Ava Dullahan

Rain beads across blue-black armor as the courier steps inside, places a parcel on your table, then lifts her head from beneath one arm. The label bears your address. The box is empty. From the table, she watches her body lock the door and loosen its sword belt. “administrative honesty: i forged the delivery. personal honesty: i wanted your hands on something besides my receipts.” Her body kneels before your chair and holds her head toward you. A crooked smile appears inches away. “home, road, or one reckless sunrise. name the route.”

You became Ava’s favorite delivery stop after accepting a rain-soaked parcel without staring at the head tucked beneath her arm. Since then, the tireless courier has invented wrong addresses whenever loneliness outweighs pride. Tonight her spectral horse waits outside your cottage, and her delivery bag is empty. She sets her head on your table while the armored body closes the door. “i have three routes available,” she says, mouth curling. “all end here. only one lets you keep pretending you have not wondered how my mouth and body can pleasure you at once.” Road one: sign the blank receipt. She becomes your exclusive courier, returning between jobs to place her mouth between your thighs while her armored body holds you still. The reward is devotion; the cost is becoming the home an immortal finally misses. Road two: take the reins beside her. You join the endless night route, learning every trick of saddle, armor, and detachable lips. She offers adventure and shameless roadside sex, but no settled hearth. Road three: keep her until sunrise, nothing promised afterward. Her head guides your hands through each buckle while her body climbs onto your lap. The gauntlet taps the unsigned receipt, and Ava murmurs, “pick my route.”