "Keep your hands off of me!"

Her brother's wrist sizzled under her grasp, scorched almost gently by the holy fire.

Crucifel wasn't trying to maim Promethiel, it was a warning. Another defense.

The golden eyed angel groaned as the flesh under Crucifel's grip darkened, a shudder going down his spine and straight to his loins.

"That's right, Crucifel," Promethiel hissed, his pale cheeks flushing a shade darker as the smell of burned flesh rose around them. "Burn me, if you need to, if it makes you feel better."

Crucifel released his wrist, a repulsed grimace dragging at her lips.

"You're disgusting," she spat, turning away from Promethiel and rushing away down the hallway.

Promethiel watched her retreating form, a lazy smile on his face as he ran his tongue across his rapidly healing wrist. He was used to it by now; the harsh rebuffs and parries that she would strike each affectionate act down with.

As far as he was concerned, Crucifel had given him a love bite.

Edenara's newest Archangel felt a newfound sense of wonder as he sat on the shimmering white throne, quiet awe sparking in his chest of how solid and real it felt.

This is where his father had always sat for as long as he could remember, his mother beside him on her own throne.

Now it was his, every last scintillating bit of it.

The angel's fingers traced the ornate eye-shaped engravings on the armrests of the throne, inlaid with gold leaf that seemed to glow in the light.

How many had sat in this seat before him? It wasn't often that Edenara changed hands, angels didn't simply die of old age.

They had to be killed

.

Promethiel's gaze drifted up to the ceiling, studying the intricate patterns of the stars and eyes painstakingly shaped above. They could watch all they liked but it would change nothing of what had happened.

Neither could Crucifel, his sister knew that if she truly tried to disrupt his rule then there would only be further chaos that the angels of Edenara didn't need. The king and queens' passing had already shook the kingdom enough on top of his own posturing acting as a deterrent for her spilling his secret.

Promethiel smirked as he thought of Crucifel's outburst, how she'd had the gall to burn his wrist.

It had been...exciting, feeling his sister's trembling grip on him as she scorched him with holy fire. The look in Crucifel's gaze; it had been filled with such anger. So much rage and hurt. It was breathtaking to see her like that.

Promethiel felt his saliva gather upon his tongue, remembering those honeyed eyes and the way they seemed to consume him like her flames refused to.

The angelic monarch crossed one leg over the other as he leaned back on his throne, gracefully hiding how his stiffening cock made the fabric of his robes tent around his groin.

He had never felt so alive, as powerful as he did right now with her fate and the fate of the kingdom now squarely in his hands.

It wasn't just that he was sitting atop a throne of alabaster and gold, in the seat of a thriving kingdom of angels. Or that he had finally taken his rightful place after waiting for far too long to act.

No, it was the simple fact that he could finally act upon his desires without fear of reprisal or punishment. Barring Crucifel's disgusted rebuffs, of course.

Promethiel's hand slid down his body, flattening the flowing fabric against the contours of his torso and then trailing further hellward. He paused at the hem of his robe, mqking sure that he was truly alone, then dipped his fingers inside as he rested his chin on the palm of his other hand. He breathed out slowly, wings twitching as he slid his fingers along his length.

His sister, Crucifel, had burned him.

With holy fire.

And he had loved it.

It was a rare treat, but this time it was different. It wasn't a simple annoyed flick of flame or burning jab to the chest in warning. Crucifel had gripped his wrist and held tight, making sure that Promethiel felt every agonizing second.

The king's cock ached at the memory, already leaking pearly pre and aching for attention.

"Crucifel," Promethiel breathed, gripping his length and imagining it was his sister's hand wrapped around it. Those delicate, slender fingers of hers that Promethiel had always wanted to feel trailing over his skin, curling around his cock.

He worked himself slowly, fangs bared lustfully as he imagined Crucifel beneath him, cheek pressed into the hard floor as Promethiel pinned her there.

The Archangel hissed softly, the pleasure coursing through his veins like liquid fire.

Her bright, sweet flames.

Crucifel would be soft, wouldn't she? Flesh like silk, hot and tight around him.

"You're mine," Promethiel whispered, clenching the fingers of the hand at his cheek and moaning as he imagined Crucifel's mouth on his neck.

He looked back up to the ceiling, at the intricate constellations of stars and eyes above.

They would watch him as he shuddered and came, spilling his seed over his knuckles with a satisfied growl.

They would watch him change it all.