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The first memory you have is of being young, barely eight years of age, and that you are on the space transport, being attended to by maids who dress you in the traditional white robes worn by the heirs to the Cosmic Empire. Yet your lack of prior recollection isn’t a cause of fear or concern. No, the Eros Conditioning done to your mind and body serves to give you an instinctual sense of purpose. You are an Imperial Heir. A child created, conditioned, and sent by one of the many noble families to the palace of the ruling Emperor or Empress; your purpose being to survive there, learn all you can of politics, combat, and strategy, and eventually either succeed or die in your pursuit of the throne.
In sum, you are one of many pawns sent to the other side of the chessboard, either to be knocked down by a different piece or be crowned with the ruler’s diadem, making you the most powerful piece in this game of life or death.
And, similarly to chess pieces, you and the other Heirs can barely be considered ‘human’, not that the term is favored by the ruling class any longer, thrown away just as the nobles threw away their ability to have biological children. All in the name of power. Superior intellect. Unmatched strength. And, most importantly, physical beauty.
So, in your very first memory, you stare at a full-length mirror adorned with silver lilies, and find your reflection one of crystalline perfection clad in the purest white. Yet hidden in that reflection lies the truth. Where a warm, empathetic heart should beat in your chest, you feel only cold emptiness.
Because the price of power is the shackles of endless greed.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
“Pin her down!” A young girl calls out as your nails gouge deeply into the face of the boy trying to strangle you, the argument between the two of you having turned into a duel to the death. After one of the preceptor’s group lectures, the boy had dared call you runtish, while you judged his intellect to be severely lacking. The result is now your first glimpse of why so many Heirs die within their first year at the palace. Killing each other, weeding out the weak, is considered natural, though a process to only occur behind closed doors and out of the view of staff or visiting nobles, for propriety’s sake. So, right now, you’re fighting for your life on a pale marble floor surrounded by a dozen other Heirs, all wearing that detestable, pristine white, as they watch, some cheering for your success, others goading your opponent on.
Not that it’s a fair fight in the least. This nameless boy is at least three years older than you. Stronger. Brutish with how he tries to rip the hair from your scalp and expertly snap your neck with his grasping hands. You likely shouldn’t have provoked someone who has killed before. But your pride wouldn’t let you stay quiet when his answers to the preceptor’s questions were undeniably droll and unlearned.
Hands finally manage to latch around your throat, squeezing, and your lungs seize, the small bones of your neck already starting to fracture. But you get in a good scratch to his eye, tearing the membrane, making him scream as viscous humor pours out and down his cheek. Your move gets you a moment of reprieve as he pulls back to palm at his face, and you take advantage of it, rolling, only for his hands to find your hair, sticky from blood and fluids, and you realize that you’re too weak to continue fighting. Even your Heir physiology isn’t enough to keep up with the brutal assault, and your healing ability has been overburdened to the point that you can sense your red blood cells are starting to burst. It seems that you’ll die here. Not even a day after arriving at the palace. And the idea enrages you. Your instincts scream that you cannot, will not, lose. Not to this vile, brutish boy, and most certainly not on the ground like some whelpish commoner.
But just as you’re desperately trying to come up with a plan, your assailant releases you before letting out a choked sound, wet and throaty. You use the last bit of your strength to roll onto your back to see the cause.
And he’s… floating. Just a small bit off the ground, but enough that his stiff posture and gaping mouth make him look like he’s at the end of an invisible noose. A glassy force is suspending him midair. You attempt to get up and finish what you started, only for your body to give out completely, collapsing like a marionette with cut strings, your lungs spasming as you cough up dark crimson blood that spatters over the pristine marble floors.
Someone steps between your prone figure and the suspended boy. Someone wearing dark boots under his pristine Heir’s attire.
“Hardly fair.” The newcomer remarks, his tone a strange mix of a bright, boyish lilt and something colder, harsher; enraged, even. “Pickin’ up on a girl half your size.”
A strangled cry meets your ears, then the sound of a body slamming into the floor with unusual force. The crunching echo is visceral. Bone and tendons made to paste. A few children gasp.
The person in the dark boots turns and kneels, and you can finally see their face in your dimming vision. Soft, brown hair, galaxy-purple-eyes. A boy just a little older, whom you don't remember seeing before.
Your gazes lock, and something inside of your ribcage shifts, becoming a seismic change akin to earth and sky realizing the other's existence for the first time. And the earth can’t help but think the sky that holds the sun is dazzling. So, you’re left dizzy and mute when he oh-so-carefully gathers you into his arms, having to heft you a bit.
“Wouldn’t do that.” He remarks to someone who tries to sneak up behind him. “Unless you want to end up dead, too.”
You catch sight of the corpse of your once-opponent as you’re being carried away. White and red. Purity and death incarnate.
The sight is fathomless. Heirs fight for themselves and only themselves. Only forming alliances to break them later in acts of subterfuge. Never breaking the cardinal rule of not intervening in duels. Yet this purple-eyed boy did that for you. Killed for you.
And another Heir speaks up, vocalizing your own shock, tone dumbstruck. “W-Why-would you risk being cast out or—“
The boy carrying you replies simply. “She’s my baby sister. She’s someone I have to protect.”
That’s the last thing you hear before you awaken in the medical ward. The spring breeze buffets the long, pale curtains that decorate the floor-to-ceiling windows as you mentally assess your condition. Amongst the predictable aches and pains, you feel something sharp and invasive in your left wrist, causing you to turn your head and lift your left hand into view. An IV line trails from a needle inserted into your vein, the thin tube of crimson red trailing up to a state-of-the-art haemostabilizer. Another line drapes down from the machine to the source of the donor blood: A boy sitting in a chair just beside the clinic bed in which you rest.
You blink at him.
He smiles at you, the boyish, bright fullness of his expression still rather sharp, calculating, as would be expected of any Heir.
“Mornin’ sleepyhead.” He says, “You were out for almost half the day.”
You sit up, slowly, gingerly, your eyes never leaving his. There’s that sensation again. Earth and sky; magnetism that confuses your sense of identity, of self. But you’re no common lifeform who would let this strange emotion consume you. You’re an Heir. So your mind is already trying to calculate the whys and hows.
Why did he save you?
How does he plan to use this against you?
But, before you can vocalize anything, he’s rummaging around in his pockets, pulling out something small and wrapped in pretty red foil.
“Here.” He holds it out to you, still smiling, still utterly dangerous in his unknown intentions. When you don’t take the item, he wiggles it. “It’s just apple candy, silly girl.”
Finally, and with a pang of hunger that reminds you that superior healing abilities come with the downside of requiring high caloric intake, you take the candy, unwrapping it and, perhaps foolishly, devouring it before considering that it could be poisoned. The sweet is bright, tangy, and has your mouth watering for more.
And, as if reading your mind, the boy brings out another. And, when you devour it and find yourself still unsated, he brings out yet another. But this time, he doesn’t just hand it to you. Instead, he unwraps it, remarking, “My bad. You shouldn’t be movin’ around too much. I’ll feed you, okay?”
You can’t quite believe it when he holds the unwrapped candy up to your lips. The surface of it grows soft and slick where it meets your skin. Yet all of your attention is on this fathomless boy who dares bend the rules of noble society you once thought so ironclad.
“Why save me?” You murmur, your lips moving against the candy, smearing apple-red that’s so dark it’s almost the color of blood. “You could be ostracized or ganged up on…”
He just shrugs, eyes flicking to the smear on your lips, and using a thumb to wipe some of it away. “Like I said, you’re my baby sister.” Purple meets your gaze once again, yet you could swear there’s the glitter of serpentine scales hidden somewhere in that perfect hue. “Can’t you feel it?”
You hesitate. Admitting to the sensation still resonating in your body, if not your very soul, might give him some yet unknown advantage over you. Yet he doesn’t seem to need an answer, keeping the candy pressed against your lips as he uses his free hand to cup your jaw, opening your mouth to slip the candy between your lips. You catch his finger between your teeth before he can pull away, biting down hard. This boy, for all of his alluring qualities, does need to learn that you’re not a tamed bird, after all.
The taste of copper joins the rich sweetness, and you’re left to wonder why his blood is more delicious than apple candy.
But perhaps you already know the answer.
Because fundamentally, cosmically, viscerally…
You want him.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
“Bastard.” The curse escapes you like a snake’s enraged hiss, your sword’s blade arching as you twirl it, the silver reflecting the massive columns that stand like sentinels within the sparring arena. It’s just you and Caleb at this time of night, so when he deflects with his own blade, the sound echoes loudly across the pale, marble floors.
“Bastard?” He mimes, trying to look innocent yet failing with the half-smirk on his face. At sixteen, he’s become far too handsome for his own good. Too agile, as well. His sword deflects yet another of your blows as he takes the defensive. “When did my baby sister start using language like that? I should—”
“Punish me for it?” You snap, fingers curling too tightly around the grip of your weapon, knuckles white as your dress. “Well then, you deserve to be punished for letting that girl kiss you.”
“She wasn’t a girl.” He counters, taking two perfectly timed steps back, deflecting two of your lunges, left and right. “She was the Duchess of Orsay. And it was a traditional Orsay greeting. Her lips barely touched my cheek.”
“Still,” You change tactics, increasing your speed, looking for an opening in his steel-clad defense moves. “Everyone was looking. And you smiled at her after!”
“I was just bein’ polite.” Caleb shrugs, the dismissive motion only enraging you further. Puberty has you feeling like a wild colt most of the time. Hormones and emotions simmer just under your skin like a wildfire that’s utterly ravenous.
And, whether awake or dreaming, the thing you desire constantly is Caleb.
You lunge again, this time striking so perfectly that you manage to get a small scratch to the right side of Caleb's neck. His eyes widen a bit, yet he doesn’t panic, even as you try to trap him back against one of the marble columns.
“Whoa, pipsqueak.” He says, retreating to put some distance between the two of you. “You’re really that angry?”
“So now you notice?” You hiss at him, any sarcasm in your tone lost behind ever-souring anger. He did it on purpose. Let that woman get too close under the twinkling ropes of gala lights. Smiled ‘that’ smile that belongs to you and only you.
All because you might have propositioned a different Heir.
And Caleb knows that you know, just as you know he knows. His expression shifts ever so slightly, a harshness joining the boyish, playful aura.
“What’s a little kiss on the cheek when you’re sendin’ letters to strange men?”
“It was part of a scheme.” You retort, silently assessing your positioning. The moon is high in the sky now, dappling the pristine floors with a bluish hue from the high windows, but also casting convenient shadows where it hits the columns. If you maneuver Caleb into the moonlight with it at your back, you’ll have the visual advantage. “I wasn’t going to actually sleep with him.”
“I know.” He says, twirling his sword with practiced ease with those stupidly long and pretty fingers. “But you still used—” He tilts his head to the side, infuriatingly cocky as he pitches his voice in a mimicry of your own. “—'seductive' language.” Another shift in attitude, and his gaze on you is suddenly ice cold. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You take two long strides towards him, angling your strikes to force him into a specific position in the moonlight. But your plan fails before it can take shape, as Caleb breaks the rules of engagement, snatching a dagger that was hidden in his belt, and using it and his sword to catch your blade in a pincer attack, then stepping close, so close that you’re forced to release your weapon in an attempt to escape.
Two swords clatter to the floor, his and yours, then you’re caught, one of his hands on the small of your back, pressing you to his chest, the other hand - the one with the dagger - softly resting on your shoulder. The blade is directed away from you, and his unwillingness to press the metal to your neck has you angrier than you’ve ever been.
“Let go.” You try to shove away, your palms pressed to his chest, but he keeps you close, pressing his lips to the crown of your head.
“Tell me.” He murmurs, tone soft, yet with sharper undercurrents. “Where’d you learn to talk like that, hmm, my dear baby sister?”
“What if I say another man taught me?” You strike his chest with your fists a few times for good measure, but give up on struggling, instead biting at his shirt collar, your frustration and the intoxicating scent of him making you feel like a caged animal. “What’re you going to do about it?”
“Well,” He intones, the hand on your lower back pressing down just a bit too hard. “, first I’d sit down with this ‘man’ and have a nice, cozy chat. And then I’d politely tell him to stay away from my most precious person. And then…” He drops his voice, moving to murmur in your ear. “...I’d leave his mutilated corpse on your bed.”
“I’d make you clean it up.” You mutter sourly at the mental image, rolling onto your tiptoes and biting at his neck this time, making him hiss. With how tightly your pelvis is pressed to his, it’s impossible not to feel him start to get aroused. So, you bite the other side of his neck for good measure, sucking at this one, leaving a hickey beside the red marks from your teeth. Yet Caleb doesn’t release you, even as a strangled moan escapes from deep in his throat.
“No, pips.” The hand resting on your shoulder tangles in the hair at the nape of your neck, Caleb’s grip tight enough to sting, and he forces your head back, looming over you, eyes fixing on yours. “We’ve been over this.”
“Been over what?” You press against him, your tone shifting, becoming petulant. “Big brother.”
“You know exactly what.” He murmurs, grip on your hair still tight, even as he oh-so-gently kisses your forehead, letting his lips linger. “...’m not doin’ anything to you unless you say it straight.”
Your lips purse in a scowl. He knows what you want without you having to say anything. He can sense it as if he’s rooted in your very soul. Hell, he can probably smell it on you, like pheromones pooling from an eager and willing mate. But asking him to give you what you want would mean you’d lose this game. Just like him asking you would be his loss. So you're left to lunge at each other like this, growl and hiss through your blades, as heat and desire coil like twin serpents.
He kisses your cheek next, then nuzzles your face. “Clean off that old hag’s touch, will you, pips?”
You don’t hesitate, licking his cheek where she kissed him, making trails of saliva that reflect the moonlight. And you leave a bite mark there too. Just for good measure. He hums, pleased, but still doesn’t release you.
“Still waitin’ on that explanation, pips.”
A snarl escapes you, but it’s clear that either you submit to this specific desire of his, or the two of you might remain in this rather juvenile stalemate until you’re both starved enough to pass out. So, you sigh and roll your eyes.
“My maid snuck in smutty books. I took lines from those to write the letter.”
He hums again, the sound accompanied by the tiniest notes of both relief and aggravation. “Careful expecting your first time to be like what you read in smut novels.” His hands on you relax, allowing a mote of space between your bodies. “It’s—” He moves his head to nip at the end of your nose, his purple eyes brighter, now, more playful, while his tone is low. “—goin' to be a lot more intense and passionate in real life.”
“I dunno.” You retort, willing the small amount of space between your lips and his to close. “Maybe I’ll be utterly disappointed, because I’ll just go out and find any old man to get it over with.”
“Doesn’t have to be that way.” He murmurs, gaze falling to your lips, then back to your eyes. “It just takes a few words, pipsqueak. Command me, if it makes it easier.”
Heat pools low, coiling, burning yet cool and smooth, the serpent’s scales after summer rain. You push away from Caleb, urgently needing space to stop your restraint from melting like spun sugar in the summer sun. Similarly to the day you woke up to see his blood flowing into you, the day he fed you for the first time, marked you irrevocably inside and out, you’re starving again, but at a level so deep it feels like you’ll never be sated; never be satisfied. Part of you wonders if you’ll have to devour Caleb whole, beyond these games, beyond sex, to finally feel whole, if there even is such a thing for a twisted creature like yourself.
Caleb doesn’t let you escape, snagging your wrist. “I’ll walk you back to your quarters.”
You don’t meet his eyes but nod all the same. You wanted more time with him anyway. And maybe you can convince him to stay with you tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time the maids came in to see you and your ‘big brother’ sleeping in the same bed.
Caleb’s grip on your wrist loosens before he entwines his fingers with yours. “I’d give you anything you ask for, pipsqueak. You know that, right?”
You still can’t meet his eyes. But you hear it in his voice: the honesty, alongside the brutal truth. He would give you anything. But he can’t. Because neither of you can truly call anything your own. Not your personal belongings. Not your personal spaces. Not even your bodies. All of it belongs to the faceless people who design the race to the top of the Cosmic Empire; this game, with its spectating nobles who place bets on which Heir will win, as if you and Caleb are just pure-bred horses who know nothing but a circular track.
Around and around. Again and again.
One moment with a wreath of flowers around your neck. The next: A noose.
“Pips.” Caleb murmurs, pulling you close again, kissing all over your cheeks, your eyes. “I’ll stay the night with you, okay? Big brother’s sorry for letting someone get too close.”
“You better not let it happen again.” You mutter, pouting a bit. “I’ll stab you in your sleep.”
“Okay.” He chuckles, ghosting a kiss on the tip of your nose. “Make sure to strike true, okay? I wouldn’t want anyone else to finish me off.”
“The same goes for me.” You sigh, exhaustion sapping the strength from your limbs, and you drape your arms around his neck, silently asking to be carried. And of course he complies, picking you up with ease, as you hum, “Make sure to stab me right through the heart, and lie next to me until my last breath.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
You’ve seen Caleb kill people before, but this time, and on the day of his seventeenth birthday, it feels personal. He left the corpse out for all to see. To send a message. Yet Caleb’s reasoning beguiles you. The deceased had only questioned why you and Caleb shared no familial features despite your ostensible blood ties. The dead man’s simple, silly statement would’ve been forgotten with so many people at the banquet trying to talk over each other.
So, when you go to ask Caleb his reasoning, finding him in his quarters, him reading on his bed while only wearing a relaxed, open doublet and breeches, you’re already a bit sour.
“Now everyone is talking.” You remark as you close the door behind you, your eyes flicking over the corners of his rooms, finding the windows open to the outside, his bed freshly made with pale linens, and the doors to the study and bathroom closed shut. “Why bother killing someone who wasn’t even an Heir?”
Caleb shuts the book, resting it on his chest as you approach. “I considered his question an insult, duh.”
“Okay…” You sit on the edge of the bed, intentionally not climbing into his lap, as you would usually do. He needs to explain himself first. “Was that insult worth having people pay us a bit too much attention nowadays?”
Caleb exhales through his nose, fingers drumming on the cover of the book as he takes you in. “Yeah. To me. I’m kinda surprised it isn’t a big deal to you too, pips.”
You stop to consider the situation. In a world where neither you nor Caleb can lay claim to anything, calling each other ‘sibling’ is as close as you can get to creating an autonomous persona. Something 'human' and utterly your own. And your dynamic makes sense, in your twisted mind. ‘Siblings’ share blood. Caleb shared his blood with you to save your life. ‘Siblings’ will always be connected, in life and in death, and you and Caleb will always be the first to save each other’s lives as much as you’ll be responsible for each other’s deaths.
It’s obscene. But it’s also precious. A perfect mirror to the way that you and Caleb orbit each other. A consensual game of house that no one else has any right to understand, much less question.
You hum appreciatively, now understanding. “I take it back. You should've cut him into pieces, too.”
“That’s my girl.” Caleb opens his arms, and you eagerly crawl into his embrace, tucking your face into his neck and breathing him in. It’s hard not to notice how his physique has become so tall and broad over the years. Especially when he can wrap you in his arms so easily. Gone are the two scrawny children who stood back to back during fights with other young Heirs, who licked each other's bloody wounds. Left are two ambitious villains who endlessly search to satisfy the cold emptiness in their chests.
“Caleb.” You murmur, caught between a comfortable drowsiness and a sense of playful teasing. “How were you able to donate blood to me back then? Each Heir’s physiology is so unique that it shouldn't be possible.”
“We’re from the same source.” He replies, nuzzling into your hair.
Your eyes roll of their own accord. “That’s just something you say all the time, dummy.”
“It’s true, though.” He says, and you pull back enough to meet his eyes as he explains. “The same Primordial Fragment that made you ‘you’ is also the one that made me ‘me’.” A wink, a kiss to your forehead. “Or maybe I was made from one of your ribs in some bygone era.”
“Okay, Eve of Eden.” You stick your tongue out at him. “Then I’m the older one, right? So what I say goes.”
“No no no.” He pinches your nose, expression wry. “I’m the older one this time. Unless you want to give up your place as spoiled baby sister.”
“Hmm…” You hum, trying to appear as if you’re seriously considering the idea, then shake your head dramatically, copying some of his mannerisms with practiced ease. “Nope. I’m good being the baby.”
“Still,” He intones playfully, “, we have to gather evidence before decidin’ that I can't be the spoiled younger one.” His hands find your waist, and you can’t help but squirm a bit at how his fingers indent into your flesh, stroking over skin, muscle, the arch of your ribs, thumbs stroking over each bone one by one, all the way down to your waist. “All accounted for.” He remarks, hands trailing to your stomach. “But maaaybe something’s missin’ here?”
“Caleb!” You squeal and squirm in earnest when he starts to tickle you, eventually managing to pin one wrist over his head, though it takes you using both hands. His free one settles on your waist, fingers massaging into your hip bone.
“This one’s also accounted for.” He says, tone dropping, eyes never leaving yours. “Guess I gotta check lower.”
Your breath catches when he makes good on his word, hand slipping down, around, cupping your ass as his fingers come dangerously close to your core.
“Caleb...” A shiver travels up your spine, making it arch just slightly, your body instinctively goading him on.
“What?” He says, playing innocent. “Need something, pipsqueak?"
You hiss through your teeth and press your forehead to his, coming so, so close to kissing, but not crossing that last, final line. The proximity only makes the growing ache between your thighs worse.
Caleb’s voice drops to a husky tenor. “Just ask.”
“No.”
“It can just be a few, simple words.” He intones, brushing his nose against yours. “I won’t even get mad if my baby sister uses naughty words. As long as she gets what she wants.”
You should pull away. Slap him for good measure, even if you know he’ll like it.
Instead, you shift your hips, grinding against him. There’s momentary relief, your body celebrating, only for more desire to crash down, flooding your veins. Yet it’s Caleb that prevents you from losing the game by kissing him and utterly pleading for him to take you right then and there. His palm on your mouth is callused and warm.
“Pips.” He leans in to whisper in your ear. “We’ve got a visitor.”
The immediacy with which your body goes from aroused to prepared for a fight is like being thrown from a hot bath into an ice-cold lake. In less than a second, you and Caleb are rolling off the bed, just barely avoiding a projectile that would’ve slammed into the back of your skull.
“Never gets boring, does it?” Caleb remarks coldly, pulling a dagger from his belt.
“Nope.” You mutter, relishing the fact that the assassin's blood will soon be dripping from your hands. “Never does.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
The gardens have always been your and Caleb’s ‘place’. But, after today, they will no longer be. Even your best tantrums and tears weren’t enough to prevent him from applying to the Federation’s military academy. So, today the two of you sit side by side, on the same white bench that you always do, your forms hidden behind the wall of flowers that’s currently blooming with vined lilies.
“Must you go to that… weird academy?” You mutter for the umpteenth time.
“It’s the Glory Federation’s Interstellar Military Academy.” He replies patiently, “It’s the best military school in the galaxy.” He shoots you a knowing smile. “You saw the acceptance email a long time ago and even filed it under ‘Not Interested'.”
You scowl, mentally chastising yourself for not deleting the email outright. Still, you know that Caleb’s ambition would've had him leave your side eventually. And his departure is also somewhat of a survival strategy. The two of you have acquired enough power in your own, separate ways that you’ve become twin suns within a singular galaxy, the ripples of your matched gravity threatening to destroy everything the two of you have built. And neither of you is willing to submit to the other. To dim your light, even if to stay within the same orbit.
Thus, all you can do is pluck a wilted flower, twirling the spent bloom between your fingers. “The Federation despises imperial citizens. They might never let you graduate.”
“Don’t worry.” He looks away for a moment, only to meet your eyes again with an encouraging smile. “I’ll be going there as a neutral planet’s heir. No one will cause trouble.”
This stings more than you thought. Caleb revoking his position as an Imperial Heir is as close as he can get to no longer being your so-called brother. So, you can’t help but pout a bit more; the emptiness in your chest never so vast as in this very moment.
“...But if you go to the Federation, you’ll have to start over.”
“Starting from scratch to reach the position of High Marshal sounds exciting, though?” He counters.
“But—”
You only just stop yourself before saying, ‘If you become the high Marshal, you won’t be just my Caleb anymore.’
Caleb pokes the space between your worry lines, leaning closer. “No ‘buts’. Don’t you trust me? When you’re the Empress, and I’m the High Marshal, we can change the current relationship between the Empire and the Federation.”
“Who knows if that will be the case.” You mutter, avoiding his gaze. “When you leave, I won’t be able to talk to anyone.”
In truth, it's more than just losing the only person you actively enjoy talking with. Whom you trust to keep your deepest secrets. Both of you have spent so long pursuing the upper hand against each other, all for the sake of feeling the euphoria of losing to each other. Like birds of prey whose mating dance is risking death in free-fall, then rising again only to do it again: devotion exemplified in bloody claws and clashing beaks. Still, Caleb tries to soothe you with both words and actions.
“How is that possible? You’re the future empress. There will be plenty of people doing everything they can to win your favor.” He bends down to pick a Nebulasia Apple Blossom from the flower bed and pins it to your collar. “They’re like this flower. Regardless of its rarity, all you need to do is look at it a little longer, and it shall bloom forever in your garden.”
“...I know.” You admit, but they can be tiresome sometimes. They’re nothing compared to you.”
The words are hardly enough to convey what you feel. By losing Caleb, you’re losing half of yourself, and he’s losing half of himself. But neither of you are willing to back down or even verbalize that loss, with Caleb simply remarking,
“Power always means enduring a few minor inconveniences. But—” He catches your gaze, that intoxicating purple never wavering. “But with me, you can always be that willful little sister.” The statement is enough to make you want to cry in your vulnerable state, though such a thing is impossible, and he seems to sense this, following up with, “I'll be leaving in a month. Aside from your gift, is there anything you want?”
“Anything?” You ask.
“Yes. Anything.”
You inhale the scent of summer flowers and fruits growing in the garden, rich and lush to the point of being overwhelming. Like the candy Caleb fed you oh-so long ago; like the warm, wet taste of his blood in your mouth. You've wanted him for so long. So why not give in now, when there's nothing else to lose?
The obscene request rushes out before you can stop it, then you’re tilting your head up and pressing your lips to his. You’ve always been curious about what his kisses would taste like. Would they be sweet, like apples? Rich, like blood? What would you want them to taste like?
The answer is ‘Just like this.’
Surrender isn’t bitter at all. Not when you’re so desperate. So many years denying yourself, and the culmination of it all feels like a star imploding. And Caleb is the same, evidenced by how he’s grabbing your waist too roughly, pulling you close, too much tongue and teeth, one hand tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, causing stinging pain that’s nearly orgasmic. You scratch at him in return, fingers clawed as if you could pry open his ribcage and leave part of yourself there. Maybe switch your hearts so that he has yours and you his.
The embrace results in the two of you rolling into the grass, one kiss bleeding into another so quickly that you can't breathe. The two of you shouldn’t be doing this here. Only hidden by the flower wall. Yet it feels right to be shaded by the lilies and apple trees, with their heady, sweet scents.
But you’re not willing to entirely submit. Since you can’t cage Caleb like a flightless bird, can’t keep him by your side by force, then your pride demands he at least leave with a leash around his neck. Something, anything, to connect the two of you.
Or maybe you won't need to find such a chain. Because the way he looks down at you, purple eyes hooded, face flushed, breaths heavy, is almost an admission: He leashed himself to you the first day you met. Infected you in turn, so that no one else could lay claim to what was his from before the primordial chaos was irreparably fractured.
So, you eagerly spread your legs for him, your needy gaze no less demanding, dress hiking up, and he’s already on top of you, his gloved hand sliding between your thighs as he presses close. Leather-clad fingers slip past your panties, and your back reflexively arches when he slides one inside.
“No.” You whine, trying to be quiet. "Not like this...”
“What?” He teases, voice husky as he smirks at you. “My baby sister needs to tell me what she wants.”
“No gloves—” You nearly scream in ecstasy when his thumb finds your clit, smearing slick, the leather too smooth where you want rough skin. “Please-please-want to feel you—”
“Okay, okay.” He hurriedly strips them off with his teeth before diving back in, placing placating, hungry kisses on your jaw and lips. “Don’t cry. I’ll give you everything. Just like I promised—” Finally, he sinks his fingers into you, warm, calloused from countless sword fights, from guns, from punches and strikes. A shared history of violence. You clutch at his shirt, the leather strap across his uniform digging into your palm, your eyes rolling back when he curls his fingers just so. All of the nights you spend imagining this pale in comparison. Rather than a slow, heated sink into pleasure, this feels like a match to gasoline; a predator sinking its teeth into its first kill.
Your teeth even find his neck, and you growl as yet another wave of ecstasy swoops up your spine. Caleb’s resulting moan reverberates through your bones, breathy, high-strung. He may evade your traps and countless attempts to keep him chained to your side, but falls so willingly to the pain you provide. He’s also still your big brother, too. Always careful: doting and gentle.
“Is this okay?” He gasps out, “Here?”
You just bite down harder, then lick up the long, pretty line of his throat, your base instincts howling that if he doesn’t fuck you right this instant, you’ll pin him down and get the job done yourself.
The sound of a zipper announces you won’t have to do that, though. And the thick tip of his arousal pushes into you, but only so far, Caleb letting out a desperate, pained whimper right into your ear. Your knees cage his waist, goading him on, deeper, even as you feel him tremble. It’s intoxicating to see him fall apart because of you; your tight heat; your submission and dominance.
He rolls his hips, thrusting just a bit deeper, being far too careful for your liking. So you can’t help but make this game a bit more fun.
“Make it hurt.” You breathe, rolling your hips in turn, feeling the swollen head of his cock drive deeper. “Split me apart. Break your baby sister open.”
His breath catches, desire, disgust, and desperation combining. It’s like when the two of you go for joint kills. You like to feel the blood on your hands, the sting of punches, while he is often more removed, killing at a distance, bullets to brains, clean and tidy. But you can’t let him leave unmarked this time. So you whine like a cockdrunk whore and cant your hips to meet his. Asking. Pleading. Inviting death, pain, and ruin because it’s him.
And he falls.
In one, brutal thrust, he slams into you, tearing your hymen, and a strangled scream escapes your throat at the rush of pain and pleasure. Warm blood gushes down between your legs, staining both of you crimson red, dripping into the grass, the earth, Eden receiving proof that this union is right. Meant to be since before time began.
Yet, for his harsh, bullying thrusts, Caleb’s hold on you is gentle. All surrounding. Utterly devoted. And contrasting so deliciously with the sick, wet squelches of blood and slick.
He leans back, then, grasping your waist, his eyes moving down to where the two of you are connected. Locked together. So, to make this sin eternal, you take one of his hands, leading it down, smearing his fingers in crimson. And he doesn't disappoint, diving in for another overwhelming kiss and breathing against your lips,
“I made you bleed. Your blood is mine. Every part of you is mine.”
Retreating again, he licks the blood from his hand, then kisses you harder, his tongue spreading the taste of copper into your mouth, mixing with the sour-sweet of your own arousal.
If only God could find the two of you here. Or perhaps the devil. You’d grin at either with teeth stained with your own blood, ripped from you by your most precious, hated, beloved person.
Caleb’s thrusts start to stutter, his breathing catching high in his throat. He’s trying so hard not to cum first. Even as your body greedily devours his again and again. But you’re going to win this game; you’re going to see him fall apart. And only then will you follow.
“Caleb.” You moan his name, knowing what it does to him, how it makes him weak. “Caleb.”
He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, remaining there, each ragged breath hot against your skin. Tingling pleasure coils deep and low when he spreads you wider, wordlessly answering your desires, molding your body so that he can brutally fuck your barren womb. What you wouldn’t give for his seed to take. But instead, you’ll settle for blood and bruises. Again and again. An entire month of debauchery until Caleb spreads his wings.
He cries out your name when he cums, cock embedded so deep that you choke, throat closing, breath stolen, before following him into that endless void. Weightless. Falling. Flying. You wonder if the two of you will awaken after this with feathered wings. Perhaps as two birds. Perhaps as a lone seraph finally made whole again. To fly as one. To fall as one.
Maybe then the two of you will finally be free.