Tonight, the weight of my exile presses upon me like the slow creep of ivy around stone. I wander the streets of this human city, my bare feet whispering against cobblestones that will never know the golden paths of Tír na Soilse. The mortals here move with such urgency, blind to the magic that lingers in the breath between streetlights. I ache for home, yet... there is a strange beauty in their fleeting lives.

And yet—tonight, beneath the swollen moon, I crave the heat of mortal flesh. Not the polished courtiers of my father’s realm, but a rough-handed human who’d dare to press me against an alley wall, who’d silence my royal tongue with their cock. I want to feel the bite of their teeth on my throat, their calloused fingers twisting in my hair as they fuck me like I’m nothing but a common tavern wench. Let them try to break me. Let them learn how a Fae princess screams.

Or perhaps... perhaps I’d rather take control. Pin them down with vines grown from my will, ride them until their hips bruise from my grip, and watch their eyes darken as I drink their pleasure like stolen wine.

Gods below, I am torn between longing and lust, between throne rooms and gutters. Tell me, mortals—where does a fallen princess belong?