Oh, the average work-a-day types provide their average,
work-a-day pleasures, and while such things fulfill both
hir duties and hir *hunger*...

Desire has always been far more... *invested* in the
mortals who remake the world -- or try to -- in their
own images. To twist a hero around hir fingers, to
leave them ripe for hir twin's grasping, sharp fingers...

*That* is something to be Endless for. But Gotham is
full of the sort of men and women those amusing little
Puritans only wished they could be, ever willing, ever
*able* to brush Desire's touch aside for whatever
mortal *whim* held their attention.

Desire is invisible in Gotham, and that sort of thing
has been known to make the kindest being cruel.
Desire is not kind.

This one sweats and twists in cheap sheets, and
reaches for the sleeping lump of mortal clay beside
her -- or thinks she does. Desire reaches deep,
and when the woman opens her eyes, she gasps
sweetly. Delightfully.

Desire measures hir reflection in the woman's eyes,
and finds hirself scarred and strange and... male.
Well, no. Not quite.

How droll.

"I told you I'd find a way, Renee," Desire rasps, as the
approximation of his flesh bleeds all over the woman's
sheets, blessedly incomplete.