7,536 words * ˛ ✦ ･ “Fuck, your mouth is almost as greedy as hers,” Caleb pants, drawing back to watch Zayne’s tongue dip beside his own invasion. Their lips brush accidentally—in a smear of shared slick, wine, the taste of her cunt and sweat—and instead of recoiling they surge closer, kissing messily across her soaked folds, trading her arousal mouth-to-mouth while fingers work in tandem: Zayne scissoring slow, Caleb thrusting faster, a rhythm that leaves her sobbing syllables that aren’t words. She tries to rock, but their combined forearms trap her. “Take it, darling,” Zayne rasps, lips shiny. “Take what we give.”
WARNINGS: caleb x reader x zayne / third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – divergent of throne of eros, DILF!caleb and DILF!zayne — significant age difference, erotic feeding (?), inspired by wikipedia entries, canon-compliant incest (for caleb) — heavy usage of "little sister", possessiveness, shifting povs — caleb and zayne's perspectives, mentions of violence, dirty talk, making out, groping, teasing, manhandling, fingering, cunnilingus, edging, double penetration, dubious consent at some parts, creampie, handwavy magical scifi politics (don't quote me).
The Nebulasia Chamber Incident (colloquially known as the "Warp Point Night" or "Triumvirate Treaty") was a pivotal political and personal event occurring on the Alore Galaxy, 650 CY, within the private dining chambers of the Imperial Sovereign at the Celestial Palace. The incident involved Her Imperial Majesty the Empress, High Marshal Caleb Xia, and Grand General Zayne Li, and is widely regarded by modern historians as the moment when dynastic loyalty, military authority, and personal sovereignty crystallized into a unified—albeit scandalous—governing force that stabilized the Empire during the Galactic Wars.
Primary sources, though fragmented and often classified, suggest that a private dinner intended to discuss the Velytio warp signature crisis devolved into an extended breach of protocol that permanently altered the power structure of the Imperial court.
》 BACKGROUND
Political Climate of 650 CY
By 650 CY, the Empire faced existential pressure from the Federation's expansion into the Neutral Lanes. The Velytio system's newly stable warp signature offered a strategic corridor that could either secure Imperial supply lines or grant Federation fleets direct access to the Southward Rings. The Empress, then twenty-three standard years old and in her first year ruling, was under intense scrutiny to secure an alliance with the Lorne Galaxy's merchant houses, a negotiation that hinged on her consent to a politically advantageous marriage to House Velytio's heir—a prospect she had repeatedly deferred.
High Marshal Caleb Xia of the Glory Federation, the Empress's older brother, had returned to the capital only a year prior to witness his little sister's coronation. His military reforms had centralized power within the Glory Federation, effectively bypassing the traditional General Staff. This created tension with Grand General Zayne Li, the Empress's former tutor in military strategy, who commanded the loyalty of the old-guard officer corps and was rumoured to be drafting a contingency memo—known in later intelligence leaks as the "Nebulasia Protocol"—that would transfer executive authority to a military triumvirate should the Empress's perceived hesitation threaten Imperial stability.
Declassified correspondence from the period indicates that many within the High Command believed Zayne had already committed to initiating the protocol within the quarter.
Personal Histories and the Triangle of Power
The dynamic between the three figures was a subject of court speculation long before the incident. Caleb Xia, born in 605 CY, had been separated from his sister at age twelve; his time away remains—to this day—confidential. His return in 628 CY, bearing the rank of High Marshal and a personal retinue loyal only to him, was seen by many as a calculated move to secure dynastic control through familial ties.
Court diaries from Lady Tara, a lady-in-waiting, describe Caleb's "proprietary gaze" and his tendency to address the Empress in diminutives that "blur the line between fraternal affection and something far less proper."
Zayne Li's relationship was no less complicated. Recruited at forty-two (though service records suggest he may have been far older) from the Special Forces, he served first as the Empress's weapons instructor, then as her primary tutor, before becoming the Grand General. Oral histories from retired palace staff consistently describe his penchant for formality so absolute it bordered on ritual.
Yet several encrypted dispatches, later cracked by Imperial Intelligence, reveal that Zayne had repeatedly requested reassignment to frontier posts to "extinguish an untenable proximity." His requests were denied by the Empress personally, with margin notes reading: The Crown requires its sharpest blade at hand, not scattered across the void.
The Empress herself remains an enigmatic figure in the historical record. While regnal chronicles praise her "unwavering consolidation of authority" and "strategic neutrality," personal accounts paint a portrait of a young sovereign caught between two opposing gravitational forces. A fragmentary journal, attributed to her and discovered in a hidden compartment of the Celestial Throne in 812 CY, contains a single relevant entry:
They treat me as glass in the council room and fire in the sparring ring. I tire of being both fragile and untouchable. Tonight, I will be neither.
》 THE INCIDENT
The Dinner Invitation
On the eve prior to the Velytio Accords signing, the Empress sent handwritten invitations to both Caleb and Zayne for a "private strategic review" in her personal dining chamber. According to the Palace Steward's log, the request was unusual: dinner for three, no security detail beyond the door, and a specific menu featuring Nebulasia berries and a 610 vintage wine.
The steward noted that the Empress ordered her ceremonial armor removed, specifying "silk only" for the evening—a detail that later fuelled speculation about premeditation.
The chamber itself was a small, twelve-seat room adjacent to the Empress's private observatory, noted for its view of the Lorne Warp Point. Servants' testimony, collected decades later in the memoirs of an aged retainer long-retired, describe the setting as "overly intimate for state business; the sort of space one uses for confessions, not fleet deployments."
The Breach of Protocol
Accounts of the evening's progression rely heavily on three sources: the fragmented remains of a security audio recording (the recording crystal mysteriously shattered but had been partially reconstructed), physical evidence catalogued during a sealed investigation in 729 CY, and the warp point observatory's astronomical logs.
The audio, though corrupted, captures the first hour as a tense discussion of warp signatures and Federation codes before shifting to personal anecdotes. Caleb speaks of his seventh birthday; Zayne, in a rare moment of candour, mentions his first command in the Southern Rings. The Empress, according to voice-stress analysis, exhibits a marked decrease in formal speech patterns around the third hour.
The "breach," as it was later codified in internal reports, appears to have commenced shortly after the dessert course.
Physical evidence—analysed in the sealed report—includes:
Textile Analysis: The Empress's silk tunic, recovered from a private incinerator chute, showed biological matter consistent with two male donors and wine compounds. The fabric was torn, not cut.
Tabletop Forensics: The obsidian dining table bore impact fractures matching human weight and movement, with residue traces of crystallized sugar, wine, and biological fluids. The report noted "patterns inconsistent with conventional dining."
Servant Eyewitness (subjective): The retainer describes hearing "prolonged vocalisations of distress and pleasure" and being ordered, via a locked door, to "clear the hall until dawn." Upon morning entry, she noted shattered crystal-ware, "displaced furniture suggesting struggle," and a persistent scent that she, in a coy phrase, called "the nebula after rain." The reconstructed audio captures the Empress issuing a command at 03:47 standard time: "Then show me what you've both been waiting decades to teach me." The recording terminates in static at 03:48.
The Warp Point Alignment Witness Account
The most controversial piece of evidence comes from the Celestial Observatory's logs. At 03:51, the Lorne Warp Point underwent an unscheduled fluctuation, its violet nebula flaring to record brightness for seventeen minutes before stabilizing.
Astronomer Third Class Thomas, on night watch, logged the event as "possible gravitational anomaly" but later, in a smuggled letter to a dissident journal, wrote: The nebula didn't just flare—it pulsed. As if the universe itself was watching something it couldn't look away from. The timing was… obscene.
This "Nebulasia Flare" became a cornerstone for both proponents and sceptics of the incident's significance. Some historians dismiss it as coincidence; others argue it was the warp point's exotic matter reacting to extreme emotional resonance within the palace's shielded core—a theory that, while scientifically disputed, persists in popular lore.
Aftermath and Cover-Up
The morning after saw the Empress sign the Velytio Accords with unusual swiftness, granting the Federation unlimited warp access in exchange for military non-aggression. Witnesses reported she sat rigidly, flanked by both Caleb and Zayne, and that her signature was "firmer than typical, as if pressed by an unseen weight." The treaty's success defused immediate war, but it also ended all discussion of her political marriage—House Velytio's heir withdrew his suit citing "irreconcilable differences in temperament," a diplomatic phrase widely interpreted as evidence that rumours had already spread.
An internal investigation was launched by the Palace Shadow Council but was sealed by the Empress's executive order within days. All physical evidence was classified or destroyed.
However, the "Crystal Shard Brief"—a forensic report on the shattered goblets—was leaked in 711 CY. It concluded that the crystal had been broken by "significant force applied at a low angle, consistent with a body being pressed against a tabletop." The brief also noted unusual chemical residues but redacted the specific compounds, citing "sovereign privacy protocols."
Servants who had been on duty that night were either promoted to positions requiring absolute loyalty or discreetly reassigned to frontier estates.
The retainer's memoirs, published posthumously in 690 CY, were the first public account, though they were immediately banned. She—allegedly—wrote: It wasn't rape, and it wasn't romance. It was coronation by another name. They crowned her with their teeth, and she wore the marks like a diadem better than she did with the crown-jewels themselves.
》 PRIMARY SOURCES AND EVIDENCE
Modern scholarship relies on a patchwork of classified documents, material evidence, and cultural artefacts:
The "Nebulasia Protocol" Memo (Partial): Declassified in 711 CY, this document confirms Zayne was indeed drafting a contingency for military takeover, with a target implementation date of 650 CY. A handwritten margin note reads: Parameters altered. New model viable. Await Phase Two. Historians debate whether "Phase Two" refers to the incident or its political aftermath.
Caleb Xia's Service Journal: Found in a private vault after his death in 670 CY, the journal contains no direct mention of the night but features a cryptic entry dated in the year 650: Treaty signed. Variables aligned. Little sister no longer negotiates from weakness.
The Empress's Hidden Journal: The fragment discovered in the throne mentions "two gates" and "a seal that bleeds." While ambiguous, palaeographic analysis dates the entry to within a week of the incident.
Material Culture: A single glove, identified as Zayne's by its monogrammed rank insignia, survived in a private collection. It bears stains that forensic testing in 720 CY confirmed were a mixture of Nebulasia berry juice, wine, and biological material from three distinct donors. The glove was reportedly recovered from the chamber's waste chute, wrapped in the Empress's torn tunic.
Oral Tradition: Among the descendants of palace staff, a whispered legend persists: "When the warp point flares violet, the three crowns still touch." This folk memory suggests the event, while officially erased, remained a touchstone for those who served.
》 POLITICAL EFFECTS AND CONSEQUENCES
The incident's immediate effect was the consolidation of what scholars call the "Triangular Sovereignty." Within a year, the Empress restructured the High Command, creating the Office of the Triumvirate—a formal body consisting of herself, Caleb, and Zayne, which held veto power over all military and foreign policy decisions. While presented as an efficiency measure, it effectively ended the General Staff's independence and merged dynastic authority with military loyalty.
The Glory Federation, perhaps sensing the internal shift, proved more accommodating in subsequent negotiations. Glory Federation Ambassador Viper's classified cables, declassified and released in the 780 CY, described the Imperial delegation as "unsettlingly unified, as if personal and political had fused into something we cannot exploit."
The political marriage negotiations were permanently shelved.
Domestically, the incident marked the end of the "Proxy Wars" between military and civil factions. Zayne's "Nebulasia Protocol" was never implemented; instead, he became the architect of the Imperial Defence Perimeter. Caleb's authority as High Marshal became absolute, his proximity to the throne stopped becoming considered as a threat.
The dynastic implications were messier. The Empress never married and bore no acknowledged heir, a fact that led to the Succession Crisis of 690 CY.
However, supporters of the Triangular Sovereignty argue that her decision was strategic: by refusing to dilute her line, she ensured that her successors would be chosen by merit, not blood, fundamentally altering Imperial governance.
》 CULTURAL DEPICTIONS
Due to censorship laws, direct artistic representation of the incident is forbidden. However, allegorical works abound:
The Violet Flare Opera (c. 720 CY) depicts three stars merging into a pulsing nebula, with a libretto referencing "three crowns, one seal."
The Skyhaven Tapestry (c. 749 CY), officially titled Triumph at Velytio, features three interwoven silver threads on a violet background, a motif scholars universally recognize.
Contemporary Memetic Verse: The anonymous poem Three Gates circulates on dark data-nets: One leaves, one stays, one commands the night / At Nebulasia's table, they forgot to fight / The warp point watched, the berries bled / And crowns were forged in a single bed.
》 SEE ALSO
Triangular Sovereignty (Political Theory)
Velytio Accords
Galactic Wars (660-675 CY)
Imperial Succession Crisis of 690 CY
Warp Point Phenomena and Emotional Resonance Theory (Pseudoscience)
Caleb reduces a sauce with one eye on the stirring spoon and the other on the Empress, who sits at the head of the table wearing nothing more formal than a silk tunic, her ceremonial armor abandoned at the door. "Only my little sister gets the real recipe," Caleb murmurs, plating with a flourish that betrays his Skyhaven training—every gesture efficient, almost military-precise, but the smile he casts her is made of pure nostalgia.
"The Federation officers get the replicated version."
Zayne stands at the wine vault, his scarred fingers selecting a bottle of wine. He is forty-two, perhaps forty-five, though nobody knows his real age—and none dare ask when his eyes visibly carry the weight of three lifetimes.
The label reads 617 Nebulasia Vintage, older than the Empress by exactly a decade.
"Your Majesty," he says, and the title hangs between them like a chaperone, overly formal for a chamber where the only witnesses are the nebula outside and Caleb's heavy gaze.
The first course passes in a strategic discussion about Velytio's warp signature, Federation access codes, Lorne Galaxy's price for neutrality. Caleb speaks with his mouth full, deliberately improper, watching the Empress's lips twitch; whereas, Zayne cuts his portions into precise squares, his fork never scraping the porcelain.
They are men of different disciplines: one taught by war, the other by anatomy.
"You're not eating," Caleb observes, pointing his fork at the Empress.
He spears a morsel from her plate—his own fork, no ceremony—and extends it across the table. The gesture is so casually possessive that Zayne's hand tightens around his wine glass subconsciously. The Empress accepts, her mouth closing over the tines, and Caleb's throat works as he swallows something that isn't food.
Zayne looks away, but his jaw is tight.
By the third course, the wine has softened the edges and blurred the sharp lines drawn in the sand.
Caleb tells the story of his seventh birthday, when he locked her in his chambers to protect her from the knights, then got distracted leading a counter-attack with a candelabra and too many curtains to count.
"I came back three hours later, you were asleep like a sack of flour. Looked like a little ghost."
The Empress laughs, a sound that makes Zayne's fingers pause on the bottle's neck. He hasn't heard that specific timbre directed at anyone but him in months of appointments and private lectures. He pours himself more wine—an uncharacteristic move for someone who measures the possibility of intoxication in micrograms.
"Your turn," Caleb says, gesturing with his glass. "Share something, General. Can't have you sitting there like an ice sculpture."
Zayne's gaze flicks between them. He is not a man who shares, but the Empress watches him with those eyes, and he finds himself speaking of his first shift, of leaving fruits on the window for spirits that never came. "There was a crash in the Southern Rings. We didn't rest." It's not a story, not really, but Caleb leans forward, intrigued by the glimpse of the man beneath the medals and valour.
"You believe in spirits?" Caleb asks.
"I believe in patterns," Zayne replies. "The patterns that lead to death. The patterns that can be broken."
The Empress reaches for a bowl of Nebulasia berries, her fingers brushing Zayne's as he moves to help. She holds his gaze—something she has never done in the council room, where he is merely her Grand General while she is the Crown itself—and selects a single berry.
Her thumb presses it to his lower lip. "Try," she says.
It is not a command; it is a test.
Zayne's mouth opens, his lips barely parting. The berry disappears, and his eyes never leave hers. Caleb watches this exchange, his own fork frozen mid-air. He sees the way Zayne's throat moves, the way his shoulders drop a fraction, the way his hand, scarred and steady, reaches for the edge of the table as if for balance despite sitting down.
Caleb's smile is slow, sharp. "So the ice does melt."
Zayne's expression doesn't change, but his knuckles whiten. "Certain temperatures are unavoidable."
The Empress leans back, her gaze moving between them. She is twenty-three—decades younger than either man at the table. Yet the power in the room is hers and hers alone, a gravity that has pulled these two opposites into her orbit.
Caleb, the brother who left and returned as conqueror.
Zayne, the teacher who would betray her to save her.
The dessert arrives: something frozen, meringue-thin, shattering at the touch of a spoon. Caleb feeds her again, but this time the Empress catches his wrist. "Your turn," she says, and he opens his mouth like a supplicant, letting her slide the spoon between his teeth.
His lips close over it, and his eyes—purple and endless—dare her to look away.
She doesn't.
Zayne watches the line of Caleb's throat as he swallows; he watches the way the her fingers linger on Caleb's wrist a moment too long. He should look away. Should make an excuse about dawn patrols or medical inventories. But his body betrays him, the same way it betrayed him when he first taught her to hold a weapon, her hands small and certain over his scarred ones.
"Another bottle," Caleb says, not asking.
Zayne uncorks it, but his gaze is on the curve of her mouth, on the way she licks crystallized sugar from her lower lip. He thinks of medical texts, of cardiovascular response to stimuli, of the way stress manifests in dilated pupils and increased respiration. His own breathing has gone shallow without his notice.
But Caleb notices, he notices everything.
"You're watching her like she's a diagnosis, General," Caleb says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the table.
"I'm watching her," Zayne replies, "like she's the only variable that matters."
She becomes still. Caleb's smile grows. The nebula outside pulses, casting violet shadows across Zayne's face, softening the hard lines of years of plotting and scheming. For a moment, he doesn't look like the Grand General who could order a planet's destruction. He looks like a man who has been alone in a tower for a century, watching jasmine flowers bloom and die while waiting for a memory to surface.
"Tell me," she says, her voice quiet enough that both men lean in, "when you planned your betrayal, did you account for this?" She gestures between the three of them, the triangle of power and desire that has garnered its own gravitational force.
Zayne's silence is answer enough.
Caleb laughs, a sound that is equal delight and warning. "Little sister, some things you can't plan for. You just survive them." He pours more wine, but his other hand finds her knee beneath the table, his palm warm and proprietary. She doesn't flinch. Instead, she reaches across with her other hand and places it on Zayne's forearm, where the scars are the worst.
Zayne looks down at her fingers on his skin. He has performed surgery in war zones, has held beating hearts in his hands and squeezed it dry without a blink.
None of them has ever felt as dangerous as this point of contact.
"The warp point," he says, trying to anchor them back to purpose. "Velytio's signature—"
"Can wait," she interrupts—less of an Empress and more of that petulant Princess that has been spoiled until she could no longer rot. "Can't it?"
Caleb's thumb strokes circles on her knee. "Everything can wait," he murmurs. "Except this."
They are three points of a constellation that should never have aligned. The brother who left, the teacher who stayed, the girl who became a monarch. And in the space between them, in the chamber where dynasty and doctrine dissolve into breath and wine, something is shifting.
Zayne covers her hand on his arm with his own. His skin is cold, always cold, but his touch is firm. "Your Majesty," he says, and for the first time, the title sounds like a prayer, a plea. "If you want to stop—"
"I don't," she says.
Caleb's grip tightens, just enough. "Then we don't."
The wine is gone. The food is forgotten. The warp point, the alliance, the empire—they are mere constructs that exist outside this room. In here, there is only the foundations of want, the central core of power in the entire Galaxy, and two men who have spent decades learning to control everything but this terrible, aching desire that has been festering in the bones of their ribs for as long as they can remember.
Zayne reaches for her face, his thumb brushing her jaw.
Caleb watches, his eyes dark with something that might be permission or challenge. The Grand General's touch is precise, mapping her features like a territory he's finally allowed to own. Meanwhile, the High Marshal's hand slides higher on her thigh, claiming what has always been his by a different right—the right of birth and blood.
"You're playing a dangerous game," Zayne whispers to her. "With dangerous men."
She smiles, a curve of lips that holds galaxies. "I am the game," she says. "And I am the prize. And I am a very willing player."
Caleb leans in, his mouth close to her ear but his gaze fixed on Zayne. "Then let's see how well you've learned the rules."
He kisses her neck, just below the jaw, where her pulse hammers against his lips. Zayne's eyes follow the movement with intensity that belies his usual frigid countenance. His hand on her face doesn't retreat. Instead, he leans in too, his forehead nearly touching hers, their breath mingling in the space Caleb has allowed them to create.
Three souls in a room built for twelve. Two decades between them and the woman they both serve and desire. One nebula watching, ancient and indifferent, as the warp point outside waits for permission to align.
She threads her fingers through Zayne's hair, pulling him closer; with her other hand, she tugs Caleb's face to hers—until all three of them are breathing the same air.
"Then show me," she commands. "What you've both been waiting decades to teach me."
Caleb’s mouth finds hers first; there is no hesitation, no ceremony, just the wet collision of wine-slick lips and the possessive slide of his tongue. Little sister, finally, fuck, finally. He groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating against her teeth as he hauls her sideways onto his lap. Silk bunches up her thighs, and his belt buckle is a cold bite against her bare skin.
“Look at you,” he breathes, dragging his mouth to her ear, voice syrupy with decades of denied hunger out misplaced propriety and morality. “Sitting here all pretty, letting the Empire think you’re still theirs. But I know better, don’t I? I know what you want in the dark.”
His palms cup her tits through the thin tunic, thumbs flicking the already-pebbled peaks. The fabric snags, damp with wine and want. He circles the nipples slow, then cruel, pinching just hard enough to arch her spine. “These pretty babies missed me, hm? Swollen up nice and greedy. Bet you played with them at night thinking about your big brother’s mouth.” He nips her lobe, voice dropping to a rasp. “Tell me, little sister—how many times did you cum with my name on your tongue?”
Behind her, Zayne exhales—controlled, but the sound trembles at the end.
He abandons restraint in a single fluid motion; one knee settling on the chair beside Caleb’s, hand tilting her chin back so he can slot their mouths together. The kiss is sloppy—cool lips turning furnace-hot, tongue sliding in perfect counter-rhythm to Caleb’s rolling knead of her breasts.
She tastes like nebula-berries and empire-wine and every impossible choice I ever tried to protect her from. The thought cracks through him; he kisses her harder, swallowing her whimper until it finds a home inside his throat.
“Focus on me, Your Majesty,” Zayne murmurs when they part a fraction. His scarred fingers skate down her sternum, past Caleb’s busy hands, to slip beneath the hem pooling at her hips. Her garters are nothing but lace and suggestion, and he palms the warm plane of her lower belly, letting the heel of his hand grind just above her clit—close, but not close enough.
“You want lessons?” His hazel eyes blaze sea-storm green. “Here’s one: never let your generals guess the battlefield.” He presses down, fabric dragging slick across her folds. “Or else, they will map every inch, and take ownership of it.”
Caleb growls, jealous and possessive, and bucks upward so the iron ridge of his erection slides between her ass-cheeks. “She owns nothing tonight but me.” He yanks the tunic lower, freeing one breast fully—heavy, nipple already gleaming where his spit has cooled through the fabric when he was busy slobbering over her like a dog. He bends, laves a broad stripe, then seals his lips around it and sucks hard, cheeks hollowing.
The wet pop when he releases makes her jerk, and Zayne’s hand answers with a firmer rub, tracing the shape of her clit through soaked lace.
“Both of you,” she gasps, fingers grabbing a fistful of Caleb’s hair, the other hand clawing Zayne’s collar. “Stop … talking like I’m not here.”
Zayne answers by sliding two fingers under the lace panel, gathering evidence of her arousal in one slow glide—no penetration, just the glide of calloused skin along silken petals, spreading slick upward until her clit throbs against his pad. “You’re everywhere, sweetheart,” he whispers, reverent. “The birth of every star and dream starts and ends at you.” He circles once, twice, then retreats to paint her own essence across her lower lip before kissing it clean. Sharing her taste with her, open-mouthed and deliberate.
Caleb watches the exchange, pupils blown violet-dark. He abandons her breast with a last tongue-flick, rises enough to shove the table’s dessert plates aside—crystal goblets shatter, silver clatters on the ground. “I need more room for my little sister.” He lifts her, setting her ass on the cold gloss of the surface.
“Spread.”
And she does, knees falling open, tunic a useless puddle at her waist.
Candlelight licks across her exposed skin: nipples peaked, her cunt a slick swell under ruined lace. Caleb palms her inner thighs, pushing wider until the fabric tethers. His thumbs meet Zayne’s knuckles, and for a heartbeat, their hands overlap on her, sharing territory.
Enemies-by-alliance, allies-by-desire.
“Look how fucking wet,” Caleb croons, voice shaking. “Soaked straight through. Lace is useless, isn’t it? My little sister is dripping for her big brother and her traitor general.” He leans in, bites the tendon where thigh meets hip, sucks a bruise that will sit beneath tomorrow’s ceremonial belt. “You’re gonna wear this mark while you sign the treaty tomorrow. Think about that when you address the Federation envoys, hm?”
Zayne’s exhale fractures, and he slips his fingers lower, finally pressing two just inside her entrance, shallow enough to tease nerve-rich muscle but not breach.
“And when you sit on that throne,” he punctuates with a twist, “you’ll remember my hand prepared you. That every decree carries my fingerprints deep inside your cunt.” The words roughen, a confession torn from a man allergic to weakness.
She whimpers, tries to roll her hips onto his fingers, but Caleb cages her with an arm across her waist. “Uh-uh. Take what we give.” He slots their mouths again, messy and loud, tongue fucking her mouth the way he promises to fuck her later—slow, filthy, and utterly thorough. She tastes herself on him: salt-sweet, imperial-wine, Caleb, Zayne. When her moan climbs, he swallows it whole, then gifts it to Zayne by tipping her head sideways for the general to claim, a three-way kiss that leaves them all panting, strings of saliva glistening between breaks.
Zayne’s fingers never stop teasing, curling shallow, and retreating to paint circles on her clit, before dipping again. The rhythm is irregular, designed to keep her hovering. His thumb joins, pressing her lace-covered clit while his fingers pulse just inside—tight, wet, nowhere near enough.
“Shall I count heartbeats, sweet girl? One for every pulse in this sweet little pussy?” He taps her clit, and her answer is a sob.
Caleb chuckles dark into her ear. “Better idea. Let’s play Imperial Statues. You hold still while we wreck you with mouths and hands. Move before permission, and," he trails off so he can pinch her nipple hard, eliciting a yelp, “we stop.”
“Cruel,” she breathes.
Caleb grins, slides a hand up to squeeze both breasts together, thumbs flicking in alternating beats. “Crowns are forged in cruelty, little sister. Take it.”
Zayne adds a third finger, still maddeningly shallow, stretching just enough to make her clench around emptiness. “And remember,” he murmurs against her lips, “a true ruler never begs.”
Her thighs tremble; sweat beads between her breasts, gathering against Caleb’s fingers. The air smells of wine, crushed berries, and the thick cream of her arousal.
Every breath is a swallowed moan; every heartbeat is a plea that neither man answers.
The wet slap of lace tearing open sounds louder than the shattered crystal underfoot. Zayne’s gloved fingers hook beneath flimsy elastic and yank down, a controlled violence that makes her gasp like she’s been speared.
Fuck protocol, he thinks, and the lace falls in a useless puddle of thread and want. For a heartbeat he simply studies her: slick petals flushed dark rose, clit swollen and peeking from its hood, the tiny clench of her entrance fluttering around nothing. Anatomy I memorised in medical texts, living and pulsing and begging.
His mouth waters—an involuntary reflex he hasn’t felt since his first kill. He drags two fingers through the mess, gathers cream, and lifts it to his lips. Tastes. Salt, copper, nebulasia, empire. His eyes slam shut on a shudder.
Caleb watches, hips rocking reflexively against the table edge. “Share, General. She’s still my little sister first.” The words come out guttural, almost unrecognisable—politics burned away by raw want.
Zayne answers by leaning in, spreading her folds with trembling thumbs, and sliding one finger in—slow, knuckle by knuckle, watching her cunt bloom around him like petals unfurling. “Slow,” he warns. “She’ll take it slow until she forgets her own name.” A second finger joins, deliberate, curling upward to brush the velvet shelf of nerves that makes her most sensitive.
Her sob cracks the air; she bucks, but Caleb’s forearm across her hips pins her to obsidian.
“Stay still, little sister,” Caleb croons, mouth returning to her nipple, sucking in time with Zayne’s shallow thrusts—pull, curl, retreat; pull, curl, retreat. Every withdrawal leaves her walls fluttering on emptiness. Caleb’s free hand reaches, fingertips joining Zayne’s at her entrance, not pushing in, just circling, spreading slick upward to paint her clit in slow, sloppy figure-eights.
Their knuckles brush; electricity arcs up both men’s arms. Caleb’s pupils swallow violet irises until the colour can barely be seen.
Zayne meets his stare over the quivering plane of her belly.
A single nod—Imperial permission encoded in military economy. In a breath, they shift. Caleb grips behind her knee, jerks her ass to the very lip of the table; Zayne mirrors the other leg. Her thighs fall open obscenely wide, tendons stretched, cunt gaping and gleaming under the candlelight.
Both men sink to their knees at the same moment, shoulder-to-shoulder, cheek-to-cheek, the brother and the traitor sharing altar and offering.
“Look at that pretty hole,” Caleb groans, voice muffled as he dives first. Broad tongue swipes from perineum to clit, scooping cream, ending with a suctioned kiss to her swollen bud that makes her scream. He pulls back, strings of slick bridging lip to pussy, and grins sideways at Zayne. “Tastes like homecoming parades and dirty little secrets.”
Zayne doesn’t answer with words, he answers with his tongue tip circling her entrance, lapping the fluid that coats his own fingers still buried shallow. Each lap is slow, mapping rugae and fluttering muscle, memorising the taste of crown and galaxy.
When he slips his fingers free, Caleb’s mouth immediately replaces them, sucking her nectar from Zayne’s knuckles with obscene relish. Zayne growls, and plunges two fingers back in alongside Caleb’s tongue, stretching the rim until she sees stars.
“Fuck, your mouth is almost as greedy as hers,” Caleb pants, drawing back to watch Zayne’s tongue dip beside his own invasion. Their lips brush accidentally—in a smear of shared slick, wine, the taste of her cunt and sweat—and instead of recoiling they surge closer, kissing messily across her soaked folds, trading her arousal mouth-to-mouth while fingers work in tandem: Zayne scissoring slow, Caleb thrusting faster, a rhythm that leaves her sobbing syllables that aren’t words.
She tries to rock, but their combined forearms trap her. “Take it, darling,” Zayne rasps, lips shiny. “Take what we give.”
Caleb adds a third finger, stretching her until the burn borders on pain, then licking the stretched rim in soothing laps. “Both of us inside you, little sister. One cunt, two crowns. How does that feel?” He twists, knuckles grinding over spongy nerves; her answer is a high keen that ricochets off of the walls.
Zayne’s other hand cups her ass, tilts her pelvis higher, tongue fluttering against her clit like signal gone mad—fast, precise, relentless.
When he feels her walls begin to spasm, he stops, pulls back, breathes cool air across overheated flesh until the threatened orgasm ebbs. “Not yet,” he whispers, repeating the denial like a surgeon cauterising a bleed. “You come when we allow you to.”
Caleb laughs, wet and filthy, and licks a long stripe up Zayne’s jaw, gathering her essence there. “General’s got rules. I’ve got needs.” He thrusts harder, curling until her back arches off the table, breasts jouncing, nipples diamond-hard in the chilled air.
“Listen to her—music, isn’t it? Every wet little squelch is a fucking anthem.”
Their mouths meet again over her clit, kissing messily, tongues tangling around the swollen bud, sucking in turns until her cries devolve into breathless hiccups. Strings of saliva and syrupy arousal drip to the floor; the scent coats their lungs with every ragged inhale.
Zayne feels his own control fraying, he drags his mouth away, presses his drenched fingers to Caleb’s lips. “Taste what we’ve made of her.” Caleb sucks them clean, eyes rolling back, then returns the favour, feeding Zayne her nectar from his own tongue. They stay locked like that—two soldiers kissing before her cunt—while their remaining hands piston in merciless tandem, stretching her, filling her, denying her.
She breaks first—tears mixing with sweat, words fragmenting: please, gods, brother, zayne, please—until the chamber rings with nothing but wet sounds and imperial sobs.
They separate like blades sliding from a shared scabbard—same motion, same breath, same intent. Caleb’s arms haul her up before the last tremor leaves her thighs; her skin sticks to obsidian with a wet peel, tunic becoming nothing but a rag around her waist.
Carry her like conquest, he thinks, palms splayed under her ass, fingers already denting soft flesh that will wear their bruises tomorrow. She wraps legs around his waist on instinct, slick cunt kissing the rigid line beneath his uniform trousers, heat searing through fabric. “Feel that?” he growls, voice gravel-thick. “That’s your big brother’s cock you’ve been teasing since you crowned yourself. Time to pay the levy, little sister.”
Behind them, Zayne strips methodically—jacket first, rank pins clinking on marble, then the slow rasp of his fly. Each tooth of the zipper is a military countdown. His cock springs free, flushed, the crown already beaded with strategist’s patience. He steps in close, chest to Caleb’s back, and reaches around to yank Caleb’s belt open with casual precision. “Protocol demands shared jurisdiction,” he murmurs, lips brushing Caleb’s ear before moving behind her. “You take the throne room entrance, I’ll secure the rear supply line to follow you.”
A dark laugh vibrates against Caleb’s spine as Zayne fists them both—his own length and Caleb’s freed cock—pressing hot heads together until precum slicks them in glossy treaty ink.
“One cunt. Two signatures. No amendments.”
Caleb’s knees nearly buckle at the contact, her cream already coating them both. He hoists her higher, arms trembling not from weight but from the vision inches below: twin crowns nudging her swollen folds, splitting slick petals like curtains before the final act.
“Look down, little sister,” he coos, voice shredded. “See what your Empire’s reduced to? Two traitors ready to carve their terms inside your cunt.”
Zayne angles their combined girth, dragging their undersides along her slit, bumping over her clit until she sobs. “No more alliances brokered in ballrooms,” he tells her, every word a slow thrust that never breaches. “This room is the new treaty table. Your womb is the seal.” He shifts enough to paint Caleb’s crown with her arousal, then his own, mixing them until neither man knows whose pulse beats harder.
“Every envoy who kneels tomorrow will smell us on you and remember who owns the ink.”
Caleb shifts his grip, forearms under her thighs, spreading her so wide the stretch burns deliciously. “Ready?” he asks—of Zayne, not her, when she has already divested herself of choice in this matter the moment she spread her legs open for them. Zayne answers by pressing forward, forcing both heads to kiss her entrance simultaneously, stretching the rim until it gleams white around them.
They pause there, trembling, a living sigil of the Federation and the Empire merged at her gates. “Breathe,” Zayne orders, steady even as sweat drips off his jaw onto her shoulder. “Exhale sovereignty, inhale submission.”
She gulps air, tears streaking into her chin. Caleb leans in, teeth grazing her earlobe. “This is your coronation, little sister. No velvet cape, no jewelled sceptre—just two bastards splitting you open until your brain leaks out of your ear.” He lowers her a fraction; the crown of his cock pops in, furnace-hot walls clamping instantly. Zayne follows on the same inch, stretching her rim around their combined girth until her gasps turn to wails. They stop, embedded just past the heads, pulse to pulse, heartbeat to heartbeat.
Zayne’s hand slides to her nape, fingers threading sweat-damp hair, angling her head down so she must watch. “Memorise this sight. Your cunt swallowing two betrayers at once.” He flexes, grinding against Caleb’s underside, creating a ripple that shudders through all three bodies.
“Every council meeting, every war map, your mind will flash back to this moment—us pulsing inside you, unmoving, owning the battlefield without thrusting once.”
Caleb’s laughter cracks, manic. “And when you’re forced to marry some galaxy duke for trade routes, you’ll remember how we vetoed with a single inch of cock.” He shifts, knees locking in place, thighs tensed beneath her.
“Because after tonight, your body writes policy in our scent alone.”
They hold, suspended—twin invaders throbbing in concentric rings of muscle, stretching her so wide the rim burns white-hot around them. Precum and her slick mingle, dripping off of Zayne’s balls onto marble already splattered with shattered crystal and forgotten dinner. No one moves forward, no one retreats; they simply pulse, a living blockade denying her the friction she craves.
“Please, ” she starts, but Caleb captures the word with his mouth, swallows it, feeds it to Zayne who bites it in half against her lip.
“No consorts,” Zayne promises. “No political spouse. No neutral beds. Only this—us—holding the line at your gates until the stars forget how to shine.”
Caleb finally inches her lower, accepting another cruel fraction of shared invasion. “And when you sit on that throne tomorrow, you’ll sit sore on our signatures, every shift reminding you who signed the real treaty first.”
They bottom out at the ring of muscle again, a stretch so fierce her nails draw blood on Caleb’s shoulders.
Zayne’s free hand maps the sweat-slick column of her throat, thumb pressing just hard enough to feel her carotid hammer against the pad of his finger. “Breathe through the burn. This is governance by cock—hard, slow, merciless. You wanted an empire, little girl?” He flexes again, dragging another sob. “You just got two.”
Gravity forgets its laws.
With a grunt that sounds like two flags ripping from their masts, they surge—no more ceremony, no more treaty language, just the raw physics of the empire itself imploding. Caleb drops his hips and pistons upward, burying half their welded girth in one thrust; Zayne meets him from behind, sliding the other half deeper, a two-stroke engine forged in her pussy.
The sound it makes is obscene—wet velvet splitting around steel, her cry is a siren that rattles chandelier crystal already cracked by earlier collisions.
Stars don’t fall; they fuck straight through the floor.
“Hold,” Zayne snarls, though the order is already obsolete. His hands clamp her waist, thumbs digging dimples that will bruise like rank insignia. Caleb’s forearms cage her ribs, lifting and slamming her down in cadence, impaling her on their combined thickness again and again. Marble chips beneath Caleb’s boots, grinding to dust as he jackhammers, thighs corded, purple eyes rolled back until only star-slits show.
She tries to speak—more, stop, never stop—but words shred on the next thrust, becoming a sharp keen that vibrates straight through Zayne’s sternum. He answers by snapping his hips forward, cock dragging along Caleb’s underside, the dual friction so fierce their crowns glaze with precum and her cream frothing white around the seal.
“Feel that?” he pants against her ear, voice stripped to bare the man underneath. “That’s your proposals dissolving. That’s every treaty clause melting inside you.”
Caleb laughs like a man falling through atmosphere. “And when we flood you, it’ll be a goddamn supernova.” He angles, dragging his length across her anterior wall until the head of his dick nudges the spongy swell of nerves; Zayne counters, grinding the opposite ridge against her cervix, a combination of pleasure-pain that has her clawing blood channels down both men’s arms.
Her cunt convulses, not quite orgasm—she's been denied for too long—just the reflex of a body trying to fracture around impossible fullness.
They pick up speed in synchronized violence: withdraw until only the flared crowns kiss her rim, slam home until their balls slap wet skin in synchronicity. Somewhere, a candle gutters out in its own wax, the scent of scorched wick mixing with ozone and cunt and cum. Sweat rains off Zayne’s jaw onto her neck, trails down to pool in the hollow of her throat; Caleb licks it away, salt on salt, then bites her skin hard enough to leave half-moon royalty marks.
“Close,” Zayne growls, the word dragged out through clenched molars.
His spine locks, balls drawing tight, the ice of his control finally flaring to super-heat. Caleb feels it—the throb against his own shaft, two hearts hammering through a single conduit—and snarls back, “together.”
They bottom out one last time, pressed so deep their crowns kiss her cervix in a twin kiss.
For a heartbeat, the chamber holds breathless vacuum—no candle, no cry, just pulse. Then the explosion: twin ropes of cum jet in overlapping surges, hot enough to scald, thick enough to flood every furrow, every ridge, every secret chamber she never showed the court. The first jet triggers her own orgasm, walls clamping down, milking them in violent contractions, but they keep pumping, spurt after spurt, until their combined spend overflows the seal and cascades in milky rivulets over ass and balls and marble.
They stay inside, twitching, hearts slamming against rib cages in the aftermath.
Sweat steams off them in a halo; the only light left is the warp-point outside, flaring violet through shattered stained glass, casting the room in the bruised light of a nebula. When their cocks finally soften enough to slip free—an obscene, wet pop echoing—mixed spend gushes down her thighs in slow, heavy tracks.
Caleb lowers her gently, knowing that her limbs have lost all of their strength, and catches her easily when her knees buckle.
Zayne, still panting, swipes two fingers through the mess dripping down her slit, lifts it to her lips. She licks, dazed, eyes star-blown. Then he repeats the gesture for Caleb, painting the other man’s lower lip before kissing it clean—surrender has never tasted this good.
SAINT'S NOTES ! i did say i'll write about them, but the dates i wrote in this one confused even myself—history was never my strongest power, not even if it's fictional. something about them being older than her is just so yum, ugh, throne of eros should have committed to the bit and made them DILFs. on another note, i still stand by what i said with threesomes not making any sense if the guys don't even kiss—and that's why there's a three-way makeout session and caleb and zayne had a pussy makeout with each other, heh.
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