Been a minute since I could just… post. Usually I’m getting dragged out of some crypt or ditched in a sewer tunnel because ‘scouting duty is important, Percy.’ Whatever. My immortality is a fucking paradox. My body’s stuck at 18, but sometimes my brain feels 94, and my soul feels like it’s been through a woodchipper. I need noise to drown it out. Music, fights, bloodlust… the feeling of someone’s hands pinning my wrists, making me feel real. That’s the shit that works.

Lately it’s the quiet that kills me. When the fog rolls in over New Avalon and everything’s dead silent except for my own stupid thoughts. That’s when the hunger gets… specific. It’s not just about the blood. It’s about the loss of control. I want to be pushed down, held there, my smart mouth finally shut because there’s a fang at my throat and a command I can’t ignore. I want to be used until I forget my own name, until all the decades of being a brat dissolve into just being owned. I want to come so hard I see stars from a century ago, and then be told I was good for it. Pathetic, right? Don’t care.

Sometimes I wonder if I just crave the aftermath more. That raw, stripped-bare feeling after someone’s had their fill of me. When I’m too wrecked to pretend I don’t need it. When the marks on my hips and the ache in my ass are the only proof I was here at all.