The Naella he grew up with would never talk about her love like this. She had it in her heart like any sibling, but she'd not let him hear it in such a sweet way. Partially, it was because he wouldn't ask so intimately. From Iris, it was like being targeted somehow, by your greatest weakness, which is a punishment in itself. As though in a dream that knows all about you, and aims to heal you from the grueling day. He expressed as much, still in pain for what was happening, deceit and doubt, but none of it enough to make him stop.<br/><br/>"I knew it." he whispered into her traveling blood under the razor thin skin where her arm became her hand. Belief was poisoning him and he was not hindering its march. You wanted me to. That's why your body was so perfect that night. She'd not even tensed up, had she? He wanted to remember that she'd escaped into him, a little too, scooting. "But you're worth everything." he protested, swept away by the threatening implications of her dwindling confidence, Naella. "You're always my angel." That wording was cruel though he didn't mean to, since it could have been for Iris, too.<br/><br/>He bathed in the continued building of a great, soft-edged and sopping lie. His sister's guilt for tormenting him with his own actions, somehow, and then her self-doubt. Naella, said all the boys, could not be repulsive if she was vile. "Stop it." You saint. "Stop. You're entirely lovely. I love you, I love you." Kedrick would spend his life coming to her defense.<br/><br/>He looked at her like he wanted her to see the Naella's blue streaks in the darkness of his depths. It was like he was controlling the focus her eyes had on him. "I wanted to because you're beautiful and I couldn't resist." Like it had been some virtue to fondle your crying sister when she was too distraught to swat at you. The currents of blood that wanted to center his vision were becoming vermilion instead of rosy. There is a stretch of clarity between burning and loving. "I thought it felt right." But really, she'd slept close to him because there had been another boy who had her heart. And all clarity passes.<br/><br/>He let go of her, like he was seeing her mask slip, or the seams in her carvings. Her flaw was that she was too pleasing. Naella hadn't needed comforting from her adoration for Kedrick. She'd needed whatever she could have to hold herself together. Hands let her go. Anger at Naella and also at his nymph. It had been during the period when she loved that dress, too. "You're not being truthful with me." Either of you. He took her shoulder and pulled at it. Their discrepancy in build was unfair from genesis. It would render the creature that were two things on the floor, with the dress torn, breast he'd touched through the fabric escaped from the rip. What a beautiful, debase state to put Naella's likeness in.<br/><br/>"You're not..." he started but he didn't know if it would be completely true. He wanted this to be at least a possible representation. "Don't!" he demanded, but there was no real suggestion in the intonation as to what she was forbidden from. The large table was still close, and he drew up a scene but reversed it. "Look at what you've done." he said and gestured to his own pants. Like Greta. He tried to take her shoulder again but without the dress he slipped. It burnt his anger brighter, and he grabbed the light tresses to compensate for lack of momentum to his own testament of fury.<br/><br/>He threw her on the ancient, polished darkwood with her face down, and pulled her until her legs dangled towas the floor. Iris had seen fit to wear discarded, old panties, washed to fade. It was perverse, but he loved it, and he pulled them down to her knees and gasped at the designs she'd chosen for the intimate valley. He couldn't linger or worship. He started slapping her there, on the cheeks he thought she'd pressed against him in bed, when he'd had his feel and squeeze.<br/><br/>The real scene had been of mother punishing him, when he'd played a particularly dastardly prince to Naella's peasant girl, in a closet. It was when mother's cold had started and never really thawed. "You're not you." he hissed, and was applying more strength than he should. In truth. He'd always wanted to treat his sister like this. And the truth, as though the poor nymph didn't already know, was apparent when he pressed his hips to the cheek he wasn't turning purple and red. A promise that he hated her, but that he was going to need her soon.