She was hot.

She was hot hot hot with her wine-colored hair and indigo eyes and sun-kissed body and the neon sign that said DO NOT TOUCH hovering over her naive little head. She was a Princess of Heart, pure and pretty and pink and full of light and still so, so hot.

She was off-limits.

She was off-limits off-limits off-limits with two protective hip attachments, one of dark and one of light and both with Keyblades that would be aimed at his throat if he ever showed his face on that pretty little beach. She was under-aged and innocent with her whole life ahead of her and still so, so hot.

He couldn't touch her.

But god he wanted to, he wanted to destroy her from the inside-out and have her screaming his name and begging for her life and her clothes and her home.

But he couldn't. touch. her.

So he had his flames do the touching instead.

She was burning burning burning with her skin melting and her blood boiling and her mouth screaming words of agony and hatred. She was on fire and dying and in so much pain and still so, so hot.

She was ashes ashes ashes with the smell of burnt skin and blood in that spot on the beach.

And every day he touched her.