#Gilded Scarlet

[misscromwellsmonocle]

Gilded Scarlet by Daniel F. Gerhartz (*1965)

[brokentrafficknight]

[m00nb04rd5]

Can you Make a Moonboard As Sektor And Cyrax From MK11

Sektor and Cyrax (Mortal Kombat 11)

[shatcey]

Have you ever tried console otome games? They are much story extensive and requires no fighting etc. Or do you prefer mobile otomes? Your thoughts on console otome vs mobile otome.

Hello, Anon. Sorry for the late reply. Again… I had to finish one of my projects first. If I understood you correctly, you were asking about the computer games. If not, I'm sorry for the rest.

There will be several links to games in the text. You don't have to know about these games or check the links. I have given them to show with examples what I mean. Some projects simply influence current and future thoughts and decisions. With the examples I gave, you can see how smoothly I come to Cybird's games. So I believe that my every choice literally led me to them. Yes, I am a crazy (true believer) fatalist.

I played computer otome games. A lot. I tried different thematics (past, present, future, magic or science and so on), different writing and drawing styles. Let me check when…

...

I discovered my first game at the end of 2018. And it literally saved me. My grandfather died… I grew up with him, and we had a pretty good relationship. So I do not know how I would take it if I had not dive into another world. It's an unhealthy way to solve problems, but that's what my subconscious told me to do. And I just followed it.

No more sad thoughts!!!

At that time, I didn’t know English very well and I was looking for something very simple. You know, it’s very difficult to read a book if you only know a few words. And I was incredibly lucky to find The Cinderella Phenomenon (Steam). It has a very simple fairy tale style of storytelling. So… it was very easy to learn and remember new words and fixed language structures. And after that… I read a lot of games. Mostly from Japanese developers. The most memorable of them Amnesia memories (Steam). I can still hear its exceptionally beautiful background music. 7'Scarlet (Steam). Creepy world, a very interesting and multi-layered story, and exceptionally remarcable boys. And of course Chengeling (Steam). I just fell for this game and the developer (@.steamberrystudio). I read their second game Gilded shadows (Steam), and it’s also very good, but… you know… you never forget your first love (Marc).

But… after I discovered the Cheritz (@.cheritzteam) games - Dandelion and Nameless (steam) - I suddenly realized that there was something missing in other games. Like… hidden intention, hidden thought… something that under the surface. And Cheritz really love to using it. So… after completing these two games, I inevitably discovered Mistic messanger (Wiki of the game, all links are at the end of the article). And this is already a mobile game. So… You can say that Cheritz introduced me to a whole new world. I couldn't even imagine how many games are available on this platform. And I tried several types of games again… before I discovered Cybird games. And since then… I don't see the point in looking for something else. It's perfect for me. Well, there was a short period of boredom, and I was looking for something new. But… most of the time, I am extremely happy with these games.

And I would like to mention one more game. Ebon light (itch.io). It's very dark, and by definition, it doesn't have any good endings, the future of the MC is pretty depressing. But I also like the plot, how deeply thought out the world is, and the boys (how dare I call these mature elfs boys, I'm such a bad girl). Unfortunately, the developers didn't do anything after this project. But I really like this game, and I am very glad that I discovered this jewel.

So... that's the difference?

Video games (ViG)

Due to the very limited space (the form for text placement), video game authors cannot use very long sentences. They have to break down their thoughts into short fragments to make them logical. Because of this, most developers use a rather simplified narrative style, which greatly ruin the impression. At least for me. Not Cybird. Not at all their games at least.

In addition, mobile games are time-limited. They must divide the story into parts of a certain size. They must be of such a size that they do not tire the reader with too much text, but at the same time arouse interest and provide some information. It's quite tricky. Only a few developers have figured out how to do this.

You can read anywhere and anytime. It's up to you… Whether it's at home, on the street, or at the some cafe… Reading from a phone is not a problem.

There are several Otome games that I have seen. In some games, same as Ikemen, you were given to read one chapter a day for free. Some just let you got the glimpse of the story, and you had to buy the rest with real money. Others allows you to read as much as you want, but to select some options you need to… use the internal currency… So at some point you're going to get stuck anyway unless you're willing to pay. In any case, you won't be able to read the whole story at once.

Community. I can't say that this applies to any Otome game. But in the Ikemen games that I mostly play… you can literally see other players and interact with them in some way. Yes, it's mostly the competitive part, but you're not alone in this world.

Endings. There aren't many endings. Most games like Ikemen have only good endings. But there are games where everything is the same as in computer games. But there aren't many of them. Mystical messenger is a very rare case.

Love interests. This does not apply to all games. I've played games that have pretty simple LI, and that's why I don't even remember them. For me, this is a dogma. LI in the ViG are all broken. One way or another. Each of them has some problems, struggles, some kind of trauma. There is always something dark in the past, something that you need to explore and help him somehow get through it all. Basically, you need to play the role of a therapist, in rare cases he does this job for you (William).

Computer games (CoG)

The form for the text on the computer is larger, and the authors can freely express their ideas the way they like. There are more internal conversations, long descriptions of emotions, they can freely utter very long monologues.

Video games are not so limited in time. They can make one chapter very short and another very long. It's up to the author to decide what it will be like. And yes, they usually calculate everything in advance, they still have more freedom compared to the authors of ViG.

You are attached to a computer or laptop. And there are places where you literally can't use them… it's just inconvenient…

You can read as much as you want (you've already paid for it). You can read the whole story in one go. Or you can leave it for a few months. No one will remind you of this, no one will force you to finish reading. You literally have nothing to lose and nothing to gain in any case.

These are exclusively single-player games. It's just you and the boys (or a few different variants) and nothing else.

Endings. A lot. Really. Each character can have 4-6 endings. Most of them are bad. Some of them are so terrible that you can lose sleep. Some are just sad.

Love interests. Most of them are quite sane people. Really. It's kind of awkward to even talk about it. Yes, there are always one or two exceptions. But… they are mostly very normal. The limit of something strange will be some yandere who will lock you in a cage (Toma). Or some guy who's going to try to kill all the time because… he's just gone crazy (Ukyo) or have split personality (Varg).

I stopped reading Cogs because I can literally get stuck in the story for a long time. They won't stop me. And I can't afford to spend that much time at a time. Yes, I can stop, like I said, it's up to me, but… the story can captivate me to the point where I completely forget about everything.

Despite the fact that I love many of them and remember them fondly, perhaps due to the lack of community (at least at the time when I played these games, I did not find it), I got tired of them pretty quickly. They're good, but… I read them and.. I'm starting to read something else. I never wanted to reread the same story.

And the fact that literally at any moment I can get a bad ending did not let me relax. You really need to find the right answers in advance and follow the instructions. Ikemen games also have an option system, but it doesn't affect the plot in any way. You just either get an epilogue or you don't. And if at first you might be a little annoyed that you have to constantly look for answers, you'll get used to it pretty quickly, and even if you make a mistake, it won't upset you much. There are bottles, and eventually we will be able to solve this problem.

In ViG you've been stuck in this story for quite some time… what is slowly developing before your eyes. It's arousing your interest more and more. You have become accustomed to the constant presence of boys in your life, and it has become more interesting for you to learn more about them. And the fact that you need to reread the story doesn't seem strange. I really like some of the routes, and I reread them from time to time (I reread some of the stories). Some stories seem completely different after 2-3 readings. Because in between, I read other routes and already know a lot more about the same situation. And this complexity of the plot is quite interesting. The more you play this game, the more you will learn.

I didn't get that impression from video games. Perhaps because of the format (the story is quite long and has many endings), the authors cannot take the time to make the story multi-layered. There are exceptions. I mentioned this at the beginning of 7'scarlet. Different routes (which you should read in the order the game tells you to) explain the same situation from different perspectives. And the more you read, the more difficult the situation seems. The more 3d this world becomes. And that's one of the reasons I like this game so much.

The fact that there are more problems with boys in ViG makes them more interesting. It's interesting to learn more, figure out what's going on, and so on. It's more intriguing, involving you more in the story. And… at the end… they seem more real. These are no longer 2d characters, they are real and breathing (sometimes literally).

Considering everything I've said… you might think that I think ViGs are better. No, they both have pros and cons. Simply put, they are designed for different people.

If you're just looking for a story… just a book with pictures to read… then you'll like more CoGs. They are quite long and there are a lot of them. And finding a story with a narrative and the story to your liking is not a problem. But developers rarely make a continuation of the story. So you have to accept the fact that this is the end.

If you like to dig, learn more about the world and the characters. If you don't mind live in the game day after day, just to get more… stories… for years to come (if the game is still active), then ViG will be more to your liking.

I hope I haven't forgotten anything. If so… let me know, I'll add it.

dividers by @.fanguro

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🔝 𝕊𝕋𝔸ℝ𝕋 ℙ𝔸𝔾𝔼 🔝

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[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…

[comatosebunny09]

vēnor | sylus

— summary: sylus must’ve gleaned all the info he needed during your exchange and dipped. figures. you’ve played your role well, and it seems he no longer requires your services. unbeknownst to you, crimson eyes narrow in the lowlight, watching the elevator doors swish shut as your target has his way with you. — cw: female reader, marking, biting, unprotected intercourse, creampie, rough sex, size kink, praise kink, cevix f-king, explicit language, jealousy, knife fight, alcohol use, mentions of blood and viscera, self-indulgent, not proofread, mdni — wc: ~4k — notes: you can prolly tell i was inspired by his new secret times, *fans self* thank you for reading, lovely! — now playing: wasted eyes - amaarae u, lost - jeremy pope

Your mission is simple.

Saunter in. Seduce your target. Extract as much information as you can concerning the whereabouts of a particular artifact. Smile pretty. Flutter your lashes. Lure him away with the promise of pleasure. Snuff him out like a candle’s flame when the moment allows.

The setup is flawless. Routine. Until it isn’t. 

The figure clad in black, oozing smugness and sex appeal beside you, complicates things. 

Typically, you complete your missions alone. You’ve played the role of seductress so long that it’s second nature. You’re more than capable of fending for yourself if shit hits the fan. You’re a menace with a blade and just as formidable without one. 

Besides, you live for the thrill of a good fight. A few bruises and broken bones have never deterred you. According to your intel, your target came stacked with security, so you anticipate possibly getting your hands dirty. 

But he insisted on accompanying you this time around—Sylus. Reasoned he didn’t want his diamond falling into the wrong hands, whatever the hell that meant. You figure it was an excuse to micromanage you. He’d been doing it a lot lately, ever-looming like a shadow, trained to your every move. 

So, here you are—standing beside your employer as the elevator lazily descends, fretting over your hair and the occasional slip of your blouse off your shoulder. 

You’re enveloped in an unbearably tense silence. Shift your weight between your feet, trying to keep your gaze on the gilded elevator doors ahead. Even that is a task within itself, scarlet eyes occasionally capturing yours in your reflection, coupled with an omniscient smirk that causes your chest and cheeks to swell with heat.

He stands in good form beside you, hand stuffed in his pocket, hair coiffed, dressed to the nines. He’s infuriatingly calm in contrast to the maelstrom brewing inside you. 

You feel much like a child about to perform at a piano recital in front of their parents for the first time. Insane, given you’ve never been this anxious around him before. But things are…

Well, things are different now.  

Lately, your relationship with your boss has shifted on its axis, making way for tender words and disarming touches where there were once indifferent looks and tedious banter. 

You’re not entirely sure when, but at some point under his tutelage, you’ve developed a fondness for him. A part of you wonders if he feels the same pull, his recent treatment towards you slowly dismantling that carefully constructed wall between you.

The elevator pings and dips, disrupting your thoughts once it reaches its destination. 

You release a breath you were unaware of holding. Square your shoulders, mentally preparing yourself for your mission. The doors slide open, a crisp breeze fanning over your inflamed skin, ruffling your floor-length skirt. You move to dismount the lift, but slender fingers encircling your wrist halt your exit. 

They’re like a brand on your skin, searing straight to your heart. You’re stock-still as Sylus nears you, swaddling you in the warmth and enthralling scent of scorched cedarwood and cracked vanilla beans he carries. He rounds you, the tips of his shoes staining your vision. You’re wordless as worn fingertips graze your temple, sweeping errant curls behind your ear.

He chuckles something low, his other set of fingers easing beneath your chin to tilt your head back. Your breath corks in your lungs when your gazes interlock.

It’s like he’s peering into your soul, the way he studies you with a reverent shine to his eyes despite the ever-present smirk twitching his lips. You swallow thickly past the barbs in your throat. Enraptured by his gaze, you hardly notice him pushing something into your ear. Not until a sharp pitch of feedback causes you to wince until it levels out.

“Stunning,” he lauds, brushing the flat of his nails over your earpiece, outlining the curve of your cartilage. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You vibrate internally from the praise. He smooths back your hair, ghosting over your neck and shoulder. Slides a thumb over the space just shy of your bottom lip, and he tracks its movement, irises darkening into a mysterious shade of garnet. 

You’re wearing his favorite color of lipstick–a dangerous shade of rouge reminiscent of wine shared over passionate nights. Your stomach pinches with something foreign. For a moment, your surroundings fall away, and only the pair of you exist in this world of pheromones and shrouded intentions. 

Briefly, you entertain the thought of conquering the gap between you. Entertain grabbing his shirt and tugging him into a kiss. Based on the flutter of his lashes as he studies your mouth, you don’t think he would be opposed to it. 

But fate has other plans for you tonight, another invasive ding from the elevator disrupting your reprieve. 

So caught up in your own little world, you hadn’t noticed that the doors closed in your idleness until someone outside called for the lift. 

“Oh shit! My bad,” says a sheepish voice from the hallway. With Sylus’ fingers still curved around your chin, the pair of you look at the intruder outside, Sylus’ expression reading annoyance, and yours, dreaminess. 

—

It helps that you’ve already had a drink—a glass of bourbon in your hotel room to take the edge off, loosening your inhibitions.

The music is good, too. Something sultry and ambient as you wend through the envious gazes and intrigued whispering of the bar’s other patrons in pursuit of your target. 

You feel his eyes on you, too. A familiar wash of scarlet trained on the space between your shoulder blades and the sway of your hips. The notion of him watching you so intensely sets your insides alight. 

You banish the memories of his breath on your skin—of his ghostly touches along your flesh—to the furthest reaches of your mind. It’s showtime. You’ll have plenty of time to confront these complicated feelings for your boss later. 

For now, you home in on your target. He’s dressed in something tailored and expensive, the material of his suit crisp as you slide a hand over his shoulder with a sultry smile rounding your lips. 

The gentleman looks up from the whiskey glass in his hands. Dons a smile of his own, straightening when you pour yourself onto the stool beside him. He signals to the bartender, then turns to face you, skimming over your visage with his brows lifted in intrigue. 

“Well now. What’s a pretty thing like you doing here all by yourself?” he queries, tone murky like the liquor in his glass. 

You tilt your head, your hair falling over your features just right. Cross your legs, offering him your hand to kiss. Your voice is husky. Disarming as you counter, “Handsome fella like you looked like you could use some company.” 

He drags his lips over the notches and grooves of your knuckles, whiskey-colored eyes fastened to you. Smiling, you pluck his glass from betwixt his fingers. Throw back what remains in it, the acrid sting warming your innards whilst you set it down on the sticky counter with a definitive clack.

The man whistles, clearly impressed. “Pretty and a drinker. I like you already.”

You laugh something rehearsed. Toy with the red-gemmed pendant between your collarbones. He’s charming. Good-looking. Maybe you’ll have a little fun before you take his life. You haven’t had your desires sated in a while, too busy tamping down your own needs for the love of your boss.

On cue, scarlet twinkles in your periphery. Sylus. He’s seated not too far off, nursing a glass of something viscous. Quietly biding his time, poised to step in if he deems it necessary. A part of you is spurred on by his attention. You play up the theatrics of your flirtations if only to get a rise out of him.

It’s relatively easy to fall into femme fatale mode thereafter. You chat up your target, inquiring about his profession and complimenting his taste in liquor, guided by Sylus via earpiece. 

You don’t miss the vexed clip in your boss’ voice whenever you get a little too handsy, laugh a little too bewitchingly, and bite back a smile at how envious he sounds in your ear. The gentleman is putty in your hands, a grinning, chuckling fool when you squeeze his thigh and stroke his ego. 

You pull out all the stops, feeding him alcohol until he’s red-faced with a loosened tongue, unwittingly spewing out the information you seek. He touches you as the night blurs, worn fingers smoothing over your thighs, cresting down the slope of your arm, brushing your cheek, dragging over your shoulder. 

You let him have his fill. It’s not like you aren’t enjoying yourself, too, the alcohol warming in your veins, heightening your need for physical stimulation. 

Finally, you sweep in for the kill. Angle yourself closer to your prey, your breasts pressing temptingly against his arm whilst your hands roost on his quad.

“Wanna take this party elsewhere?” you whisper, brushing the outer shell of his ear with your lips. He chuckles like the enamored fool you molded him into, dragging his mouth across your cheek in a kiss as you pull back.

“Got a room upstairs,” he husks in what little space dwells between your faces. “We could have some real fun there.”

Hook. Line. Sinker.

He takes your hand in his, drawing you from the stool. Twirls you ‘round to get a good look at you, the dangerous contours of your body accentuated by your outfit. 

Your target clicks his tongue, inwardly patting himself on the back for bagging such a beauty. He guides you through the crowd towards the elevator. And as he whisks you away, you survey your surroundings in search of a familiar shock of white. 

Disappointment spumes through you when you don’t find him through the bar's furling smoke and sultry lighting. He must’ve gleaned all the info he needed during your exchange and dipped. Figures. You’ve played your role well, and it seems he no longer requires your services for the time being. 

Where before, you felt guilty for seeking a little fun, the feeling sloughs off, replaced by disdain and spite spooling in your gut.

Your target draws you to him by your waist as the elevator doors slide shut, the pair of you flanked by two of his bodyguards. You succumb to his ministrations, his lips on a shameless excursion over your throat, drawing the sultriest little laugh from betwixt your lips. 

Unbeknownst to you, crimson eyes narrow in the lowlight, watching the elevator doors swish shut.

—

The hallway of the sixth floor is barren. Eerily quiet, the fluorescent lights above dancing over four figures moving over the carpeted floors. 

You toddle behind your prey, guided by interlaced fingers, swathed in the imposing aura of his bodyguards on either side of you. You feel for the blades cinched to your thigh, tucked beneath the veil of your skirt. Easing one from your garter belt, you conceal the knife in your palm, and the guards seem none-the-wiser.

Suddenly, muffled sounds erupt on either side of you. You glance back, alarmed to see the bodyguards wiped from existence. The only clue revealing their fate is a familiar, wispy coil of dark red left in their place. You narrow your eyes, jaw set in a rigid line. 

Sylus. 

Your target seems undeterred, continuing to prattle on ahead as he herds you to his room. Sylus must’ve assumed you couldn’t handle your own, which makes you buzz with irritation. 

Fine. He thinks you’re incapable? You’ll prove him wrong. 

With the blade held firm between your forefingers, you prepare to thrust it into your target’s neck. So much for having a bit of fun.

However, before you can complete the thought, something ensnares your wrist, snatching you from the hallway into the arms of an inky darkness. Your spine collides with something rigid and cold, the air siphoned from your lungs.

Your fight or flight senses kick into overdrive, and with the moonlight highlighting your assailant's silhouette, you swing your blade where you assume their head is. They release a brief sound of exertion, ducking beneath your attack. You cleave through the air again, coupling the swing with a series of kicks to put some space between you and land a hit. 

Your aggressor, seemingly familiar with your move set, catches your ankle, shoving it down to derail your attacks, and a dark chuckle vibrates the air. 

“That all you got?” they provoke, the timbre of their voice reminiscent of thunder rolling over the horizon.

You stumble back a few paces, righting yourself before charging with another slew of punches, swipes, and kicks. It’s a futile endeavor, scuffling in low visibility like this against an opponent who seems to be using the darkness to their advantage.

But you’ll be damned if you go down without a fight.

“Too slow,” tsks your foe, egging you on.

Suddenly, your attacker traps your hand clutching the blade, and you dumbly blink as they use your momentum to swing you ‘round, manacling both your wrists together at the small of your back. Your cheek squished against a glacial surface, your assailant shoves their weight against you, trapping you between a wall and the hardened slope of their body. 

Faint wisps of vanilla invade your scenes, yet the hot rush of adrenaline seeping through you blots out all logic and reason. You struggle against their hold, your labored breaths intermingling with their husky laughter. 

You grit your teeth when a hand eases down the curve of your hip, sliding over your thigh with practiced ease. You grit your teeth against the feel of it as it dips beneath your skirt’s slit to tug your remaining knives free of your garter belt.

You listen with pinched breaths as the crisp steel plunges into a far-off surface. How the hell did they know where you kept your knives?

In a ditch effort to free yourself, you thrust your hips back, momentarily throwing your attacker off-kilter. Their grip on your wrists slackens, and you spin around, planting your foot against their chest to create some distance. Twirling your knife, you thrust it towards the outline of a neck. It’s to no avail, those searing fingers once again taking possession of your wrist before you can land a blow. 

You release a frustrated cry, your hand twisting painfully until the blade plummets to the ground, sinking into the floor with a resounding thwack! Employing your other hand, you try to pry your wrist free, aiming an onslaught of kicks at your aggressor’s ribs. They effortlessly block them with the hard edge of their forearm, and your moot efforts seem to amuse them further. 

The severity of your situation settling in, soft light suddenly floods the narrow space, pouring down from overhead to reveal the contours of a familiar face.

“Sylus?” you gasp, bleary-eyed and chest heaving.

He uses your surprise to his advantage, surging forward to capture your lips. The air punched from your lungs, you trade your alarm for a bitten-off moan, fingers instinctively seeking out the silken glide of his hair. 

He pushes his tongue into the warm cavern of your mouth, swallowing your groans whilst his hands make frantic expeditions over your sides, bunching up your blouse and skirt in pursuit of the supple glide of your skin. 

Fingers curl around your thighs where they pinch and knead the flesh there, Sylus notching himself between your legs. And fuck, he’s hard, your scuffle awakening things in him he thought himself dead to.

He lifts you into his arms, and your legs intuitively wind about his waist. The hotel door rattles behind you when he slams you against it, his hands greedily sprawling over your body, burning through the layers of your skin.

“What the fuck,” you breathe when he releases your mouth, and you crane your neck to the side, granting him more access whilst he brands your throat with the languid drag of his lips. 

He nips and sucks in a way that borders pain, his breaths sweltering and ragged, matching the roll of his hips. The rough stitching of his slacks acquaints itself with your center, and you sigh all hot and wanton, your spine scrubbing against the door whilst he grinds into you.

“Did you really think I’d let him have his way with you?” he pants through the lust-ladened haze, dragging his lips over your shoulder and collarbones, down to the ample swell of your breasts. He rakes his teeth over the skin there, sure to leave pretty blooms of purple and blue in their wake.

You huff a laugh, the back of your head colliding with the door. “Oh, Sylus. Don’t tell me you were jealous.” 

Of course, you were banking on it, playing your role too well. 

You yip when he bites you in warning, the predatory gleam of his eyes trained on your face. “How could I be jealous if you’re already mine?”

You scoff at that, a wave of ecstasy surging through you when his fingers ease between your thighs, grazing your labia, rucking your panties to one side to reveal your own desire. Your back bows when he prods your puckering sex with two fingers, and he chuckles against your neck, the sound of it making your pussy flutter with excitement.

“Seems I’m not the only one affected by our little spat.” With a few more strokes up the span of your cunt, he sinks his digits inside you, and you share a pleased exhale as you greedily suck him in down to the hilt. 

“Look at you. So ready for me. And to think you were so eager to give this away to another man.”

“Do you always talk this much,” you breathe, draping your arms around his shoulders. Screw your eyes shut, humping against his fingers, chasing that sweet coiling sensation building in your tummy.

“Are you always this impatient,” counters Sylus, open-mouthed against your chin, his thumb sifting through the thick folds of your sex in search of your clit. He presses down, and you shudder, the sound of his name curling around your tongue, making his dick jump.

“Only with you. Unh, fuck. Just with—just with you.”

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps into the hollow of your neck. Scissors his fingers inside you, slowly unraveling those bundles of nerves inside, the vulgar squelch of your cunt intermingling with your labored breaths. “Beg me to fuck you, or I’ll stop.”

To punctuate his words, he slows the pleasurable drag of his fingers, and you whine, clinging to his shoulders for dear life. 

The heat of embarrassment washes over you. You’re too far gone to care. Too enraptured to give a damn about your facade or pride. Need him inside you, otherwise, you might just die.

“Your words, sweetheart. Use them,” he coaxes on a rasp.

“Fuck me,” you relent, baring down on his digits curling inside you. “Fuck me, Sylus, please.”

“Good girl,” he praises, already freeing himself from the restrictive pull of his slacks and briefs. 

You’ve no time to admire his size in the dimness. Too clouded by lust, your eyes fixated on his while he rubs the swollen head against the seam of your pussy. He prods your sticky opening, and your mouth waters with anticipation, the sheer size of his head alone enough to stretch you nice and open for him.

“Deep breaths, darling,” he coos against your hinged-open mouth. And your thighs crater between his fingers as he sinks you onto his cock, the strain of pushing into you stealing the air from his chest. 

“Oh fuck,” you gasp. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” You’re halfway sobbing, gritting your teeth, your fingers buried in the collar of his shirt, and your face falls into the crook of his shoulder, where you bite and suck, seeking a little respite from the painful stretch. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Breathe for me.” He isn’t intentionally being pompous. Knows he’s thicker than the average bear, and as much as he burns to be buried inside you, he doesn’t want to hurt you more than necessary.

Soon, the pain subsides, making way for little flutters of pleasure when he’s fully eased home, his swollen cockhead kissing your cervix. When he’s sure you’ve adjusted to his girth, he fucks into you with shallow thrusts at first, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. 

Despite the moment, he’s a patient lover. Taking his time moving inside you, invoking pretty sounds from your lips. A thick ring of cream forms around the base of his cock as he ruts into you, your intermingled fluids scorching down the inner cut of your thigh. 

As time passes, your moans crescendo, spurring him on, and he fucks into you a little harder, your nails forming angry crescents in his traps through the fabric of his shirt. One of your heels falls off and clatters against the floor, he’s fucking you so good. So deep, battering against your cervix.

“You take me so well, sweetheart,” he dotes into the junction of your neck and shoulder, bouncing you on his cock a little faster. “So deep. It’s like you were made to be my precious little cock sleeve.”

You can do nothing but gasp at the delicious friction, blanketed in the throes of passion, in the feel of him nestled deep inside you, filling you to the brim. 

You feel like you’re in a dream, being fucked by your boss like this. The object of your desires, the focal point of your fantasies and affections. Your clit scrubs against his pelvic bone with each thrust, and that sparkling rush of ecstasy begins to bloom in your tummy.

“Gonna cum?” he husks, your walls clenching around him.

You nod, your voice lodged in your throat, and you tangle your fingers in the delicate sweep of hair at his nape, pulling him in for a kiss, pouring every pent-up feeling into the warm chasm of his mouth. 

Spurred by the delicious drag of his cock inside you, by his tongue licking into your mouth, and by your puckered nipples grazing against the hardened lines of his shirt, you cum. God, you cum.

And the world slides into white, your mouth opening with a moan seemingly dragged from the bowels of your chest, your toes curling against the divots of his buttocks. He fucks you through it, pulled over the edge with you, hot spurts of cum flooding the searing clench of your pussy.

He holds you like this against the door, swathed in the symphony of your quickened heartbeats and breaths. Gulps down air, his forehead nestled against your shoulder, a fine sheen of sweat covering your bodies whilst you pet through locks of powder white, drawing him down from the sky. 

He hums against your lips, drawing you into a sticky kiss that lingers and etches a smile onto your face. He plucks you from the door, tenderly gathering you into his hands to walk you into the bathroom. 

He sets you down on the crisp countertop, the marble cold beneath your inflamed skin. And you paw from him like a needy kitten whilst he divests himself of his clothing, chuckling when he steps between your thighs to rid you of your wrinkled attire.

“Sylus,” you query, blinking lazily up at him whilst he draws you into his arms, turning you toward the shower. He hums in reply, a boyish gleam to his eyes and a smile rounding his lips. “What about the target?”

Sylus snorts, depositing you beneath the warm spray of the shower, the water already working to ease the strain on your muscles. 

“I already took care of it.” And with his hands perched on your hips, he angles himself to kiss you, full-bodied on the lips, never wanting to hear another man’s name touch your tongue again.

—

Meanwhile, Luke and Kieran meander through the quiet halls of the sixth floor, their masks spattered with blood and viscera as they whistle a wistful tune.

[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.

[brokentrafficknight]

Just a little more AU

Cinder is fully aware of her parental complexes.

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

[iluminatka16]

"From beyond the stars" Chapter 2

[Chapter List]

Summary: Yelena is slowly beginning to realize how serious a situation she is in. The panic attack that follows causes her to seek solace in the imperial gardens. However, she instead encounters the Night Haunter and the first opportunities to make steps toward stopping the Horus Heresy.

Note: ship still isn't decided and most of the primarchs would have chapters decidacted to their private chat with Yelena!

Tags: isekai, ending up in a fictional universe, primarchxf!oc, found family trope, konrad curze, sanguinius and horus make an apperance

Warnings: mention of failed suicide attempt, cursing, konrad is being konrad so threats of violence

Word count: 4841

It took Yelena quite a long time to realize the gravity of the situation she was in. During this time, she managed to search the entire room. For what purpose? She was simply curious and needed something to keep her occupied so she wouldn't go crazy. After a thorough check of the drawers and cabinets, she discovered that the entire closet was empty, not counting a couple of oversize nightgowns that reached her ankles. Apparently, someone else had to bring her clothes or the Emperor didn't plan for her to stay more than a day. Bedchamber had an attached bathroom kept in colors of white and gold. In addition to beautifully scented body oils and soaps, to her surprise she found several packets of tampons and sanitary pads, and even a hair dryer. The place was better equipped than her own flat, or perhaps even her family home.

Despite all these luxuries, she eventually gave up the nagging need to bathe in the beautiful marble bathtub. As she bustled around the room, she heard at least twice that someone much larger than a human being was walking next to her door. They weren't custodians, as the footsteps were more relaxed, so that meant the news had spread and the primarchs staying at the Imperial Palace had located her bedroom. She knew these idiots too well not to suspect that eventually one of them would break the Emperor's order (which she suspected had fallen, since none dared to open the door yet). And honestly? She preferred not to be surprised by them in the bath. That's why she simply pulled off the robes she was wearing and put on a snow-white nightgown, wrapping her exhausted body in the most pleasant fabric she had ever touched, and then sunk under the quilts and blankets. Despite the fact that the bed was probably made for primarch sizes and lying on it was like sleeping on a huge cloud, slumber refused to come. There were too many thoughts running through her head, and her mind was unable to calm down. Outside, dusk had managed to fall, flooding the spacious room in darkness. Unable to endure her boredom, Yelena crawled out of bed and began to do the only thing she could think of - going through the chamber's furnishings again. She reached the desk, which had all the items needed by both a planetary steward and an artist. The second one interested her much more and soon became the cause of her small nervous breakdown.

From a drawer she pulled out something resembling a scalpel, which she quickly identified as a more old-fashioned pencil sharpener. The handle was made of carved and gilded wood, and the blade, well, she became aware of its sharpness by accident. Maybe it was a matter of fatigue, or maybe inattention, but the precious object slipped from her hand. Yelena instinctively caught it, accidentally grabbing the sharp edge with her hand. Under the pressure, her skin cracked, and a scarlet stream ran down her hand, slowly dripping onto the floor. She cursed in pain, abruptly letting go of the object and grabbed her wrist, turning it to see the wound. It was deep, the blade had bitten into her skin, leaving a gap from which blood flowed continuously. A metallic smell filled her nostrils, and her nerve endings burned from the throbbing pain.

Yelena stared dully at her hand, feeling it finally, coming to her, the realization of the situation she was in. Many people in all sorts of fandoms would give their and their entire bloodline's souls to move to a beloved universe. However, Warhammer 40k? Any fan asked would only laugh and say that they wouldn't want to be in that galaxy for any price. And she was at the fucking center of it. Surrounded by a bunch of idiots, who any moment now will decide it's high time to enter the delayed phase of rebellion against their parents and become puppets of the chaos gods. Even if the Emperor keeps her all the time in the Imperial Palace, in a few years, or maybe months, the streets of Terra will be flowing with blood. What an irony, she ends up here after a failed suicide attempt and is suddenly panicky about death. Although no, it wasn't death she was afraid of. She was afraid of confronting people she twistedly considered comfort characters, knowing what fate awaited them.

Her heartbeat accelerated rapidly, blood hummed in her ears, and breathing became impossibly difficult. Yelena forgot about the pain and her hands went to her shirt, staining the snowy white with scarlet as she tugged at the cloth as if trying to scratch a hole in her chest. Suddenly, the chamber became impossibly small and suffocating, tightening around her neck in the iron grip of an invisible fist. She had to get out, anywhere. As far away from here as possible. She didn't even think about what she was doing when she reached the door, pressing the handle in panic. Her bare feet hit the wooden floor as she ran through the halls like a wild animal. Soon her vision was blurred by the tears that began to run down her cheeks. She had no idea by what miracle, but after a few minutes of running, she reached the huge glass doors leading to the garden. None of the custodians patrolling the corridors stopped her, none even turned their heads to check what she was doing. Her wounded hand pushed the last obstacle forward, triggering another wave of sensory-dulling pain, and then she ran outside. The cold air helped her sober up enough to be able to pick a spot that looked best for hiding. She chose a huge tree that, with its branches, surpassed the other plants in the garden. With her last strength, she got there, dropping to her knees as soon as her hands touched the rough trunk.

Yelena leaned her back against the trunk and closed her eyes. Her nightgown was already all dirty from blood, soil and grass anyway, so a little bit of bark wouldn't make too much difference. Well, that was the last thing she was concerned about at the moment. I don't think she had ever had such an intense panic attack before. She couldn't catch her breath, and only broken sobs came out of her mouth. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with dirt and scarlet.

People have something like a sixth sense that tells them when someone is watching them. It's an uncomfortable feeling that causes goosebumps. As the first wave of panic eased, allowing her to think relatively soberly, despite the fact that she was choking on her own tears, Yelena felt just that. Someone was staring at her, and it was far too close. She squinted, trying to adjust her eyes to the prevailing darkness, and then she saw the outline of a silhouette in the place she had come from. It was definitely a primarch judging by the size. How did someone so large manage to sneak up on her without her hearing him. Surely it wasn't Corax, because she wouldn't have seen him in that darkness, so it must have been….

Oh fuck. FUCK FUCK FUCK. Not him. Everyone but him. Yelena wasn't ready for that. Not now, not when she didn't have a well thought out plan. Her heart squeezed even tighter, radiating pain into her chest. It wasn't that she hated him. Oh no, quite the opposite. Night Haunter was one of her favorite primarchs.

But meeting him was not one of her biggest dreams.

“Cut the bullshit Konrad. I know who you are and that you're standing there.” Yelena yelled into the dark space, pressing a healthy hand to her chest. Although she tried to sound threatening, her voice was breaking down.

Only a momentary silence answered her. Suddenly she felt a large cold hand sliding over her shoulder and his breath moving her ginger curls. Well, yes, personal space did not exist for any of these assholes.

“I think I should get that dirty tongue out first,” his voice resounded next to her ear. It was snarling, making shivers of terror run down her spine. “Then I think I'll see if the people in your world look the same after skinning as those in mine.”

Maybe Yelena would have been horrified by what she had just heard, but honestly? The panic attack had one advantage - she wasn't thinking soberly.

“Custodian is standing right next to that terrace door. How much skin do you think you'll peel off me before he gets here after hearing my screams?” Her eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness, allowing her to see Curze's silhouette crouching beside her. Although her voice was breaking and her words were punctuated by a sound as if she were choking, mixed with sobs, she managed to convey what she wanted.

“Clever girl. Very clever.” his voice softened slightly. She wasn't sure if he was mocking again, but it looked like he wasn't really planning to hurt her. Or he had given up on that after her words. “Father said you have a great deal of knowledge about the past and future of this rotten galaxy. However, he forbade us to talk to you.”

Yelena answered him nothing to this. Her body shook and her heart pounded in her chest. However, it was not fear of Curz. Rather, what was funniest and most absurd about the situation was that the man was bringing her comfort. Her brain was still programmed to recognize him as someone close to her, as she thought of him when she recognized him as a fictional character. But now feeling his breath on her shoulder, knowing what he had done in the canonical books, she felt like she was getting a system crash.

Meanwhile, Konrad didn't seem to mind the awkward silence. Without a word he stared at her for a good minute, as if searching for something.

“I don't see your future,” he finally mumbled snootily, tilting his head slightly (or at least that's how it seemed to Yelena). “You're not a soulless blank, that's for sure. So who are you?”

Yelena opened her mouth, trying to get any words out, but all that came out of her lips was a sob. She moved her hand over her sternum, trying to control the oppressive, throbbing pain she felt there, which, combined with the burning wound on the inside of her hand, made for an extremely frustrating combination.

“So you know who I am. Good.”

“Bloody hell, I'm not terrified because of you.” The answer was quick and sharp, almost like a growl. “I'm having a panic attack.”

“Watch your tone, wrench.” Curze's voice took on a hissing tone. “If I don't scare you, I think you'll be able to tell me about your knowledge. Or I'll listen to it in between your screams.”

Well, what an idiot. He wouldn't get shit from her, because there's a custodian standing next to the terrace door, who would probably quickly separate them. However, instead of a sarcastic comment, only another sob came out of her mouth. With a trembling hand, she wiped the tears from her cheek, trying to gather herself to answer him anything.

“In my current state, I am unable to even think.” she whispered. “Let me at least calm down.”

“I don't have time for that. If I were you, I'd hurry up.”

Well, now she had a problem. Rushing someone with a panic attack only made things worse. It reminded her of when she first had a panic attack as a child and her mother, in an attempt to “calm her down,” slapped her several times in the face to shake her off. Now, however, she had to think fast. What could she do to get back to a state where she could at least think about what she was going to say while under pressure… wait a second. PRESSURE.

“Do you want to speed it up? Press one hand against my sternum and the other between my shoulder blades.”

Silence again.

“What?”

Yelena did not answer him. She blindly moved her hand forward, encountering something that resembled a cloak of feathers. She quickly found his hand and moved her fingers over it until she felt his wrist underneath them, which she grabbed, then with a jerk she brought it closer to her side. Taking advantage of the fact that Konrad was shocked by her impudence, she spread his fingers slightly and pressed her cold hand against the space under her breasts. She expected that when the initial surprise finally passed, the man would jerk his hand away and strike her, so she tried to focus as much as possible on the feeling while she still had the opportunity. However, to her own shock, she felt a second equally cold hand move across her back, pressing on the spot between her shoulder blades. Yelena let out a stifled sob, and her body shivered as if in a fever.

She had no idea how long they sat in that position. Neither she nor Curze wanted to break the silence that now fell between them, disturbed only by the quiet sounds of distress from her mouth. But soon the panic began to give way to a feeling of exhaustion and resignation. Yelena groaned quietly and leaned her head back, resting her head against the tree trunk. She was panting, mentally and physically exhausted. She had never had such an intense episode before. Her gaze went lower, looking at Konrad's hand with eyes full of tears. This was probably the first time in six months that she had had any physical contact with another human being. It seemed that her body was yearning for this feeling and found peace much faster, getting the raging hormones under control. The man also noticed the change in her condition, probably feeling how her heart, which until now was pounding as if it was about to explode, finally returned to its normal pace.

“You are the craziest person I've ever met. No normal person seeks my touch.” Konrad's voice was much quieter, resembling more of a rasp. Slowly, as if unsure of his own movements, he took his hands away from her body. Yelena heard a rustling, and judging by the sound and the placement of the silhouette's outline in the darkness, Konrad sat down next to her on the grass.

Yelena only quietly laughed. But what an absurd thing to say. She had just talked to herself with Night Haunter himself. Along with a clear mind came any ability to think logically. He and Sanguinius were her favorite primarchs. It was as if she had met her favorite celebrity! Well… only in this case, this celebrity could decide at any moment that he wanted to skin her. The situation was a good one in that, judging by the smell, or more specifically, the lack of the stench of rotting flesh and death, Konrad had not yet been driven so far into madness that he could not be saved. Some upside to the whole situation.

“Because, unlike others, I know you a bit,”

“I've heard. My father mentioned that your world sees us as fictional characters on the pages of books. Tell me, was I right all along? Did my visions tell the truth?”

Yelena was silent for a second. Well, now she just had a problem. It took her a good while to gather the right words.

“No. But also yes. Your visions, they didn't have to be true, but you following them made them true.”

“But-”

“There is no but Konrad. I'm not sure if Sanguinius has already tried to explain it to you or not yet. You don't want to listen to anyone on this, so why don't you listen to someone who has read the books from your perspective and had insight into your mind. The future can be changed… although I have a feeling you know that. You're just taking the easier route.”

There was a swish and a bang as the hand that had earlier brought her solace hurled itself with all its force into the tree trunk just above her head.

“Careful. You have no idea what you're talking about.” This time Curze's voice took on a much more menacing tone. Yelena didn't need to see his face to know how enraged he was by her words.

“When you saw Emperor, you had a vision that made you want to claw your eyes out. You are unable to trust your other primarchs because you have a vision of the Horus Heresy and the consequences of it. Brother against brother, billions if not trillions killed, the Imperium in ruins. Oh maybe how lonely and disappointed you feel by your own family.”

“How-”

“I told you. Your father told you. In my world, your fate and that of this world are written on the pages of novels, going all the to the fortieth millennium. I had an insight into your head because some stories were written from your perspective.”

Konrad did not answer for a while. Yelena only heard rustling as he took his hand from the trunk. There is some success, at least for now he does not plan to murder her. However, seeing that Curze didn't flinch to answer, she decided to continue.

“I know you have a vision of an assassin cutting off your head. I know you think that this act will prove to everyone that you are not the worst man in the galaxy at all. Because you are not the worst man in the galaxy. You have done terrible things, that's true. And here there is no dispute. You think there is no salvation for you, but that is not true. There is light in each of the primarchs, because you were created that way. There is a possibility of redemption for you.”

If she manages to fix Konrad and return to her world, she will have to apply for a license to run a psychological practice. Because that will probably make her the most talented therapist on the whole fucking Earth.

“When you killed a boy who tried to hurt a girl from an upper social caste, you saw that there was the possibility of a different future. That your path you took is not the only one. Tell me, why should I lie at this point? The Emperor told me to list the names of the primarchs who would betray him and how they would do it. I refused to tell him because I know there is a chance of redemption for you. I know that events don't have to turn out the way they are written in the books.”

“So everything I did… everything I did was pointless?”

“You were doing what you were meant to do, Konrad. You didn't have a family to teach you love, you didn't know any other touch than that which causes pain.” Yelena felt tears come to her eyes again. However, this time it was not fear, but compassion. Grief directed toward a child who had not known maternal warmth, who had to fight to survive, a child who had been destroyed by monstrous visions since the beginning of her existence. “I'm not saying you're not to blame, because you chose the easiest path, even if it was strewn with suffering. But it's not just your fault. Your decision, however, how you shape your future.”

Again, no answer. She heard his breathing speed up a bit and his fingers hit something rhythmically. Yelena wondered if she had just accidentally triggered a nervous breakdown in him. There was an option that he now had a vision of the future in which he listened to her words. After a few minutes of awkward silence, she heard rustling again and saw the outline of a silhouette rise from the ground. Well, yes, he can't kill her, so he will simply remove himself from the situation. Yelena only shook her head over her own stupidity when she heard footsteps slowly moving away. Well yes, what was she thinking, why would a grown man listen to a 20-year-old gir-

“What did you think of me when I was just a character on the pages of those books of yours?”

“Excuse me?”

There was the sound of footsteps again as Konrad decided to return to her after all. He stopped right next to a tree and judging by the sound, he was leaning against it.

“You must have hated me. Night Haunter, the demon from Nostramo.”

“Actually, quite the opposite. I liked you a lot. Don't tell your brothers, but you were one of my favorite primarchs.”

“You are indeed crazy. How did it even happen that you ended up here? Did you think you would become some kind of messiah and save us from damnation?”

Yelena quietly laughed at this suggestion. Although she had repeatedly created scenarios in her head about how she could stop heresy, she never wanted to test them in real life.

“I tried to commit suicide by jumping off a bridge into the water. The last thing I remember was the fall. Then I woke up here. My goal was death, and yet I'm here. Trying to stop heresy is just an unplanned side effect.”

“Suicide, that's a crime. You know I should punish you for it.”

Oh Yelena was well aware of this. She still remembered the chapter in his book where he tortured a woman who tried to kill herself. However, the tone of his voice indicated that he was hesitating after all. Could it be that her words had actually made an impression on him?

“Of course, you can brutally kill me at this point. I think if you're quick, even the custodian we talked about earlier won't hear me. But as an alternative to my penance, I offer a conversation. When was the last time you talked to someone who isn't a soldier or doesn't empty their bladder in fear at the sight of you?”

“There is no Custodian at the door. I saw him leave his post when I went out to the garden and he hasn't returned yet. But fine, let's talk.”

WAIT WHAT.

W H A T

THAT FUCKER KNEW IT SINCE THE START AND WAS PLAYING HER?

Yelena now understood how in a very dangerous situation she was. And I guess Curze had a good laugh at her reaction to this, because a slight amusement could be heard in his voice. What an asshole.

But she still kept her promise, continuing the conversation. And honestly? To her surprise, she discovered that the moment Konrad felt comfortable around someone, he was a great talking partner. She honestly didn't even realize how long they talked until she saw the sunrise. Now, not quite sure how it happened, they were both sitting on a tree (how the branches didn't break under his weight was also a mystery to her), and she was telling him about her past.

“…So as I said, Terra in my universe is divided into nations, called countries. I was born in a country called Poland, but at the age of nineteen, I moved to England to work in a factory. They offered free housing for workers, and I desperately wanted to get away from my home.”

Yelena tapped her fingers a few times against the branch she was sitting on. Konrad sat lower below her, glancing once at her, once at the rising sun. Now that she could finally see anything, she looked curiously at his facial features. The descriptions in the books did not lie - indeed Konrad was beautiful. It may not have been a conventional beauty like Fulgrim's, but he was as beautiful as a dark, starry night is beautiful.

Meanwhile, Curze nodded, apparently thinking about his next words. Suddenly, however, he froze in place, tilting his head to the side, toward where the entrance to the garden was located. He then looked at Yelena and put a finger to his lips, letting her know to be quiet.

Well, it didn't take her long before she understood why. After only a minute, she heard heavy footsteps and voices that she recognized almost immediately.

“The blood trail leads to the garden. Do you think she's still alive?”

“Don't make a monster out of our brother, Horus. He wouldn't kill a young woman because he was bored.”

“Do you really believe that? How else do you explain the blood?”

Yelena looked at Curze and then at her wounded hand. The cut had long since sealed itself, but apparently the bleeding must have been significant enough to leave a trail behind. The man merely rolled his eyes and smiled slightly. He apparently enjoyed watching his brothers' slight panic.

The two wordlessly watched as Sanguinius and Horus stopped under the tree they were sitting on. Yelena widened her eyes slightly, seeing how magnificent Great Angel looked bathed in the rays of the rising sun. In his case, the book descriptions were not wrong either. Then her gaze fell on Horus and moved back to Konrad. The man only smiled wider, as if even more amused with the look on her face. Well, yes, they both knew that she was in for a serious conversation with him. And Konrad wasn't going to help with that at all.

Yelena felt a strong hand grab her ankle and yank her down. Before she had time to scream, Curze covered her mouth with his hand. What the hell was he up to, pulling her down to sit next to him? And then it came to her. There were many more leaves where he had placed her, creating a sort of shield for her from their view. She had already forgotten how much he enjoyed playing with his siblings' minds.

Just a second later, Sanguinius lifted his head up, probably sensing Konrad. Horus followed his lead and tilted his head slightly. Then he asked a question.

“Curze. What did you do to her?”

Konrad did not answer him, only smiled wider. Yelena sighed, seeing this. She was not eager to talk to these two, but she had to do something. In Konrad's case it went easily because the panic attack did most of the work for her.

“Konrad stop playing with them.” Yelena muttered, shifting on a branch, intending to show herself to them. It was a mistake, however, because at that moment fatigue decided to make its presence known, and she lost her balance. Both she and Konrad were not fast enough to stop her from falling. The crack of a snapping branch sounded and Yelena lost any support, diving downward. However, instead of hitting the ground, she felt strong hands catch her in flight. Before she knew it, she was in Sanguinis' arms. The angel looked at her and a friendly smile appeared on his lips.

“I said he didn't do anything to her.” He carefully placed her on the ground, still looking at her. After a second, a bang sounded as Konrad jumped down from the tree beside them. With a movement of his hand, he adjusted his coat.

“My name is Sanguinius. The uglier one is Horus.”

“Don't make me pluck those wings.” Horus retorted and crouched down next to Yelena. “You are the main topic of gossip in the palace. Lion has been walking around angry since yesterday that Father is treating you so gently instead of keeping you in a cell.”

Angel only sighed.

“When we met in the corridor, you looked at us as if you were about to cry. Can you explain why? Since you know us and if father is telling the truth, a lot about our future, I suspect that our fate will not be favorable to us.” Sanguinis' voice was much more gentle and warm. He didn't demand like Curze, and gave her space to decide.

Yelena cursed in her mind. She looked at Konrad, who tilted his head slightly as he listened to their discussion.

“I think it will be better if I talk about this in private."

The last thing she wanted was to spoil the friendship between Horus and Sanguinis, and honestly? She feared that would be the case if anyone found out what the future and the chaos gods were preparing for the primarch of XVI Legion.

______

Author's note: And the second chapter behind us. I apologize for such a long wait, but I had a great deal of university assignments. On top of that I had a mild depressive episode. I hope I managed to convey the personalities of the primarchs well, because honestly it was especially difficult with Konrad (I think I read Night Haunter 3 times and the bastard has a different personality in each chapter).

Tag list: @beckyninja @athenaremo @justfreakynothingelse @lukarus @synfiction @thatnightlamp @pirateshippers-first-mate @amoelcafe12345 @zyra-7 @walking-natural-disaster @vithralith @ihasnopen @mooniequeen @kit-williams

[silveryshards]

Golden Man

NSFW. Top!Hawks x Gender Neutral!Reader. All characters are 18+.

Tags/Warnings: Blowjob, drooling, face fucking, dirty talk, praise, cumming untouched, swallowing, wings, established relationship.

Word Count: 693

A/N: I was reminded Hawks is hot as fuck. That’s it. Here ya go.

The soft sound of fluttered wings and the coolness of the breeze they generated washed over your bare skin. His eyes were rolled back, hand gently tangled in your hair, full bottom lip bit between perfect teeth.

A red flush the color of his wings ran from Kei’s cheeks down to his pecs. His chest heaved as he panted against the intense pleasure you were wringing from him. Golden eyes flicked down to you as you had paused to take him in.

“Baby bird please don’t stop.” Always melodic, always so sweet, your boyfriend begged you.

The fullness in your throat and the strain in your jaw came back into focus as his cock twitched on your tongue. Precum slid down the back of your throat. You swirled your tongue around the shaft just how he liked. A reward of a breathy, hitched moan fell on your ears.

Slurping and sucking and swirling as you slowly pulled your lips off, he whined. “Baby bird —”

“Cm’on, Kei, it’s okay. I won’t break. Take what you need, fuck my face.”

Those golden eyes widened, and you watched the gold disappear as his pupils overtook his irises. He took in a sharp inhale and a second hand wound its way into your hair. There are several shuddered breaths before he shakily said, “Hold on tight, baby bird. Tap my thigh twice if you need to breathe. Fuck, I love you.”

With the speed and strength of the top pro hero he was, he thrusted his thick cock in and out of your hot, wet mouth. Keigo’s eyes rolled back as he groaned with each thrust of his hips. His heavy balls smacked against your chin.

You did your best and relaxed your throat and breathed through your nose. But his lighting fast pace made it hard, and a few times you choked, tears springing in your eyes. Drool oozed around his beautiful cock and down your chin.

“God baby bird I love watching you choke on my cock. You like it baby? You like when I fuck this pretty throat of yours?” His melodic voice was rough with lust and effort as he kept fucking your face. You moaned around one of your favorite feasts.

“So perfect. Your mouth is so gods damn perfect, baby bird. You make me want to retire so I can just fuck this pretty —”

Hard thrust.

“Little.”

Another hard thrust.

“Mouth. All fucking day.”

You moaned around his length, shuddering and hoping you wouldn’t cum just from his filthy words and him fucking your mouth. You doubted you’d make it though. The smooth feeling of his cock sliding over your tongue and the full feeling of his cockhead lodging in your throat was truly blissful.

“My pretty baby bird. My heart. My soul. My everything.” He said it like he wasn’t making you drool buckets around his cock assaulting your throat.

Looking up yielded a visage that belonged in a Michelangelo painting. Kei’s messy gilded locks framed his gorgeous face. His scarlet wings were unfurled behind him and the plumage was puffed deliciously.

Cherry red, full bottom lip still caught between perfect teeth and his golden eyes were rolled back in ecstasy. Toned chest rising and falling with each excited breath and his chiseled abs quivering as his release fast approached.

You moaned around his thick cock that he was still thrusting hard and fast down your throat. Previous hopes of not cumming just from this were abandoned. He was too fucking beautiful and his words too filthy.

Pleasure pooled in your belly as a string of curses ground out of your boyfriend’s mouth. His hands tightened in your hair and his thrusts got impossibly more fervent. They started to stutter and become sloppy. He was close.

You were closer. You moaned and squeezed your eyes shut as your orgasm wracked through you. That sent him over. He slammed his cock all the way down your throat and came, cock pulsing with each rope he emptied down your throat.

You swallowed eagerly and looked up in time for him to grin back down at you.

“Love you, baby bird.”

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[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 ©

[rottenherbs]

The Strong One

Pairing: R.W x Quidditch! Reader Tags: Enemies to Lovers // use of y/n Summary: Ron hated how confident you were in your strength and quidditch skill. It took him awhile to realize that W/C: 3k A/N: I am obsessed with quidditch themes. I lovvvvveeee strong girl stereotypes and very independent girl stereotypes. Much love, Saige [masterlist]

Ron wasn't one to hate most people. Slytherins? Sure. Draco? Sure. But most people only mildly annoyed him, until he had the pleasure of bumping into you. You weren’t a nobody, just another student in the crowd. The same gilded gold and scarlet robes matching those of hundreds around you. It wasn't until the weekends when you wore your casual clothes revealing your muscles and skills often on the quidditch pitch.

Starting his 6th year, Ron has been more eager to join the Gryffindor team, getting more interested alongside his sister and best friend. A hobby would be good for him. But as soon as he started his self investigation of the past team, he couldn't stop watching you. Whether it was out of astonishment of your ability to bob and weave around the goal posts, or how you spent your time working on your physical form off the pitch. Looking at you was enough to get him excited.

Once team tryouts come around, you make the familiar trek down the hill to the stadium seeing a few familiar faces and a few new ones. A ping of competition hits your veins as you realize that everyone has to try out again for their positions. Yes.. it was fair, but you worked so hard over the summer and didn’t know if it was all worth it. If one of these new faces could take your place. Even the idea started a fire in you. You kept your head down and stayed to yourself.

After a short period, Harry and Ginny began explaining the rundown. A few games would commence and they would be watching from their positions to see who would be best fit and where. You’ve always been the chaser. Looking around you couldn't figure out who wanted what position. Harry split up the students and you got on your broom ready to put up a fight.

Up to the goals, Ronald Weasley sloppily takes a breath in, sizing himself up to the students on the other side. You could tell he was nervous, but you knew that it was you versus him. You needed to get the quaffle through his posts in order to win. And you believed that would be easy.

A whistle is blown and off you go. Naturally you work with your fellow students from years past, trying to communicate and weave alongside some of the newer students. Quaffle in hand, you fly easily up to the right furthermost goal and make it easily. Ron's face was dumbfounded, realizing this was going to be harder than he thought. You smile as you rush away attempting to find another to gain more points. Relief rushes over you as the wind whips through your hair, loving the feeling of the sky beneath your broom.

After two more goals made by your skill, Ron's face was openly annoyed and frustrated. This wasn't the friendly game of quidditch he was expecting. He wasn't necessarily wanting people to go easy on him, but you were playing rough and for once he couldn't keep up.

With the quaffle tucked under your arm, you find yourself whipping towards the goal posts again, attempting to get one final goal before time is up. Vigorously you looked at Ron and pelt the large ball towards him almost in a joking manner. With irritated furrowed brows, Ron's motions were angry and quick, it was working in his favor as he kicked the quaffle directly back to you, almost knocking you off your broom. With another blow of a whistle, all the students in the air come to a shared circle near Harry in the center, eager to hear their notes.

In your peripheral, you could see Ron fly to the opposite side of the semi-circle, throwing a few daggers your way. You weren’t sure why he was so upset, you were playing as if we were another team. You rolled your eyes and tried to focus on Harry.

“Wonderful playing. Seriously, that was better than we expected.” He nods to each of the students as we all catch our breath.

”Now most of you will keep your positions, with a few small changes.” He continues. Your breath hitches, hands clenching in anticipation.

“Y/n, you did great as a chaser last year.. and today for that matter. But me and Ginny think your strength might be used better as a beater.” His voice understanding, knowing how much you loved being a chaser. You let out a sigh, a smile plastered on your face trying to stay cool. You catch a glance over at Ron who was already looking at you. His brows still furrowed and a frown fixed on his face. You shrug your shoulders at him mouthing “what?” All he does is roll his eyes and face back at Harry. You barely knew the kid but it seemed like he already made his mind up about you.

After the meeting was over, you head over to your duffle bag pausing to catch Ron standing back looking at the pitch.

“Hey!” You say stomping your way closer to him. “What the hell is your problem?”

He turns, taking a step back not expecting you to approach. He cleared his throat before responding, fixing his posture standing a little taller.

“You’re the one who was playing dirty! We're all trying out for the same team.” He looked slightly down at you, severe annoyance dripping with every word. “You act like you own the place.”

“I had to fight to keep my place, you were fighting to take mine.” You spat. He shook his head, chuckling.

“You don't get it do you.” You said looking up at him. “ This is all I have. All I have is quidditch. I eat, breathe, and live this sport. You come in your sixth year and wonder why I'm playing rough?” The words were truthful and vulnerable. His eyes soften slightly but his body language stayed strong.

“You better stick to what you're good at before coming at me for being good at what i am.” You shove your finger in his chest before turning and walking away. You swear you could feel steam coming from your ears. If he thought you would take it easy on him now he was wrong.

——-

At the great hall, you sat in the front closest to the professors table reading a small romantic muggle fiction book enjoying this time spent alone. Down the table you could hear students partaking in conversations with each other as the dinner came to an end. You look up for only a moment to catch sight of a certain red head who doesn't look away from you. Frustrated, you closed your book and got up to leave, taking the long way around the Slytherin table in order to not have to walk past that idiot.

Ron breaks eye contact with you and looks at Harry. “What is that girl's problem?” His voice muffled attempting to speak through the food he was chewing.

“She’s the best quidditch player in the school.” Harry stated, not even missing a beat.

“It’s gone all to her head.” Ron chuffs while taking another bite of food. ”You saw it Hermione, the way she kept centering me out.” Hermione just shakes her head. Yes she was in the stands and she saw the whole game.

“Ronald, you could learn something from her.” Hermione says seeing how frustrated he was.

“Oy? Are you mad you got beat by a girl?” Fred sits down next to Ron

“Couldn't help but overhear dear brother.” George takes the seat opposite. Both of the arms wrap around Ron's shoulders and swing him back and forth.

“Nothing like a strong woman that breaks a man.” Fred sings. “We're lucky she’s one of us!”

“One of us! One of us!” George beats his chest standing up from the table.

“Oh Christ.” Ron puts his head in his hands. What has he gotten himself into?

—————

It’s the first practice since the team meetup earlier this week. You arrive early and get dressed, keeping time to wax your broom well before the other students show up. Enjoying the silence of the Gryffindor dressing room, you lay on your back on a bench and take deep breaths, trying to calm your nerves. You felt like you needed to prove something to Ron. It’s always been you having to prove yourself in a male dominated space and now there was another man, wait no, boy* who thought he could just start up the sport one day after being bored. It was frustrating.

The cloth entrance softly opened. You didn’t open your eyes imagining it was just the wind, but dull footsteps get louder as they get closer to you. You open your eyes peering up at just who you were dreading seeing.

“Hey.” He stood looking down at you. His voice is soft and completely different than the last time you two met. You clear your throat.

“Hmmm.” You mumble back, closing your eyes again.

“I wanted to speak with you.” He continues taking a seat on the ground next to you.

“And what’s that.” Your voice is strong trying to attempt a sense of stoicism.

“I wanted to apologize.” His body shifts underneath his weight, his bag sliding off of his shoulders with a thump. Your eyes open turning to face him. You don't respond, waiting for him to say more,

“I just..” His hands run through his hair, freshly washed and soft falling back exactly where it was before. “ I was wrong. And I came into this sport all wrong.” His voice was low, his eyes unable to meet yours, focusing on his fingers picking skin off his thumb. “It’s always just been fun to me. Something to watch and enjoy. I didn’t recognize that you cared so much about it, or that someone our age would care this much about it.” His shoulders shrug taking a second to take in your reaction.

“All my life I've had to fight to be where i was.” You say quietly back to him. “If I couldn't work to be the best, what was the point?” You sigh feeling your emotions take over you. Ron looks over at you, feeling a sense of understanding.

“My brothers always were better than me. Then when Ginny joined I felt like I was the last sibling to not have something worth doing. Percy had his prefects bullshit. Charlie, Fred, and George were successful in the sport. Bill and those damn dragons.” Ron's voice trailed off. You were an only child, the thought of having to compare yourself to your many siblings sounded hard and you could empathize with him.

“Quidditch always finds those who need it.” Your say turning towards him, a small smile creeping over your face. He returns the gesture and laughs.

“Yeah you could say that.” He shuffles to his feet and holds out his hand. You grab it sitting up on the bench.

“That doesn't mean ill go easy on you Weasley.” You say to him jokingly, shaking his hand, your grip firm.

“Yeah I heard I could learn a thing or two from you.” His cheeks flushed slightly.

You let go of his hand and stand up walking towards the entrance of the changing room.

”well let's go.” You say over your shoulder. You both had roughly 45 minutes before practice began and you saw it as a better ice breaker activity between the two of you. Ron's eyes widened realizing that you were serious. He caught up and met you at the edge of the doorway.

Your conversation made him see you differently. You were just proud of what you had worked for, your body showed the time you dedicated to perfecting your craft. He could see your shoulder muscles from under the Quidditch jersey, loosely fitted on your frame, your arms strong and intimidating but he liked it. He shook his head trying to rattle the thoughts as he followed you outside and to the center of the pitch.

”okay. I'll send you quaffles and all you have to do is make sure they DON'T make it through the goal post. Got it?” One of your eyebrows raised as you mount your broom. Ron follows suit nodding in approval. A beam of sweat appeared on the bridge of his nose. You lifted off, watching Ron fly to the goal posts. You could tell he was still nervous but he was more confident than a few days ago.

Without warning, you send a quaffle to his right. Ron yelps as he bolts over and uses his arm to knock it from reach.

“NICE!” You say flying over and retrieving the quaffle. Ron looked at you with wide eyes.

“Just like a real game alright. No one will let you know where they’re gonna throw it. You have to anticipate my moves. Just watch me.” You say looking at Ron, trying to read his facial expressions. His eyes were fixed on you, not just the ball but all of you. Almost in a daze, you throw the ball to his left and he misses it by a small margin. You laugh lightly.

”Alright don't watch me that close.” You joke seeing him readjust his head gear and let out a gust of air. Something about him was endearing. He was trying his best. Something a little dorky about him was overtaking your thoughts. You took a breath before attempting to send another quaffle through the goal post. Coming directly at him, he uses his head to bounce the ball back and out of sight. You whoop and holler.

“YES! THAT'S IT!” You fly over raising your hands in the air for a high five, excited at his ability to adapt.

He reaches out to high five you but grips your hand as he slips, almost pulling you off your broom. A scream exits your mouth as his arm wrapped around your torso holding you up in the Knick of time.

“It got you. I’m so sorry. I got you.” His breath on your neck trying to get you back on your broom. From down below, a loud bellowing voice echoed up to you two.

”HANDS OFF THE NEW BEATER.” Fred's shouts, bumping into George and pointing up at you two. You quickly recover yourself back to your broom and Ron to his not knowing how that would’ve looked from down there.

Fred leans over to George, “5 sickles they kiss by the end of next week.” George nods in approval

“Make it 7 and you're on.”

————

Practice went on smoothly and you and Ron had little interactions throughout. Being a beater meant Fred, George, and you would be working together on and off the field if anyone got hurt and needed to tap out. Now being a part of a more dangerous position on the field, your focus needed to be tighter than ever. It was hard when every few minutes you had this innate feeling to check on Ron.

“Y/n lock in!” George yells seeing you distracted slightly. It wasn't like you. You shook your head to clear your mind and try to focus on the other two red headed boys on the field. Godric help you, a boy would not distract you on this forsaken field.

The sun began to set, letting everyone know it was getting late and practice was coming to an end. Happily everyone flew down to say their goodbyes and best wishes for our first game over the following weekend. You smiled to everyone and walked to your duffle, always the first at practice and the last to leave. Small footsteps behind you reveal you weren’t the last one. You took a chance and spoke up.

”Can't get enough practice from me eh Weasley.” You say not turning around, still meddling with your bag and uniform in front of you. A small chuckle reveals you were right. You zip up your bag and turn to him.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to walk back together. It’s getting a little dark.” He shuffles hand out to you. You raise your eyebrows at his initiation.

“Oh i can hold my own bag thank you, but sure.. ill walk you back. I know it gets dark fast.” You nudge playfully; Ron rolling his eyes back. You walk in silence for a moment just leaving the pitch and making your way up the path towards the castle.

“Thank you for giving me a second chance.” Ron says quietly, his shoulders brushing against you as you walk. A blush creeping on your face, grateful it was dark enough that he hopefully wouldn't notice.

“Thanks for seeing me as more than just a cocky quidditch player.” You say back quietly. It was a strange new feeling. Something new, something a little confusing. You liked walking with him. It was nice to not be alone for once.

Once you get to the castle you stop and look at each other for a moment.

“You’ll be great Ron.” You say quietly.

”Ah what , no more Weasley. What happened on that walk.” He laughs looking behind you mockingly. You roll your eyes.

“Alright alright. Practice tomorrow? Same time?.” You say poking his chest taking a step back. He reaches out to grab your hand but you pull away too quickly. You smile at him turning on your heel. His eyes are not able to take themselves off of you. After 10 or so steps, you turn to see Ron in the same spot, still watching you with a sly smile.

Confidently you wink quickly before turning and leaving the corridor. Your chest thumping, the idea of something sweet growing within you.

[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.

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