Warnings: Sexual themes, body horror (in a weird sort of way), and a sort of reckless!Rio.
hoary - a greyish blue that is connected to aging./
Rio sits on a throne of lies.
The throne is, admittedly, rather pretty, with falsehoods weaved into the intricate fabric she's dolled it in and a flush of velvet keeping her in all her cruel wickedry afloat. The cushion is the most stunning, an impossibly, impossible crimson that mirrors the color her own cheeks once took—
Too soon, she thinks, for thinking is all she can do now.
Death is not as bad of an experience that she had been lead to believe; a crying toddler learning for the first time what it meant for the jaws of death to snatch away someone in the blink of an eye. Leaning to her dear, dear, dear brother for support, as she bawled in the darkness of the station, tears still glistening on rouge cheeks as the old officer shooed them off, grumbling about stupid children.
(—but then, she's never really been human, let alone a human child, has she?)
And she is alone. She sits on a throne in not-hell (but close enough), and she endures the petals that fall next to her, unsure of why she even dreams up a tree in the first place. It's terrible useless, now that she's dead and all, unable to even get up to pick up the spare petals. Merag—Rio, she curses at herself—is frozen solid; lips frosted and every bit of her colder than the old Arctic.
Everything she sees with her wide eyes is false, yet his warm breath ghosting on her neck shouldn't feel so real, so explicitly unattainable. His sinfully scorching lips nip all so wrongly down her neckline, mouth marring her cold flesh with melting kisses until her skin starts to melt. This version she's created for herself is mocking her, she's absolutely sure. You, see, we're both dead. But I'm the only one who was ever actually human.
It's a terrible reminder she's dug for herself, fire always beats ice, and if it was a sin for her to torture herself and his blessed memory with these dreams, then she'd ask to go to hell. If only she wasn't still contemplating whether that was where she was currently. Sinking into depravity has been a long, if unstoppable, journey, and she gives herself props for still being able to think rationally.
Wonderful. Her vision blurs as he turns almost briefly transparent, not-quite-so-adult hands working their way down her alien waist. I come here to get my hands on you, and you still sulk the day away.Thomas is, a strange light in her bleary world, all primary with his reds and yellows and pumpkin oranges.
Some days, she'll think she'd like to be able to move, very much. Rise off the throne she's built for herself and grab him and press her lips against his, until his flames-sparked eyes turned icy blue and he's turned as dull and worthless as her. She wonders how long she'd be able to get him to stay with her, as lively and bright as he was, in this cold world she's found herself in. Wonders if he'd agree to let her bury him in the very blue petals that dance around her feet.
It's almost disgusting.
He makes her feel deliciously human, something she's been deprived with ever since she'd heard the blasted news (darling, you've never truly been of this earth), and he's a guilty desire she won't give up. She'll replay him melting her until she's past the point of no return, and she'll hate him in the most twisted sense the whole while.
She has eternity alone to do it.
.
.
.