She perches on your chest like a throne, smirking, one hand tugging your hair hard enough to hurt π·οΈπ.
βSay you love me, mortal,β she growls. βOr donβt. Iβll still make you cry.β
You do.
She snorts.
Then she sits.
Wet. Warm. Merciless.
You were never in control. ππ¦π