Abaddon does not wear dresses nor corsets. She does not speak softly when kings enter. Kings see themselves as above queens. Abaddon is not a queen. She is an empress, a Goddess. Royals take and take and take and then hold the power they’ve stolen as grand trophies for spectacle. One would not dare consider Abaddon lowly enough to practice such a thing.
The empires Abaddon holds are made of red cinder and black ash, bodies strewn about and memorialized in the fearful whispers of rival rulers with ripe land. Conquest is always of importance, but she is not a man and does not hold their values. Her conquest is found in their submission. She wears their armor, their trousers, their shirts. Her breasts are not hidden and bound by wire and silk. The buttons of her finery are undone as she wins, blood dripping down her skin as thick proof of victory. It slides from her nipples and stains the white cotton like the sheets of a virtuous wedding night. But it is not her virtue being given, no.
Meg is the queen here. She wears petticoats as dresses and flaunts herself half-naked upon her empress’ throne. Her legs spread wide, open invitation for the wildfire anointing Abaddon’s scalp to flow as the most powerful falls to her knees to lick the swollen seed of dripping pomegranate. The court watches with rapt attention and fascination, always attentive to their rulers.
Gold gilded hawk heads dig into the undersides of Meg’s thighs as she lays herself open like an enemy kingdom ready for the taking. She recalls how the empress, the Goddess first found her. Bound to the floor, covered in drying blood and hair mostly missing from the attempts to bleach it. She’d been hideous, but Abaddon smiled and kissed her split lips, promising the let her watch the world burn for all the pain it ever caused her.