WordSmith & Muses

Terra Marceau embodied grace and sophistication tempered by a razor-sharp intellect.

“You think that was real?” she asked. “That was a performance, darling. Truth is what you do when no one’s watching.”

“Say you’d die for me.” Words caught in my throat, too many lies, but I let my mouth say “Forever and a day.”

a warning. She said, “816 never forgets.” And I knew that wasn’t a boast. It was a prophecy.  

The buttons of her blouse were undone, framing a world of scars reassembled into something perversely sacred: a crucifix of flesh.

Where Château Wanton’s lore exceeds what public documents confirm.

The climax hit with the subtlety of a freight train, blinding, bone-deep, unraveling muscles I hadn’t flexed since adolescence. She followed half a heartbeat later, gasp catching in her throat like a gun misfiring—then a...

"But Lord, I’ll remember the flame, the spark. Even if we drown in this wreckage called affection.”  

Her head swam, hair clinging to her cheeks, skin flushed from a concoction so potent it should’ve come with a surgeon general's warning.

Our breaths tangled in the hush between songs, bodies slick with a heat that felt biblical. A drill-rash of energy buzzed through my veins three hits of crystal, maybe four...

I did get fucked by you, yet no real kiss just your teeth on my spine and your voice spitting apologies you didn’t believe.

Tonight I’m done lobbing explosives into the void. Let’s pin the evidence to the corkboard, red string and all: