#Gilded Scarlet

[misscromwellsmonocle]

Gilded Scarlet by Daniel F. Gerhartz (*1965)

[brokentrafficknight]

[randomlyblues]

How little stuff there is about Marissa Meyer books saddens me, I have no one to geek to about them. Then there's the other part of me that wants to gatekeep them.

[mirai-desu]

#i know why i watch(ed) the show rachael

[hcrctic]

always the fool with the slowest heart; but i know you'll take me with you, i know i'll take you with me..

— gilded lily, cults.

[ultraozzie3000]

A Decade of Delights

With this post (No. 413), we mark the tenth anniversary of The New Yorker. Since I began A New Yorker State of Mind in March 2015, I’ve attempted to give you at least a sense of what the magazine was like in those first years, as well as the historical events that often informed its editorial content as well as its famed cartoons. Those times also informed the advertisements; indeed, in some…

[cagedinreality]

Listen

I love period dramas

I will watch it regardless if its good

But can we PLEASE have some variety eith main female roles like

They all be blonde with blue eyes

Don't get me wrong nothing against blue eyed blonde women...

But its getting boring

Realistically i know not all of them look like that but the shows i watched lately...just...ugh...

[some-pers0n]

Alright so here's what we've got so far for the TDP Limited Edition. It's 16 more pages than the original book (352 pages in total) and it's said to have new stuff. They could be anything. Little bits of extra lore, illustrations by Joy Ang, whatever. It seems pretty cool! It releases in September of this year. Here's the cover, spine, and back cover. I love this artwork so much,, also appears to have gilded pages! Red! Neat!

ID below cut

[ID: the cover of “Wings of Fire: the dragonet prophecy. Limited edition.” shows Clay sitting besides the underground river, his wings spread and mouth open. His tail and one of his hind legs are in the splashing waves below, as if he had just slipped into the water or got out of it. The cave ceiling is dotted with glow worms, their silk threads illuminating the scene. The pages appear to be gilded with red.

The back cover shows Queen Scarlet standing on the edge of her rock balcony between two pillars made of various materials. Her head is tilted up and she looks down in surprise or disappointment. She’s wearing her gold coat of chain mail hung with rubies and a lot of intricate jewelry that matches it. Blue ribbons decorate the cornice of the balcony above her and sway in the wind. Big golden text at the top reads: “Discover where it all began in this exclusive limited edition of the dragonet prophecy!” Below is the blurb. The spine has the title and “limited edition” written on it in gold, with a close up of Clay from the cover at the top, bordered by a yellow stripe with the series symbol and “book one” written on it. End ID]

[bossuary]

Kept thinking about this absolutely feral fandom declaring that they would obliterate Emmrich's pelvis.

The ornamentation on the back of his overcoat is a gilded representation of the iliac crest, sacrum, and coccyx of the male pelvis.

This decoration is joined to the front of the coat via deep scarlet cords, giving a nod to blood as that which connects/disconnects the mortal frame to life.

From the back, the entire coat looks like an opulent exploded diagram of a skeleton, with the spine represented as a series of buttons, and the rigid shoulder guards representing the wing-like scapulae, flared out to show the ribs:

The straps holding together the tails of the coat call back to stitches, neat but stark, like those of the wounded dead put together reverently for their final rest.

The front of the coat is SO interesting, because it presents this open autopsy view in rich colors, accented with gold, so that the effect of skin and muscle being peeled back for study, the ribcage broken and splayed, doesn't feel gruesome at all. Because of the person wearing it, his generosity of spirit, the effect of the coat is that the viewer is invited to study death up close, to be curious about this part of life, to understand it until it doesn't scare them.

It's worth it to mention, too, how many chains and ropes Emmrich is displaying. Apart from the red cords, there is the chain for his collar pin, three chains running into/from four different pockets on his vest, a chain connecting bracelets or cuffs on his wrist, and several more chains attaching in various places on his belt.

Yes, they are utilitarian, but they are also symbolic of a person attached to their work by a strong resolve, by guilt, or by some other unbreakable compulsion. As far as I know, there aren't watches of any kind in Thedas, much less pocket watches, so what is Emmrich keeping in those little pockets? Does the Mourn Watch use a magical tether on spirits, such as whatever coins or talismans are at the ends of those chains?

I love this design so much.

[yandere-romanticaa]

I'm just imagining how Gilbert von Obsidian would admire the pretty engagement ring he put on your finger as you eat breakfast together.

He has you brought back to him to his kingdom, dressed in the finest midnight black silk, the scent of fresh roses still lingering on your flesh as he indulges in the softness of your neck. Sometimes he just allows his lips to linger, to tease you like the cruel man that he is.

Other times, his patience snaps like a twig and he just bites.

The bites are never gentle. They're rough and sharp, the bruise would stay there for weeks to come and don't you dare cover them up.

You would just upset him if you did that, and that is not something you want to do.

It gets harder and harder to focus on the food in front of you as Gilbert just keeps going at it, his red eye twinkling like a ruby, its sheer redness nearly blinding you with its intensity.

You are at an impasse - do you fight him? Your spirit is still intact and you have no desire to stay stuck in this gilded cage he set up for you. But you just think back to all the blood that was spilled because of you, how many people lost their lives because they helped you, none of which knew that you were engaged to the deranged beast prince of Obsidian.

Gilbert sinks his teeth into you once more and you are brought back down to reality.

There really was no fighting him anymore, was there?

You let out an accidental little yelp, much to Gilbert's pleasure. You feel him grin, his pearly whites tainted with your thick, scarlet blood, just how he liked it. He won, he knew this.

He was just happy that you finally were aware of that fact too.

[targaryen-dynasty]

GUILELESS.

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Reader

The streets of Flea Bottom most definitely were not the place a noblewoman like you should seek out at night, but tonight marked one of the last nights you got to enjoy your freedom for you were to wed in four days.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT–MINORS DNI; CNC, DUB-CON, p in v, roleplay, profanity, tiddy fucking, degrading, punishing, humiliating, public sex, slight oral (m receiving) and overstimulation, blink and you‘ll miss the breeding and size kink, vague description of fem!Martell!Reader (dark hair, dark eyes, small body)

WORDS: 2.6 K

NOTES: Killing two birds with one stone with this thing. Written for this and this request.

The streets of Flea Bottom were in an uproar with hundreds of gold cloaks roaming around to restore law and order in the foulest and most lawless district of the Westerosi capital. It most definitely was not the place a noblewoman like you should seek out, but tonight marked one of the last nights you got to enjoy your freedom for you were to wed in four days.

Your reddish gown had been replaced by the clothes of a boy. A wide, black tunic and gray breeches hid your body, and your long, brown curls were covered by a black cloak. The boots you wore were surprisingly more comfortable than the sandals you wore around court, yet they were not at all appropriate to be paired to the finest, dornish silk you usually donned.

On your way through the dimly lit alleyways, you bumped shoulders with more than one commoner that fled the scene you were too eager to see. Coming closer to the source of the agonizing screams, you stopped just short of the crowd, barely out of the alleyway.

To your left was a pillow house, the ornate lamp of gilded metal and scarlet glass swung over the door casting you in a red light. You tried to move further and squeeze past the wall of curious bystanders, before your wrist was seized by something firm that caused you to gasp.

“A lady like you should be careful wandering the streets alone at such hour,” a deep voice drawled out. As you turned around, you immediately noticed who had you in a tight hold, the long, silver strands of hair peeking from beneath the helmet a dead giveaway–just like the surcoat depicting the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen that none of the other gold cloaks around you wore. Daemon Targaryen, Lord Commander of the City Watch.

You straightened your back, and decided not to show any of your emotions. Especially not the nervousness that soared through your veins. “I shall have you know that I am no lady,” you replied sternly, though there was a slight tremble in your smooth voice, “I am to be a princess soon.”

That seemed to amuse the man, your intimidation tactic clearly not working. “Oh, you most certainly are,” he replied with a mocking tone, “that is why I have found you in Flea Bottom, hm, dressed like what… a little boy?” Now there was a slight hint of uneasiness accompanying his words and presence, which had a shiver running up your spine. “As your princess, I command you to let go of me,” you pressed, trying to tug your arm back – but to no avail.

“You are a feisty little thing,” the gold cloak murmured with a sly smile. “It is a shame you are nothing more than a pretender. You would have made an excellent wife.” He didn’t even allow you to give him a reply, before his hand found the back of your neck to shove you into the pillow house to your left you had examined not long before.

Upon stumbling inside, you noticed that it was no pillow house but a simple brothel instead. Older wenches with more flesh to their hips and a used appearance did not hone the low quality the common room presented itself in. Considering the size of the crowd in front of the etablissement, it was surprising to spot not so many patrons inside.

“I–What–”

“I shall have you punished for those treacherous antics,” he barked, effectively cutting you off. The light tap he gave your rear caught you off guard, however, it was solely a ruse meant to distract you from both his hands grabbing the waistband of your breeches and undergarments to rather forcefully tug them down your body. It was nothing else than luck that the tunic you wore was long enough to cover your cunt for anyone that dared to catch a glimpse.

You gasped, and seized his hand on your hip that threatened to dive forwards between your legs. “My lord,” you protested, pretending that you did not know whose chest was pressed flush to your back, “you should not– I–”

Before you could protest even more, he had hauled you up against the breastplate of his armor, and you could merely look at him from over your shoulder, your dark eyes filled with lust. You started to struggle against his hold, yet his muscular arms snaked around your frame made it obvious you didn't stand a chance.

“Please, no,” you whimpered.

“Silence,” he bellowed, carrying you through the common room of the brothel to an alcove that granted you just some more privacy. While you were dropped unceremoniously on a chaise standing nearby, he brought a large hand up to the back of your neck, applying a good bit of pressure so you were kneeling on the chaise with your arse up and face down.

From behind you, you could hear a satisfied groan, no doubt spotting the glistening shimmer on your cunt from how aroused you were. When his calloused finger dragged through your soaked mound, you could not stifle a moan to leave your lips.

“Please, stop, my lord, I am still a maiden,” you whimpered, trying to get back up only to be pushed down again forceful enough to have you grunting just once. “Stay,” he warned, and you were foolish to not obey his command. You could faintly hear his hands fumbling with the buckles along the breastplate of his armor, your heartbeat pounding in your ears loud enough to almost drown out every other sound, removing them and allowing the steel to fall to the ground – piece after piece following in its wake. “I am betrothed,” you tried to reason.

You gasped as his hand served a firmer slap to your arse this time, the gentle rubbing of his palm not at all mending the stinging pain. “And you still will be once I am done with you,” came his stern reply. He dragged two fingers through your mound, from your entrance to the little bud, retorting to rubbing mindless patterns over it that had you pushing your hips against his fingers for a moment to chase the friction. Despite the moans that left your lips, you tried to snake your hand between your thighs to cover your cunt and arse, but he was quick enough to capture both your hands, bringing them together behind you to pin them to your back with one hand.

The gold cloak was skilled enough to unlace his breeches one-handed, freeing his cock out of its confines. “I shall refrain from spending my seed inside of your cunt for I do not desire to dishonor your betrothed,” he mumbled, his voice taking on a rougher edge.

“Do not do this, please,” you released a shaky breath, and every protest that threatened to follow caught in your throat the moment he dragged the tip of his cock through your swollen folds, resuming the movements he had previously made with his fingers.

The attempt to resist him was cut short when his cock breached your core, pushing into you at a teasingly slow pace that had you drawing in a sharp breath. “Your betrothed might get to breed you, but I took your maidenhead. You do best to remember that when he lays his filthy hands on you,” he groaned. The moment you stretched around him, all you could choke out was ‘yes, yes, yes,’ being in a stupor because of his cock.

With his hand still around your wrists, he pulled you onto his cock until his hips pressed against your rear, taking his time to adjust to your tightness. The ‘Gods’ he muttered under his breath didn’t go unnoticed by you, and it appeared that he didn’t know where to place his free hand as it squeezed your arse, tugged on your hair and eventually settled in the curve of your waist.

He pounded into you with reckless abandon, the tip of his cock brushing the spot inside of you that had your vision grow blurry over and over again. With your face pressed into a pillow resting on the chaise, you were not able to spot the feigned anger and jealousy blazing in his eyes. The only thing that made you aware of the amusement he found in that situation was the tone of his husky voice, making it more than clear that he had a smirk on his lips. “When I am done with you,” he rasped, bowing forward to put more of his weight on your small frame beneath his. “You shall desire no one else’s cock but mine.”

“Yes–” he interrupted your answer with a hard, percussive thrust, and then another, and another, until you couldn't focus on anything else but the delicious pressure inside your cunt. You pushed your hips back against him, and he reared up to pull you back with each of his thrusts, meeting him halfway which resulted in the lewd sounds of skin slapping on skin bouncing off the walls. The position you were in, with your face pressed into the pillow, granted you some sense of feigned privacy, because otherwise you would have noticed some curious eyes lingering on you two whenever one of the customers or whores decided to prowl the scene unfolding.

“Let’s see how much you desire your betrothed’s cock after this.”

When his hips stilled, and the pleasure in the pit of your belly eased, you propped yourself up on your hands with his vice-like grip suddenly gone. You looked at him from over your shoulder, and if you were not so lost in the sight of him behind you, you would have pouted when he gripped the neckline of your tunic to rip the linen to shreds as if it was nothing, exposing the last bit of your body to the sticky air of the brothel.

His skin was glistening in the dim light the candles granted, small beads of sweat highlighting his muscles. His upper body was defined by numerous cuts and scars, a testament to the dangers he had survived in his short life already. As he glanced down to where his clock disappeared inside of you, strands of his silver hair fell into his face, framing his chiseled features. You were so focused on enjoying the view that you did not immediately catch on to what he had said to you, the words not registering in your mind.

It seemed that his patience was not infinite as he grabbed your waist and hoisted you up as if you weighed nothing, settling you down on the cold floor so you sat on your haunches. He sat down on the chaise with his legs spread, his thick cock flush against his lower stomach, and straining as he leaned back, hands resting on his muscular thighs. You tilted your head, affecting a look of defiance. His eyes flickered over your frame, taking in every exposed inch of skin, and he couldn't help but smirk. “I said I shall not dishonor your betrothed, did I not?” he said, and almost dismissively waved his hand in order for you to continue.

You took that as your cue to use your hands and mouth to coax him towards his peak, however, when you reached to grasp the base of his member, the dragon in front of you merely tsked. Without saying a word, he bowed forwards and brought his paw-like hands to the sides of your breasts, squeezing them together. At the realization of what he had in mind, your eyes widened in surprise, and when he raised an eyebrow with a slight tilt of his head, you knew what was expected of you.

While his hands merely released your breasts to allow you to lean forwards, it was your hand that fisted the base of his cock, still thoroughly lubricated with your arousal. You positioned yourself so his cock rested in the Vale between your breasts, only for him to squeeze them together around it again. “Good girl,“ he praised, and you craned your neck to give a teasing lick along the slit at the tip of his cock, which prompted the prince to take in a sharp breath.

He replied by bucking his hips up, his cock bumping against your slightly parted lips. While he smirked at you in a smug manner, you released a surprised gasp, your eyes flickering between his violet ones and his cock. With his hands on your breasts, he kept them pressed tightly around his member, using the crevice between them to race for completion. You raised and lowered your body in rhythm with his hips, licking and kissing the tip of his cock whenever it came close enough to your lips.

His fingers pinched and brushed the perky buds of your breasts, causing you to release one whimper after the other. It was a titillating sight, watching how your expression shifted to a more focused one as you moved your body for his pleasure, ignoring the throbbing at the apex of your legs as best as you could.

“What an obedient, little wench I have found on the streets of Flea Bottom,” he groaned, his voice raspier, indicating that he was close to reaching his peak. “So willing to please the Lord Commander of the City Watch. Do you like watching me fuck those perfect teats of yours?” You couldn't help but whine, a slight blush creeping onto your cheeks at his words like they were the most embarrassing thing you had ever heard. Dornish people were known for their sexual licentiousness, but that man in front of you seemed to top just that.

“Will you claim me, my lord?” you asked, innocently batting your eyelashes at him. But with his peak approaching him rather quickly, the last threads of his patience seemed to snap as he growled a ‘Tis husband for you’ in return, the thoughts of your well-schemed ploy long forgotten at the aspect of spending himself all over you, claiming you. With a strangled groan, Daemon reached his completion, his cock spurting between your breasts and onto your chest, throat, lips and even your tongue. The pinch on your perky buds turned painfully tight with the pleasure soaring through his veins, causing you to squirm a bit, and it took a moment for the tension to slowly subside.

He watched with hooded eyes as you licked his seed off the skin your tongue could reach, and when your hands came up to peel him off of you, there didn’t come any objection from him. You wrapped your lips around his cock, and took as much of him down your throat as possible. He breathed heavily as he bowed forwards, looming over you as he took in the debauched sight in front of him.

Daemon shivered and grunted as you cleaned him up, the overstimulation making him sensitive to your touch, and he fisted your hair to pull you off of him. With the remnants of his seed still on your chin, you smiled up at him, and you could see his flaccid cock slowly growing hard again. You rested your cheek on his thigh, staring up at him as you lazily tugged him to full hardness again

“Gods,” he groaned, the bump in his throat bobbing in anticipation. “I love you, t–,” you replied, the last word catching in your throat as he hoisted you up to straddle his hips. His hard cock was nestled between your bodies, and your arms immediately wrapped around his neck, fingers entangling in the strands of his silver hair.

“I am going to make you peak, and then I am fucking you until you can no longer walk and you are carrying my child,” he mumbled into the curve of your neck, sucking in your skin to leave some faint marks. “Just to show you how much I love you, wife.”

General Taglist: @aemondx @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1

[onlyseokmins]

ash and cinders • l.s.m.

Pairing: lee seokmin x fem!reader Genres: smut (minors dni!), angst, royalty!au, fantasy!au, gods/goddesses!au Warnings: magic, mentions of blood, war, cruelty, tyranny - all that good stuff, mentions of religion (au-specific), violence (i.e. suggestion of murder), (death) threats, and possible gaslighting 💃🏻 which just means a minor power play between them at first okay 😬 i promise it's not that bad lmao i'm just paranoid, lots of making out, oral (fem. receiving), lil bit of temp play tbh, little bit of choking, uh I wrote this so long ago and just finished it so lmk if i forgot anything?? it's just basically me attempting to write prettily uwu WC: 4.24k A/N: soooo, this has been rotting in my drafts FOREVER!!! but yeah seokmin is my most darling, favorite boy i've ever stanned anyways ofc i couldn't help but use his elle magazine photos (yes that's how long this has been ROTTING) ahhhhh - ahem anyways this goes hand-in-hand with Mischief Maker so definitely recommend checking that one out too! heheh <3

He only stayed during the night.    

When the blanket of darkness covered even the moon with a hazy layer of clouds, leaving tiny twinkling stars for a traveler’s guide. The fire once dancing in the hearth dwindled down to scarlet embers barely emitting enough heat to fill the large quarters.

Not that it mattered.

Even as you lay naked amidst the silken sheets strewn upon the grand bed, the thought of your lover’s return alone was enough to engulf your body in a flame of burning anticipation that settles and simmers between your legs.

He had been gone far too long. A lengthy patrol around the surrounding territories had taken him away from your embrace. Although every morning the sun’s rays tickled your face as a sweet greeting and bathed you in a radiant light through the day, nights without him were by far the worst.    

Cold.    

Lonely.    

Dark.

On usual accounts, it was a grievous crime to keep the queen waiting. But you would forgive him for anything, wouldn’t you? It’s exemplified in the way he bursts through the doors without so much as a courteous knock that even your most trusted servants must abide by, water droplets dripping from his auburn bangs.

Despite the eagerness to see you as soon as possible, he refused to step foot into your chambers when reeking of blood after fierce combat and soiled with dirt from travel. You always protested. The gilded throne you reigned from, the heavy crown upon your head, and even the bed you shared — all were built upon those very foundations. But your lover insisted on only showcasing the glorious side of things to you.

The gold.    

The diamonds.

The luxuries.

All which adorned you by day. Glowing, glistening, and shining. Gems and jewels, fabrics woven from the highest quality quickly reduced to layers that only became a hindrance once it came time for his descent upon you. For you were absolutely beautiful clothed — this he very well knew — but when your whole body was bared naked for him and him alone? You were truly the definition of divine.

Those who dared to speak ill of you tried to foster ridiculous claims. Critical of the wealth in your possession. Mocked what they presumed was a lack of ambition. Wailed that you were a witch. A young monarch on an undeniable downfall to tyranny, one that would lead them all to hellfire and ruin.

Anything to validate that you were not worthy of the royal seal emblazoned across the lands in honor of a valiant leader with a royal bloodline still running through your veins.

Hypocrisy at its finest when you were the reason that they were bestowed or able to retain property linked to their names, money in their pockets, and a legacy to live by under your prosperous reign. Arrogant to cast down the very thing that elevated them to their current standing. But their greed would eventually come back to bite them. One day.

Even the religious sect whispered lowly, hidden in the shadows of the grand temples. Doubts that the king actually held a shred of affection for his partner — if the seldom visits seen visiting your chambers only when night falls were of any substantial evidence to go by. That he only lay with you out of duty, shackled and bound to an imposter who was never a faithful servant to the gods like they were.

Because not one of them truly believed that a god could ever favor, let alone love, a human.

You knew you were a savior to as many as you were also an enemy. A hindrance and a threat. A bold refusal to control or be controlled. There was nothing more to do other than lead your people as fairly as you judged. 

All the preposterous assumptions infuriated him — your devoted knight, unorthodox husband, and scandalous lover. But he manages to temper his fiery rage out of respect for you. Behind your ruthless, steely intent is a righteous and kind heart that always calls out for him, now fully vocalized and embellished by the sweet voice he's missed hearing dearly.

“Seokmin,” you murmur, grasping his warm hand once he's within reach.

An entity of many epithets with an existence worth a millennium beyond comprehension and full of worship. Yet his favorite phonetic combination he'd ever heard was the one that fell breathlessly from your lips. The closest the human tongue could get to a god’s true name. And his second favorite would be yours, the syllables rumbling in his chest like a song and you smiled in contentment.

He was back, he was home, and he was yours.

Even in the darkness, Seokmin glowed. The ethereal radiance surrounding the broad expanse of sinewy muscles easily proved his lofty status as the great god of the sun. But it was also his eyes, flickering with the unmistakable presence as one of many deities. The kind of power that has managed to refrain from turning you into ash and cinders.

Whether it's attributed to your resilience, a ruler born to stand out and lead, or an entirely different reason — or a mixture of all — Seokmin isn't really sure. He's not the first to appear in a human vessel nor the last, with at least twelve of his known brothers wandering the mortal world for various reasons.

He wonders if he's the first to bow his head willingly, though, holding back his more devious and destructive tendencies. To pay back tenfold the worship he's received since the beginning of time all to you — a mere human — yet nonetheless, his queen.

The event of swearing his undying fealty feels like it was yesterday. For a being that persists forever, it may as well have been that short ago. Every memory he etches and sears into his mind for eternity consists of you, and only you.

How could he forget? How was he supposed to bury away the confident smirk that graced your lovely lips? Would he ever not recall the first time he bent the knee in such desperation? Not for a trick or as a dark seduction that tumbles into a dreadful demise, a conquest for carnage, and an abuse of his powers. But instead for the good of humanity — however short of an era it may be.

And maybe… for more. One that his heart fears to admit, for it does not beat within his chest, but in a plane beyond the reach of mortals.

"Would you kill for me?"

"For you, anything," the god affirms. "I have laid waste to kingdoms, countries, empires, and even continents themselves. There is nothing I'm incapable of."

"And if I asked you to behead the entire entourage that has traveled with you?"

"… If it is what you will, then it is simply my command to follow. For you, I am a lone knight at your disposal."

Silken skirts flare out as does your anger when you turn away from the large windows in the tower's tiny excuse of a throne room — hardly fit for the heir — showcasing a brief flash of the lethal dagger strapped to your thigh. "Do you wish for my downfall before I've even risen to the throne? You expect me to be a tyrant, despised by the people I am meant to save? To lead?"

"Do you think I, a god, care what thoughts others conjure up in their silly little minds? I am to act on your behalf, get my hands dirty in lieu of you. No matter how morbid your desires may be."

Stepping closer, you lift his chin with the tip of a dull sword intended to be ornamental. But it may be even deadlier than the one hung at his side, metaphorically sharpened and honed by a rebel princess's innate rage. 

His little show of bowing means little with the way he stares straight at you without a shred of respect in those galaxy-filled irises. However, it is the mighty sun god who is taken aback by the hellfire burning in your gaze, hungry and powerful enough to rival his own as you scoff.

"I will show you what kind of queen this land needs, the methods we will follow, and the morals I wish to uphold. You will learn in order to understand them and enforce my will. Not only to help guide the vision I desire but to keep me accountable lest I stray. A critical misstep such as that is when I'll ask you to cut me down. Will you swear to do that for me?"

"… You dare question a god of what he can do? Your tiny, impudent human mind couldn't fathom a sliver of my capability."

"I dare to question what you can't or won't do."

"I told you, there is not a thing beyond my realm of —"

"Leave."

"… Your Highness?"

Painted lips curl in a snarl at the first address of your proper title since his arrival. "Begone, I said! Return when you feel like acting like the god you are, not simply a tool to be harnessed and used at will. Until then, I have no need for you."

Seokmin's jaw drops as you seat yourself back on the throne with a sneer and flick of your wrist for the guard to usher him out.

A challenge. 

He's been abandoned many times. Discarded and tossed to the side once his usefulness has been expended. He's left before betrayal can even be thought of — for no one points a blade at a god's back — but never has he been rejected.

It was only the beginning of how you would become many of his 'firsts' and all of his 'lasts'.

Seokmin is lost deep in the memory even with the feeling of your lips curling in a gentle smile against his — a stark contrast to your initial meeting. A nail grazes his chin, digging lightly into the skin to fully bring the god back to the present. 

You'd be offended by the habitual spacing out if he hadn't admitted to only getting lost in thoughts of you. Something he'd picked up during the routine patrols away. Though you strive to bring the god out of dwelling in the past when you're sitting right in front of him — the present — and deepen the kiss.

Yet he pulls away to tilt his head. "Do you remember what you offered to me?"

"Have I not offered you my all, my king?"

Charcoal lying dormant in the hearth flares back to life, emitting playful sparks when he chuckles. "After I returned to pledge my loyalty to you."

"Ah, even though I had you wait outside the gates for five days."

"Unfathomable for a god to hang around at the whim of a meager human, isn't it?"

"Meager?"

"To me? Yes." 

His warm exhale of amusement feels just like the breeze that fondly brushes your cheeks every morning despite the eternal humidity. It may very well be him because no matter how far away physically from you he is, Seokmin's essence radiates in every sunray that stretches across the grand skies and below.

He is everywhere and everything all the time. But he is here with you tonight once again, kissing the palm you'd placed on his cheek. With mischief flickering like a teasing flame in his eyes, the god brings your hand to his throat, encouraging you to splay your fingers across his Adam's apple.

You free yourself from his light grasp to run them ticklishly up and down the bumps of his vocal cords. The movements of swallowing ripples beneath the light scratch of your nails until he halts you by replacing a veined hand over yours and murmurs, "Squeeze."

"Ah — but I…"

He repeats it again louder when you fail to do as asked, not even daring to move a muscle. Simply staring in almost awe-filled hesitation until he guides you to tentatively do exactly as he states, "You would have done anything to strangle me back then, what has changed?"

"… You know what."

"Tell me," he says it like it's a command, eyes brightening and swirling with an authoritative amber hue though it's all in jest. "Tell me what it is, my queen."

Never one to be deterred, only Seokmin could render you motionless for so long. You do as you're instructed, the gentle pressure applied by your hand around his throat causes auburn eyelashes to flutter. The slight restriction to an airflow that isn't all that necessary for a god's survival has his eyes rolling back before they re-focus on you, half-hidden by hooded eyelids.

"Love," you murmur. For it is the answer to everything, is it not?

"Love," is echoed with a resounding voice that doesn't fully come from the tongue of the man beneath you, but bellows out from an otherworldly essence that surrounds the entire world and beyond. And at the same time, he speaks it so fondly because ultimately, he's addressing it as a title for you.

The god of the sun, as immortal as he might be, has died before. Mortal vessels manage to persevere for a fixed number of years and a feeble human body can only endure so much wear and tear. Yet Seokmin's soul still shines steadily onwards despite the memory of death over and over again lingering… and he unsurprisingly realizes that he wouldn't mind dying like this — by your hand. 

Was that love? 

But the amount of power, energy, and time, along with the unpredictable wiles of the creator would never guarantee him returning to you. Preservation of this human shell was of the utmost importance, the first time he's ever handled a vessel with care before.

Perhaps that was love.

Rather than be swept up in unpleasantries, he entertains the amusing thought of how much fragility you exercise with him. Having already released your grip far too quickly and instead, fiddle with the untied laces on his loose shirt.

"Love," he repeats, this time as a call in a raspy drawl of his own voice. 

"Hm. Or maybe it was… pity."

An eyebrow raises and the corners of Seokmin's mouth twitch upward. "Only my queen would dare to pity a god."

"It was for what you were. And who you weren't. I despise those uppity, repetitive displays of unwavering loyalty that either party can easily discard."

"Like the former king's imperial court."

"Yes." 

Your angered hiss is exactly the same as the first time you informed him of your plans to take down your father and his cult. The disgust and rage have barely ebbed even after all the progress made for a better future and as many years that have passed. 

Seokmin scans your expressions. He's always admired your spitfire that could rival his own flames. But in times when it burns long enough to possibly exhaust or hurt you, he worries. You're strong — he knows that — so many times he simply becomes the safe space where you can seethe aloud without interruption. 

"Would you rather grow dull and be poisoned because someone is not even worth keeping an eye on or the thrill of unpredictability? A constant sword dance that keeps each other on their toes, never deviating gazes from one another."

He smirks. "That sounds familiar."

You think back to earlier days with him. A stubborn royal and an even more stubborn deity. When did the challenging, pointed glares at one another change to simmering looks of desire?

Instead of your swords tangling together in an angry clash over a small matter, it was your tongues after a heated sparring session. How condescension switched to respect to something more passionate… more primal… more intimate.

"Perhaps so. But look at you now — look at how you shine."

His skin indeed glows a bit brighter as he melts further into the soft touch of your palm returning to his cheek. Thumb tracing constellations between the pair of moles on his cheek while your other finger follows the nearly invisible scar below his eye.

"Little blemishes," he had once told you, "even the body of a god bears its flaws after fighting on a battlefield."

You thought they only made him all the more perfect.

"And look at how I've fallen."

As if to demonstrate his murmured words, Seokmin moves at the speed of light — his normal pace — to lie on his back, umber strands of hair spread out like flames of fire against the grandiose bed's silken sheets.

Somehow, he'd positioned you on top of him. Much accustomed to the tiny displays of omnipotence here and there, you remain unbothered. Affectionately, you brush back his bangs. Fiery wisps of hair that seemingly move on their own accord with the amount of power that ripples through their thin fibers.

He might just be the most powerful among his fellow deities and you could wield all of that as your own because he sits obediently in the palm of your hand. Lays dociley among your silken sheets. What he's trying to prove to you — the hold you have over him — immediately enthralled under your spell as you play with his locks and softly whisper, "You're Seokmin. My Seokmin."

Despite your bare chest quite literally in his face, the god waits. Fully clothed in soft linens where he can feel every tempting pulse thundering in your precious mortal body on top of his. 

And still, he waits. 

His hands don't even reach out as you unlace his shirt. Though he has wrecked and ruined your body in a thrillingly sensual, blistering, and passionate heat of love-making before, tonight he gives himself over to you. Vulnerable and all yours for the taking, watching with faint amusement as you impatiently urge him to shed the rest of his garments.

"My queen."

"My king."

"There is no rush. We have all of eternity."

"Do we?" you breathe out and look him in the eyes as your fingers dance along his inner thigh. "Or is it only you, divine ruler of the everlasting dawn and never-ending night?"

"My graceful moon," Seokmin sighs and distracts you from grasping his weeping shaft, urging you to straddle his legs. You follow his will despite the object of your desires lying neglected between your bodies, coating your stomach in the molten saltiness that drips from it.

"My stars, my sky, my galaxy, my universe." Each title of affection is seared into your skin with a burning kiss to brand your body. Your cheek, your ear, your neck, your shoulder, and your hand. "Without you in it, the world ceases to exist."

"My sun, my warrior, my knight, my shield, and my sword." You repeat a version of your own display of worship and what he means to you — mimicking the same actions across his lithe body. "My love, it would do you good to live in the present with me. Must you think of a dire future so soon?"

"Each inhale of life thus returns an exhale of death. I dread every moment that brings me closer to your end."

"Such morbid thoughts you carry, my darling. Where is the fearless god that took a poisoned arrow to the heart and pulled it out without so much as a flinch?" 

"You think me weak when I'd take the blow of any weapon as long as it does not harm you."

The irony when you'd both been struck by invisible, non-lethal darts fired from the god of love's feathered bow. But the terrifying memory of Seokmin taking the assassination attempt in your place causes a rare, but true, fear twisting in your gut. The flash of life before your eyes changed the trajectory of your tactics and your relationship with the god. And as always he reassures you with what he knows to be the truth — for the most part.

"Nothing can hurt me as long as you're alright." 

"Then make me your goddess in return so that I will be invincible enough to protect you from harm's wrath too." 

"But that… you know I can't," he whimpers, "no matter how much I long to." 

A tear trickles down his cheek, crystallizing when it falls. Like many before and well after, all bodily fluids of the god will be found transformed as various tiny diamonds and gems. Tangled within the bedsheets the following morning as they always are and stored away in the queen's treasury.

Seokmin cries, not just at his frustrations, but at how you gingerly hold his hot and hardened length. Heavy in your palm that rubs and strokes it lovingly before sinking down with practiced ease, having already stretched yourself out earlier while waiting. Undulating your hips in slow, controlled circles that make him dizzy with desire. Your words pierce his chest, paining him like no sword that sliced him open could ever compare.

"If fate will not let it happen, then bury me in the ground so I can thrive beneath your warm rays that whisper sweet nothings. Let me smile up at you after winter passes while I bloom brilliantly through spring and long into the heated days of summer. Weave my soul among the stars so I may greet you in the morning and kiss you goodnight every evening. Scatter my ashes into the windy gusts of the north and down the silver rivers flowing south so I may laugh and dance in the skies alongside your sunbeams."

He sobs at the poignant emotional tug of your words, every poetry waxed by your breathy voice punctuated by a tantalizing undulation of your hips. You reassuringly clench around him, foreheads and bodies pressed together, hands clasped tightly in each other's grasp.

The god's chest heaves and the mountains on the eastern border shift to the left. Sometimes the air cools when this occurs but tonight, it shimmers and glistens as if straining against his commands. A hot wave that threatens to distort the very seam of reality itself. 

"I will always be yours," you kiss the corner of his trembling lips, "and you mine, my darling god."

"My sweet goddess, my everything… my love."

Seokmin's hips buck up anxiously and you let him lead the pace. Wild thrusts take over as he chases that high, wanting and needing to take you over that peak with him. Your body lays prone against him, along for the jostling ride as the god seeks his own pleasure through and with you. Praises and worship fall from his lips, never failing to be in awe of how your cunt molds and works his cock like a blacksmith shapes an iron rod yet he can bully it as he wants to fit him. Only him. 

You were made for the god of the sun.

Golden ichor thrums through his veins, lighting his skin in flashes like the sparks of embers. He's beautiful. Otherworldly. Your lips capture each glowing pulse of godliness that erupts beneath his flesh with a tender peck. He's all yours.

And he was made for you.

When Seokmin plunges into your welcoming warmth that is his alone to claim before he finally succumbs, it's blinding. On the other side of the earth, the sun shines a little brighter. A harsh glint that already emits a sweltering heat from its fiery nature flares even hotter in the blue sky. A blessed priestess looks up in contemplation, waving away the worried maidens who tend to her every need.

You feel his large hands — one presses in a bruising hold between your shoulders, the other on your lower back. Keeping you flush against him, holding your body to his while you welcome inside the scorching spurts of his seed within your womb that feel like lava. Your walls flutter around him and he basks in the feeling of them pulsating as you jerk your hips 

"Come," he begs out. It's loud and resounding. More of an instinctual command if anything and your body almost obeys unwittingly, unaware of his intent before he lifts you up with inhuman strength and clarifies, "Up here," and sits you on your rightful throne — his face, "where you deserve, the queen of queens. My queen. My love. My goddess."

He laps at you like a dehydrated dog. Both cleaning you up and creating an even bigger mess. Your thighs squeeze tightly around the sides of Seokmin's head, one hand tugging harshly at his hair and the other mercilessly wrinkling the silk bed sheets. His moans are sweet songs of praise but muffled as he sucks his release out of your cunt only to push it back inside with his tongue. The addition of globs of spit accompanying the still-hot, smeared mess causes your own sounds to grow much louder, writhing on top of him from the sloppy sensations.

Back and forth he repeats this a couple of times, the firm point of his nose stimulating your sore clit in his efforts. And finally, you come undone — spasming on top of Seokmin's chin and suffocating him just like he likes. Breathing and drowning in your essence, the very elixir of life.

"I shall make you mine," he whispers later, dutifully laying your deliciously aching but clean body onto freshened sheets. Your lover is ever so attentive, rarely nearly needing the same amount of aftercare he showers upon you.

For he is a god from the heavens to bestow blessings upon his desired mortal.

"I am already yours."

"But for all of eternity, it shall be so."

Satiated and content, you reach for him. He lovingly takes your hand and presses a kiss to the tip of each of your fingers. "How?"

"The Mother. She's the closest thing we have to the Creator and might be older than the universe itself. There's nothing she doesn't know so I'm sure she'll have the answers I seek."

"Must you leave so soon?"

Seokmin smiles as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. "The sun never fails to rise, my dear. I will be back before you know it bringing with me tidings of great news."

"I'll be waiting."

Your shared kiss is soft and gentle. Sweet and full of sentiment. Indeed, you always wait for him and the sun god leaves with a full heart of hope. Little does he know, and little do you suspect, the true one lying in wait was the shadowed figure holding a poisoned dagger beneath their cloak.

And so, with the death of a queen so loved by the god of the sun… the prophecy begins.

onlyseokmins: September 2024 ©

[brokentrafficknight]

Just a little more AU

Cinder is fully aware of her parental complexes.

That her underclassmen adore her is out of her control...

[twothirdsgenius]

@viiridiangreen THANKS i was lowkey terrified but it actually wasn’t that bad? definitely the least painful experience out of all the heist battleground gms. lots of safe places to park your ass behind cover and go plink plink plink

[cabinetofquriosities]

Nothing Matters

Agatha x Rio || Warnings: Violence and Smut

Just a note: These are based on actual historical events that happened, which is why I aged Nicky down to 5 when he died in order to fit the dates. They are pretty fascinating events. I encourage anyone reading to fall down the same rabbit holes I did while researching them!

(Listen along while reading)

——————————————————

1755 - Lisbon

Classical music filled the stuffy air of a palace in Lisbon as nobles danced with one another. The rich were flirting, feeding, and forgetting the world beyond their gilded walls. Outside, families were celebrating All Saint’s Day on the first of November. Children ran from door to door, collecting treats from their neighbors. Little did they know, the shadow of death was amongst them.

Agatha Harkness was still marked by grief only six months after losing Nicholas. She had killed and drained enough witches to fill a town, but Death still hid from her. After the hell she had been plunged into, Agatha yearned to pull her former love down with her. So, she had something planned that Rio would not be able to ignore.

1872 - Boston

Summer Street was packed with people who were going through the motions of a frigid November day. Men walked arm in arm with their wives. Teenagers blushed as they wooed one another. Merchants had their doors open to the cold in hopes of welcoming passerby’s.

In the thick of the crowd was Agatha Harkness. She wore a scarlet two piece silk dress with a lace lined jacket and bustle at the back of the skirt. Her hair was pinned up with banana curls spilling down the back of her neck. Her hands were snug in a fur hand muff.

Her power felt completely renewed. She went on a bit of a bender with killing witches. She had been betrayed by her own emotions as Rio showed up in every dream for the last few years. She was used to one here and there, but not every night. She needed to get that beast out of her system. So, she killed and stole power in hopes of summoning her. The two were still diametrically opposed to one another, still “separated” or estranged spouses for lack of a better term, but could never stay away for too long. Every so often, Agatha would find a way to see her and the two would reunite for a night at most in a tangle of bodies and limbs. It had been over a decade this time around.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

The gentle sway of the ocean rocked the passengers to sleep as their destroyer treaded the boards overhead. Her heels clicked as she walked over the deck.

“Ma’am?” the captain called.

Agatha turned, her curls falling loose around her shoulders and still wearing a long, sheer bejeweled dress from dinner. After all, she had to dress for her Lady.

“Yes?”

“It’s too cold to be taking a walk out here.”

“It is,” she said with a smirk.

1755 - Lisbon

Death always had a sense of when a seismic event was coming. Whenever a wave of death was about to strike, she would feel the pull of it. Rio had tried to avoid revealing herself by waiting longer after a witch would die to claim her soul. This, though, this was so far away from Massachusetts. She incorrectly assumed that Agatha wouldn’t be traveling overseas.

She couldn’t show up late to an event of this size. With how massive the event promised to be, she figured it was a natural phenomenon rather than anything that could be caused by Agatha. So, she donned an elegant dress, her hair pinned in curls, and appeared at the epicenter.

Agatha heard the music shift to a Minuet. Couples made their way to the ballroom floor to dance. She stood and saw the woman who had been just out of reach for the past several months. She strode over and swiftly took her by the hand before Rio even had a chance to register it was her. Agatha whirled her into a spin before stepping back, giving a deep bow with the rest of the ladies in the dance.

Rio looked like a trapped animal, her eyes betraying the panic she felt at being so thoroughly tricked. She went along with the dance, one that was playful in nature and felt so inappropriate for their situation. Agatha straightened up and raised her hand, pressing her forearm against Rio’s as they walked around one another, their gazes locked.

“Did you really think you could run from me?” Agatha hissed.

1872 - Boston

Rio knew there was a likelihood of Agatha being close to this given its location, but knew she had to arrive for this. While it wasn’t the same bodycount as a natural disaster, the violence and discord she could sense coming required her presence.

She walked down the cobblestone road. A little boy accidentally ran into her. She grabbed him by the shoulders to keep him from falling. He looked up at her with wide eyes, feeling the aura of decay around her. Those eyes looked too familiar to ones she had seen before. This one wasn’t meant to be lost today. There was no need for him to witness it at all. She led him into an alleyway before the child knew what was happening and swirled her fingers. A small door appeared on the side of the building. She opened it, motioning for the five year old to walk through. He did, not noticing he was on a street in a nearby town until the door shut behind him.

“Special treatment, I see,” a voice said behind Rio.

“He wasn’t meant to die today,” Rio said.

She turned around.

“Agatha.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Do you need an escort back to your cabin?” the captain asked the wandering passenger.

“Oh, no need,” Agatha said, redirecting her gaze to the stars above, “My love will be here soon.”

“Okay, well, please be careful,” he said, “And stay away from the edge of the ship. The ocean is deadly at night.”

“That it is,” she said, nodding at him.

A dapper young man wearing a suit crossed his path before making his way to the Agatha. The captain noticed how feminine the man’s features were. He felt unnerved by the interaction, feeling something of a chill down his spine as if Death had brushed past him.

“Your love?” Rio asked, Adjusting her top hat.

She turned around to face Rio with a cruel smile.

“It would have sounded suspicious if I said my enemy.”

1755 - Lisbon

“I wasn’t running,” Rio said as they danced.

“You were hiding,” Agatha said.

“I don’t always show myself to others every time I collect.”

“You used to with me,” Agatha said.

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me after-“

“DON’T… say his name. You do not get to ever say it again,” Agatha snapped before resuming their dance.

“I just thought you needed time.”

“Time…” Agatha said with a bitter laugh, “Well, you never give much of that, now do you?”

Rio stopped in her tracks, ignoring the music filling the room. Her eyes darkened. Could she really be that willfully ignorant of the situation? Human emotions always twisted the reality of things into absurd shapes.

“I gave everything I could,” she said, her voice dropped low.

“Then you fall far short of expectations. You are the original Green Witch. Lady Death. And all you could manage was five years.”

“You have no idea how much those years shifted the balance of the universe. I would have given him all the time that existed if I could.”

“But you didn’t,” Agatha seethed.

“I couldn’t,” Rio said with a defeated sigh.

She looked around, feeling an electricity in the air around them. Whatever was about to happen was coming closer.

“I cannot have this conversation right now. Something terrible is about to happen. You should leave while you can,” Rio said with an edge of urgency.

“Oh, I am very aware.”

Rio tried to resolve the enormity of the event with being caused by a single person. This event would affect a third of the Earth. She looked at her with genuine shock and amazement.

“Agatha… what did you do?”

1872 - Boston

“Rio,” Agatha said with a sly smile, “Long time, no see.”

“Well, our meeting in New York didn’t exactly make me want to come running back.”

“Oh, please,” Agatha said, stalking towards her with a pout, “You love it when I’m cruel.”

Rio arched a brow before shaking her head with a bemused smile. She hated how right she was. It was a rare treat for Death to have someone who did not fear or revere her. Agatha gave her the gift of the unexpected in the endless cycle of nature.

“You are the one behind what is about to happen, then?”

Agatha looked downright giddy as she said, “It’s already begun.”

Agatha took Rio’s hand, running her up the stairs of the nearest building they could find to the roof. Agatha beamed at the view like a kid showing an adult the drawing they had made. Rio looked at the skyline of Boston, not noticing anything out of place at first. A few moments passed and then, she saw the smoke.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Your enemy,” Rio echoed, “Is that where we still are?”

Agatha looked at her with a flash of vulnerability before throwing her mask back on.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” she said, lifting her chin.

“For someone who hates me, it seems like you’re pretty determined to see me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was bored.”

“Really?” she said, nodding, “Sure. Let’s just say that if it makes you feel better.”

Agatha scowled before walking to the edge of the deck, hanging onto the railing. Rio followed behind, never allowing Agatha to be too far away in a deadly situation. She knew it wasn’t her time, but it was usually because Rio was there to protect her. If Agatha had gotten sick or killed by another witch, then she couldn’t do anything but take her to the other side. She couldn’t cure illness. She couldn’t interfere in an attack that she was not present for. However, if she was a source of protection while present, it would not upset the sacred balance. People were taken before their time far too often and she could do things to prevent that. If it actually was their time due to something fated and intrinsic like an illness, it was not preventable. It was how she saved Agatha time and time again, but also why she couldn’t save Nicky.

“What are we looking at?” Rio asked.

“That,” Agatha said as an iceberg appeared in the distance.

1755 - Lisbon

“It is not what I did. It is what I am about to do,” Agatha said.

She took Rio’s hand, pulling her outside to the courtyard where couples strolled with one another beneath the moonlight. She knelt down, putting her hand on the ground. She closed her eyes and began to whisper an incantation.

Purple light pulsed under her palm. The ground started to shake. The earth broke apart at her hand, cracks emerging and spreading with purple glowing from them. People screamed and fled. Buildings collapsed and the cracks opened up. Men and women sprinted blindly in a panic, falling in and being swallowed up whole. Agatha’s smile widened as she felt the energy of every witch in Lisbon reverberating back to her. Rio simply took it all in with a sense of awe at Agatha’s power of destruction.

She stood and turned to face her. The destruction was unfolding around them as Agatha’s eyes burned into Rio’s. Her gaze reflected rage, sadness, and misdirected hatred. Intertwined throughout those elements was a strong desire that had always bonded them together. Both of them suddenly took three long strides and met in a wild kiss.

1872 - Boston

“One fire?” Rio said with an arched brow, “A bit sophomoric for you.”

“Oh, hush,” Agatha sniped, “Keep watching.”

A minute passed before the building was engulfed, the flames climbing and building with every inch of wood and dried goods. There were no people in the storage house, but that didn’t matter as Agatha worked her magic. She swirled her hand flicked it out in the fire’s direction. A gust of wind whipped from her fingers over the city. The flames jumped to neighboring roofs, burning them quickly with how close and flammable they were. The city was architecturally tight and created with wood as the primary material.

Rio’s eyes went wide and she smiled at the sight of the growing inferno. She reached over, threading her fingers through Agatha’s. Agatha reached up and cupped her cheek with her free hand. She knew their dynamic was too fraught to work in the long term, but these pauses in their rivalry were something she needed. Or, rather, the transformation of their rivalry into something more primal and intimate.

Rio leaned into her touch with a soft look. Agatha moved in, catching her lips with hers. The kiss was tender for all of forty seconds before Rio’s teeth sank into Agatha’s lip, drawing blood. Agatha sucked in a shocked gasp. She pulled back, her look indignant.

Agatha gripped Rio by the throat, shoving her down onto the floor of the flat roof. She looked down and found that Rio had rid them both of their clothing with a wave of her hand. She crawled over her, grabbing her neck again. Rio laughed between coughs as she was choked.

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

“Oh. Interesting,” Rio said with a curious tilt of her head.

Agatha looked at her, peeking out of the corner of her eye. Rio looked beautiful and handsome all at once in the fancy tuxedo and top hat.

“You look good,” Agatha said quietly.

The corner of Rio’s lip turned upwards at the compliment. Any crumb of kindness from Agatha felt like the gifting of a rose.

“Thank you. You look breathtaking,” Rio said, turning her head to look at her directly.

Agatha unwillingly blushed in a way that reminded Rio of when they were a new couple. Agatha had never been in love before, nor did she know any affection from loved ones. The young witch would melt at any kind words given to her. Moments like this reminded Rio that every stage in Agatha’s development as a person was nested within her like Russian dolls. It was such a strange thing about humans that Rio never noticed until she was devoted to one over a matter of centuries.

Agatha raised her hands up, beams of purple shooting from both palms. They wrapped around the massive iceberg. The ropes of energy held onto the ship. Agatha used the ship’s momentum to drag it into a collision. Rio threw her arms around her from behind, holding her to keep her steady as the impact spread across the Titanic.

1755 - Lisbon

The estranged, grieving couple found themselves in a tangle of dangerous emotions. Agatha backed her against an oversized cedar tree. She pinned Rio by the wrists, making a point to dig the back of her hands into the jagged surface. She sucked and bit at her lips, letting her wrists go to start yanking at her bustier, doing everything she could to strip her from the ridiculous layers of clothing that were used to lock the female form in.

Rio reached down to tangle her fingers in Agatha’s hair, but was met with the sting of a slap. Then another. Although Death could shut down sensations to the body, she chose not to. She wanted to feel whatever contact Agatha would give, no matter the type.

Agatha slapped her two more times, leaning in to bite painfully into her shoulder, pulling back with a few drops of blood decorating her snarl. She raked her nails down her arms, leaving angry red marks. Rio let out grunts and gasps with every hit. Tears welled in Agatha’s eyes, her jaw clenched in anger. Rio wanted her to take it all out on her.

Agatha pulled back enough to look at the marks she left behind. Maroon handprints on her cheeks, a bleeding imprint of teeth on her shoulder, and scarlet trails blazing down to her wrists.

Agatha looked shocked at her own violence toward a woman who she never cared to hurt this way before. Just as she was about to pull away and leave, Rio spoke with a shaking voice.

“Keep going. Do everything you have wanted,” she breathed.

Agatha wanted to punish.

Rio wanted to hurt.

“Everything I have wanted?” She hissed.

Agatha shoved her back against the tree, pressing her hips against her. She used her magic to tear Rio’s layers down, leaving her nude. She pinched and twisted her nipples. Rio hissed through her teeth, arching her back. The roots of the tree, sliding up Agatha’s body. They ripped her dress apart, leaving her in scraps of fabric, her body revealed.

Agatha’s violent affection grew as she slapped her cunt and pulled her head back by the hair with her other hand. Rio’s gaze held Agatha’s, refusing to look away.

1872 - Boston

Agatha’s grip around her throat loosened just enough to turn it from aggressive to playful. She smiled down at her, able to look at her with more affection than hatred. She hadn’t forgiven her, but she at least intellectually knew that Rio had no choice but to take Nicky, even if she couldn’t emotionally accept it. Rio felt the lightness in Agatha. As long as she didn’t call attention to it, it would continue.

Rio knew that the moment she acknowledged the connection between them, Agatha would throw her walls back up the way they did in New York years ago. Back then, Rio slipped up and said she loved her. Agatha’s expression hardened. Her eyes went dead and she abruptly left her, waiting far too long to summon her again. Rio wouldn’t make that mistake again. She would keep it light and safe.

Rio smirked and rolled them over, grabbing and pinning her wrists. Agatha leaned up, trying to struggle against her hold. Rio bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. She worked her leg between Agatha’s and pressed her thigh against her sex. Agatha gasped and rolled her hips at the contact. Rio smiled devilishly down at her.

“Such a greedy girl. Fuck yourself on me.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

The ship had cracked in two. The lights turned off throughout, plunging the vessel into darkness. Shrieks emanated from the cabins.

Agatha turned in Rio’s arms, holding onto the railing behind her while the two halves of the ship tilted toward the middle. Rio pressed her fingers under her chin and guided her up into a kiss under the stars.

Agatha let go of the railing, wrapping her arms around Rio’s neck as they tipped and slid towards the wall of the pilothouse. Agatha cushioned the impact of their bodies crashing against it with a shield of purple mist.

People emptied out of the cabins, running in a panic to find an exit. Men tried to push past mothers and children to save their own hides while the rich locked the poor passengers under the deck when they realized there were barely any lifeboats.

This level of cruelty towards one another was the very reason that Agatha used to justify her murderous acts. If this is who they were at their cores, what would they possibly have to give to the world? The rich especially angered her. Regardless of having every advantage, they were the most selfish beings on earth. If she hadn’t been completely wrapped up in Rio, she would have saved the lower class passengers while dispatching the richest. However, she was locked into an embrace with her love and the water had already rushed into those cabins.

Agatha kissed along Rio’s neck, running her hands over her suit. She took care to leave as many clothes on as possible. It was not only cold, but Rio also looked amazing in a tuxedo. She slid her hand into the suit pants. Rio gasped and smiled. She rocked her hips over her hand, feeling Agatha’s hand wandering. Agatha’s fingers parted her folds and pushed up the hood of her clit, using a fingertip to lightly play with it. The pleasure shot through her in short spurts that felt like being electrocuted. She gripped Agatha’s upper arms to steady herself, already trembling. The rush of death surrounding them was as intoxicating to her as Agatha was. It didn’t feel like euphoria the way draining magic felt to Agatha. It was more of a flood of adrenaline that activated her instincts as the reaper. It made every sensation that much more extreme.

Agatha, meanwhile, felt the energy of a handful of witches aboard. It spiked her arousal and made her hungrier for her love. She sped her finger, purposely overwhelming Rio with shocks of pleasure. Rio cried out, her hands tightening on her biceps. Agatha watched her closely, taking in every detail, every twitch of her lip, the fluttering of her lashes.

Before Agatha could continue, Rio abruptly turned the tables. She spun Agatha onto her back, shoving her dress up to her waist. She looked down at her bare cunt, tilting her head.

“No undergarments? Looks like you had a plan,” Rio said.

“You know me,” Agatha purred, “Always prepared.”

Rio dove down between her thighs, plunging her tongue into her. Agatha arched her back off of the wall that had tilted with the boat, effectively becoming more of a floor.

People panicked and scrambled around them, not even noticing what was unfolding between the two women. It was always the most delicious thing about the disasters Agatha created. The chaos around them allowed them to have the most depraved experiences in public.

Rio’s dark eyes were fixed on Agatha’s face. She fucked her slowly at first, grinding her tongue against the most sensitive spot inside of her. Agatha’s eyes shot open, her hips flying up. Rio pinned them back down as she moved faster, nudging at her clit with her nose.

Agatha’s hand shot down and tangled her hand in her hair, knocking her hat off. She rolled her hips, trying to fuck her back before Rio laid an arm across them to keep her still. Agatha whined in a rare show of weakness, one that only her wife could draw from her.

“Fuck… Rio!” She moaned as Rio pulled her in closer by her waist.

Rio groaned in reply, the vibration shivering against Agatha. Agatha’s jaw fell as her pleasure crested, crashing over her like a heavy wave. Rio coaxed aftershocks from her while cleaning her arousal. Whimpers left her lips, making Rio look up at her again, taking in the breathtaking sight of her wife gasping against the back of her hand. She turned her head and sucked on the skin, leaving a dark welt on her inner thigh.

Rio emerged from between her legs. She crawled over Agatha, looking down into her blue eyes. She gently moved her hand from her lips and captured them herself.

“Mi amor,” Rio whispered.

“Mi corazón,” Agatha replied, “I love you.”

1755 - Lisbon

“I hate you…” Agatha hissed.

Her fingers were inside of Rio. Two, then three, then four. Rio let out a sharp scream as Agatha stretched her to her limit, tucking her thumb inside. Rio’s face was a portrait of pain, but her arousal only grew. Agatha smiled sadistically as she made a fist inside of her. Rio’s breath caught, her walls strangling her hand. Her arousal squirted from her, the agony burning into pleasure.

Agatha roughly yanked her hand from her, leaving Rio empty. She screamed out from the violent move, clinging to the trunk of the tree behind her in an attempt to keep herself upright.

Agatha gripped her shoulder and pushed down until the weak-kneed woman was on the ground. She swung her leg over, straddling Rio’s face. She lowered herself, using her like a toy. Rio worked with a desperation, needing to give Agatha everything she could while still knowing it would never be enough.

Agatha panted as she fucked her face. Rio thrusted her tongue inside of her, tasting the flavor she craved more than anything. She watched Agatha move like a woman possessed. Her hair was wild and her expression feral. In the distance, the shore was attacked by a massive tidal wave powered by Agatha’s fury.

The churches filled with people celebrating All Saints’ Day collapsed, taking thousands with it. The city of Lisbon was crumbling around them. The impact of the earthquake reverberated as far as the Caribbean from Portugal. Even North Africa was hit. Tsunamis were birthed from the epicenter. From Agatha.

The sheer volume of death left Rio’s head spinning. Nearly one hundred thousand dead. Of that body count, thousands of witches perished, their magic moving in flashes, traveling over several countries, endowing Agatha with power.

The violet glow surrounding her was blinding, the magic of the dying witches proving to be almost too much for Agatha. She shook violently as she kept moving over Rio. She leaned forward on her knees and pressed her palms against the tree. She screamed as her overpowered body unraveled for the very woman she was trying to dominate. She crawled back so that she was eye to eye with Rio, glaring down at her with irises swimming in a deep purple as magic pulsed through every cell of her body.

The dark eyes looking back at her welled with tears that were all too human for an entity like Death. Rio had witnessed the pure rage of grief when she had taken others. She knew it was only born from pain. However, that didn’t take the pain of being loathed by the love of her life.

“He was my son too,” she whispered out, unable to stop the words.

Agatha’s eyes ignited before she shoved her to the ground. Her hands gripped her throat, squeezing as hard as she could. Rio struggled. Her vision blurred, but they both knew that Death could never die. Her windpipe would never collapse. She still wanted her to struggle for breath.

“Some mother you were,” Agatha growled through clenched teeth, “You killed your own son…”

Rio wheezed as she whispered, “He was already gone.”

Agatha strangled her another minute before letting go. Rio gasped and coughed violently. Agatha looked at her with nothing short of pure disgust.

“You could have saved him.”

“I did. Every day for five years. You don’t know how difficult it was to squeeze time from nothing.”

“And you don’t know how it was to wake up to him that morning.”

“You’re right,” Rio admitted, “I don’t.”

Agatha looked down at her, momentarily allowing her to look at her the way she used to. As the ancient witch who only showed true humanity for her.

“I wish I could have done more,” Rio sobbed out, looking stunned by her own display of emotion, “I am so sorry…”

Agatha had no words that were enough, nothing that would solve the grief between two parents. She only had a question.

“Do you see him when you bring others over?”

“Not fully,” she said, “Only shadows. Only whispers… For me to be too close would disturb the balance. His mothers are not fated to be with him yet. I cannot force when that reunion will be. But… He leaves me flowers. He leaves us flowers.”

Agatha simply cried then, unable to contain it any longer. The fact that Rio had glimpses of him while she had nothing should have angered her more, but it only led to another question that was more important than her rage.

“Is h… Is he happy?” The

“Yes,” Rio said without a second thought, “Someone with earth magic… Nicky can only make roses when he is happy. He leaves roses everywhere he goes.”

Agatha’s tears fell directly from her eyelashes to Rio’s cheeks. When Rio tried to cup Agatha’s cheek, the other woman wrenched her face away. She closed her eyes, trying to force her mask to hide her from someone who knew her completely. She opened them, but still revealed her own adoration and passion for the woman in front of her, despite her anger. That look would fuel Rio in the centuries to come. They would remind her that their bond had withstood the worst tragedy possible. Emotion would crash against it like the water crashing against the sand miles away, but that bond would always hold.

Agatha came to the same conclusion internally, beneath the storm of trauma and misery. She was cursed and blessed to be forever bonded to Death. Her lips collided with hers with a painful impact. Purple flowed from her to Rio, tying them together in that moment. She was there one second and pulling away the next. Rio sat up as Agatha left, walking into the clouds of destruction left in her wake.

For years and centuries later, Rio would leave Nicky’s roses by Agatha’s bed as she slept to give her comfort. She would keep half for her and give half of the blooms to his other mother.

Agatha, for her part, would pretend to be asleep when she would hear the familiar footsteps. Death could come like a thief in the night, but Agatha occasionally felt it just before. She would savor the kiss laid upon her forehead, the light touch of her fingers as they brushed stray hairs from her face. She savored Rio in a way she could handle during those first few decades following Lisbon before calling upon her time and time again with unprecedented disasters throughout time.

1872 - Boston

Agatha’s back bent like a bow as pleasure wound itself tightly in the pit of her. She rutted herself against Rio’s thigh as the other woman wolfishly grinned down at her. She sucked in a gasp as her hips stuttered. Rio suddenly moved down her form in a flash, grabbing her thighs and bending her in half. She leaned down and ran her tongue along her soaking cunt. She drank her in as the air around them heated up as the crowds below them ran from the flames.

Agatha wanted to watch the destruction, but Rio was far more captivating. She tangled her hands in her own hair, her body quaking with pleasure. Rio sucked on the little bundle of nerves that made her scream while thrusting two fingers into her.

Agatha’s brows bunched together as her walls strangled them, already overstimulated. As she came again, she pulled Rio out from between her legs and into a kiss. She hummed against her lips with her arms wrapped around her. Agatha slid her hand down between them, teasing Rio. Rio shook her head and took her hand.

“But…” Agatha started.

“This is about you,” Rio replied, bringing her hand to her lips, kissing it with a, “Milady.”

Half the city was reduced to ashes as the flames licked up the building below them. Fire surrounded them as they shared one last kiss. Rio pulled back and smiled as frenzied cries came from the adjoining buildings.

“That’s my cue,” Rio said.

As Agatha pushed the fire away from her with tendrils of purple magic. Vines grew from Rio’s feet, crawling up her body and forming into a tight, form fitting outfit. She stood on the ledge, turning to face Agatha. She waved at her with a smile before jumping off of the roof.

Agatha waited until she was out of earshot to say, “Always a pleasure, My love.”

1912 - The Atlantic Ocean

People plummeted from the ship, trampled one another, froze in the water. As the sounds of pain and anguish surrounded them, the band continued to play. In the middle of the mayhem were a small collection of those who chose to meet death with grace. Being around them was a comfort to Rio. Unlike the fear and terror she was typically shown, these people were more focused on finding peace in remaining moments.

The ship began to sink further in. Jewelry, furs, and other meaningless things that lost all worth in the larger picture of life plunged into the depths of the Atlantic, disappearing into the places where sunlight refused to follow. The lifeboats were full and floating away. Some were filled with vulnerable people who were rightfully saved while others were filled by the ruthless people who pushed their way to the front of the crowds. Their morality didn’t matter to their fates on Earth. That would catch up to them years later when Rio came for them. The people left behind held each other and sobbed in the realization that there was no way to escape their demise.

The musicians played to calm the passengers, the transcendent sound of strings flowing through the screams. Agatha held a hand out to Rio, who took it in hers. She pulled her in, pressing her cheek to Agatha’s as they danced. Rio hummed their song into her ear. The stars shone down on them with a beauty that stood in opposition to the tragedy unfolding beneath.

Next to them sat an elderly married couple who chose to stay. The wife had refused to leave him behind when offered a seat on the lifeboat. She wouldn’t take someone else’s place when hers was with her love. He tried to convince her to leave, but she shook her head. They held hands, listening to the music while gazing at the moon.

Agatha looked at them over Rio’s shoulder and saw the devotion that she and her own wife shared. The words the woman spoke to him earlier were some of the most romantic she had heard. “Isidor we have been together for all these years. Where you go, I go.”

She realized that the same applied to her and the woman in her embrace. Regardless of what happened, of what they did, of how they tried to resist, they were each other’s home. Although she wasn’t yet ready to fully welcome Rio back into her life, she knew that she would be sooner rather than later. Like the couple beside them, they would walk through life together.

The old man kissed the back of his wife’s hand, earning a youthful blush from her. Rio could feel their acceptance. The two would greet Death as they would an old friend.

This story was based on the Lisbon Earthquake of 1755, the Great Boston Fire of 1872, and the sinking of the Titanic in 1912.

If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment and reblog it! Also, check out my other playlist fics!

Thank you for reading ♥️

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Scrub My Brain With Bleach - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi pays the price for snooping...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

As she moves to go, her foot catches something under the desk. It's a trunk, the wooden surface scuffed by frequent use. But the design's exquisitely ornate. The lid's inset with a mosaic of mother-of-pearl. It depicts a blue-haired sprite in a grove, a green dragonfly cradled in her palms. The motif is repeated in a band around the brass rim, where the dragonflies open and close their wings, their iridescent patterns shimmering as if in flight.

It reminds Vi of the folktales of Janna, passed into her tiny ear by Mom at bedtime. How the dragonflies were Janna's eyes, their luminous wings bearing the sparks of her magic. How they flitted through the old gardens of Oshra Va'Zaun, bestowing the Goddess's favor. How, should the light catch their wings just so, they'd grant a boon on a lucky soul.

And a kiss of fortune, upon their lips.

Jinx, Vi guesses, chose the box for its whimsy as much as its utility. She's plainly taken pains to keep it tidy. Despite the scratches on the varnish, its structure is solid, and its brass lid is freshly gilded. There's a padlock, burnished to a lustrous gleam, and a keyhole in the shape of a dragonfly's thorax. The key itself is a golden cruciform dangling off the chain that seals the lock.

For a moment, Vi wonders if the trunk is, in fact, a trousseau. Jinx hardly seems the type. Her idea of wedding finery would involve explosives more than lingerie—if she bothered to put anything on at all.

And yet the possibility's not as outlandish as it'd been while Vi was knuckling sleep-crumbs from her eyes in the guestroom.

The trunk is clearly a cherished possession. Maybe Jinx keeps her favorite jewelry here. Maybe she's got a cache of special grenades. Maybe she's hiding a skeleton. Or three.

Maybe Vi's a nosy, meddling shit.

But she can't help it. The trunk's so much like the hope-chest in Caitlyn's attic. Hers was a varnished lilac beauty, lined in rose-petal velvet, and neatly packed with sentimental relics. Her grandfather's bifocals. A pearl brooch from her mother's wedding day. Her father's favorite stethoscope.

And a threadbare pair of Vi's hand-wraps folded around a wispy strip of Caitlyn's panties.

Vi has teased her mercilessly over the last item. There was something so ticklish at the idea of the prim-and-proper Caitlyn Kiramman, with her fastidious manners and her blue-blooded airs, holding her very first fuck-me panties close to her heart—much less in the love-knot of Vi's grubby bindings.

"Just a memento," Caitlyn had squirmed, flushing scarlet. "Don't let it go to your head."

Vi smirked, thoroughly enjoying the display. "My head's the last place that's going, Cupcake. Never thought my wraps would rub shoulders with you skivvies. Let alone your granny's good silver."

"Oh, shut it!" Caitlyn snapped, flushing darker still. "If you must know, they're a reminder."

"Of what? How hard I rocked your world?"

"Not... precisely. I just wanted something real. To help me remember."

Vi was confused. "Remember what? I'm right here."

"I-I know." Caitlyn's lashes dipped. "But things could have turned out differently."

"How d'you mean?"

"That night. On the Bridge. It could have gone... terribly wrong."

"Yeah," Vi admitted, quieter. "But it didn't."

"Because of you."

"Huh?"

"Because you chose to come back." Caitlyn's eyes were shining, but earnest. "You chose to come back for me."

"It's not like you gave me a choice, Cait."

"But there was a choice." The sheen faded from Caitlyn's eyes. Only the earnestness remained. "You made yours. And I made mine. And I'd never have pictured it would lead to..." She trailed off, the flush creeping higher, except now the shyness was subsumed by an almost wistful wonder. "What I'm trying to say is: I wanted to keep a part of you with me. A part that's mine, and mine alone. So that if things ever went sideways, I could always remind myself: 'Caitlyn Kiramman, you took a leap of faith once. And it was the best thing you've ever done.'"

She'd looked at Vi then, and the naked emotion in her eyes was the sweetest torture. Vi's own face flamed. She was used to being the forward one in the flirtation game. To having the upper hand. Not being the one caught flat-footed and off her game.

"That's all the bindings are," Caitlyn whispered. "A reminder. Sometimes... even the craziest leaps can lead you home."

Against her will, Vi's eyes misted.

"Crazy leap, huh?" she managed, trying to regain her bravado. "Is that all I am to you?"

In reply, Caitlyn kissed her. Vi kissed back, a little roughly, just to prove a point.

When they parted on gasps, Caitlyn was smiling.

"You are," she breathed. "And I'd have you no other way."

They'd kissed, and kissed some more, and fallen into bed. But the shocky sweetness of the confession had never left Vi.

Not since.

Vi shuts her eyes, fighting the burn of tears again. In her hands, the trunk is heavy. The weight of a past. One that doesn't belong to her, not by a long shot. Whatever's inside is meant for Jinx, and only Jinx. Vi has no right to open it. Has no right, even, to be here.

Except there's a small voice in the back of her mind.

Wait.

Jinx's past, and the future, have always been tangled. Last night, the knot pulled taut, and her sister had nearly died. Vi had been dragged into the middle of it. So had the rest of the city. Maybe there's something in here that'll clue Vi in on how to unravel the mess. To keep Jinx from repeating her mistakes. From falling into the trap of believing her greatest failure was a childhood lapse that broke everything.

Or believing her only worthy gift is the power to fix it.

Maybe, just maybe, Vi can help.

The key fits into the lock with a delicate click. It turns. The padlock springs open. Vi lifts the lid. Inside are, in fact, mementos. But they're mementos of a life Vi's never seen. An eclectic mix of salvage, toys, and tools. Broken clocks, their innards dissected. Wind-up insects, their cogs and sprockets disemboweled. Half-empty canisters of spraypaint. A small cache of fireworks. A pile of old, dog-eared children's books.

Basically: a heap of shiny.

Vi recognizes her sister's magpie habit of hoarding glitter. The junk stuffed under Powder's bed was of a similar stripe: gears from Vander's old watch, diodes from garbage chutes, fistfuls of colored glass from the arcade, and a single, shiny golden gyroscope.

Vi's fingers touch the gyroscope, and the memory strikes her like lightning.

Ekko.

This was the gyroscope he'd gifted Powder, the twilit afternoon at the reservoir. The day he'd planted a smooch on her little sister, and stirred up a shitstorm when Vi caught them in the act. The day their world, tilting at precarious angles, had not yet gone sideways.

The day is gone, but the gyroscope is here.

Carefully, Vi lifts it out. She's stunned that it's survived the transition of past to present. The gold plating is untarnished. The mechanism is well-oiled. The tiny blue marble at the center, its facets winking, is still intact. As if, throughout the years, Jinx has treasured it more than all the deadly detritus in her possession.

Vi can't fathom why.

At the very bottom is a silk pillowcase. It's stuffed with mysterious flotsam. A small silver pendant shaped like a bird, its eyes made of tiny turquoise cabochons. A set of child-sized brass knuckles, the surfaces etched with a filigree of skulls. A plastic baggie stuffed with leaves, each one browned and crinkly with age.

And—what the fuck?

The curvature of a disquietingly sleek red object with a trigger that, when clicked, sets a row of gears whirring.

It takes a moment for Vi to recognize it as a vibrator.

"Shit," she says, and drops it fast.

It clatters back into the pillowcase, whirring. Vi switches it off, and knots the top tight. Her face smarts. She can't believe her little sister has a sex-toy. One she's seemingly designed to her own specs, judging by the unusual curves and polished contours and the silent-as-fuck mechanism meant to keep her old man from finding out.

Jinx, the Daddy's Girl. Jinx, the terrorist. Jinx, the sorceress.

Who, apparently, has been getting her rocks off.

"Goddamnit," Vi mutters. "I need to scrub my brain out with bleach."