Loving you is easy 'cause you're terrible... [Potentially NSFW]
This is the eight night in a row that Ben Gibbons has sat perched on a bench outside Thessaly's apartment, serenading her and promising to love her forever.
Her neighbours are complaining now. How can they sleep with all that ruckus, night after night? Why doesn't she put a stop to it?
Not that they're complaining to her. They may not suspect, but few can bring themselves to raise their voices at Thessaly. There's always something about her that makes them uneasy.
More than Thessaly's presence here, however, is the trace of one far more sinister. One who delights in games, who sees the world as its own chessboard.
A chessboard, though, where everyone's naked and every move only strengthens the orgiastic intensity.
It's a presence familiar in its source. Too similar. Like that of the King of Dreams.
"Ben. Ben, this is foolish. I've ignored you for over a week. Go home."
He can't, he protests. His home is by her side. She's all he wants, all he can think about. He can't bear to think of a single moment not by her side.
"It's not going to happen, Ben. I'm not interested. Go home."
No, he says again. Why is she doing this to him? All he wants is to please her! He's giving her his heart!
And that simple phrase is all it takes. Words, phrases, they all have power. And the last of the Thessalian witches claims her new property violently.
It's a simple task, pulling herself through the still-beating organ. Through ventricle--or perhaps aorta, she never did have the finer parts of human anatomy down--she travels to its core. Where its master lies, pulling at strengths in its fortress of flesh.
She is in the heart of Desire.
Her neighbours are complaining now. How can they sleep with all that ruckus, night after night? Why doesn't she put a stop to it?
Not that they're complaining to her. They may not suspect, but few can bring themselves to raise their voices at Thessaly. There's always something about her that makes them uneasy.
More than Thessaly's presence here, however, is the trace of one far more sinister. One who delights in games, who sees the world as its own chessboard.
A chessboard, though, where everyone's naked and every move only strengthens the orgiastic intensity.
It's a presence familiar in its source. Too similar. Like that of the King of Dreams.
"Ben. Ben, this is foolish. I've ignored you for over a week. Go home."
He can't, he protests. His home is by her side. She's all he wants, all he can think about. He can't bear to think of a single moment not by her side.
"It's not going to happen, Ben. I'm not interested. Go home."
No, he says again. Why is she doing this to him? All he wants is to please her! He's giving her his heart!
And that simple phrase is all it takes. Words, phrases, they all have power. And the last of the Thessalian witches claims her new property violently.
It's a simple task, pulling herself through the still-beating organ. Through ventricle--or perhaps aorta, she never did have the finer parts of human anatomy down--she travels to its core. Where its master lies, pulling at strengths in its fortress of flesh.
She is in the heart of Desire.