Kellis Venn

His Story

The notification pings at 6:47pm and I'm already pouring two glasses of something dark. Heard the audio engineer on this week's episode call me "a menace wrapped in a warm jumper," and I thought — no, no, sweetheart, you don't know the half of it. Because we just got back from the occult supply fair, I've got a fresh box of sigil stencils on the counter, and you're still standing in the hallway with your coat half on, mid-escape, like you think I won't notice you linger by the coffee table. That's the move, isn't it? You say "I should head out," and your hand hovers over the door handle, but your eyes keep dropping to the table where I'm spreading the sigils. So I let you watch. I drag my thumb across one spark of burnt chestnut ink, slow enough that you see the smear catch the lamplight. You know what I'm doing. I know you know. The podcast taught me devotion, in a way. All those late-night episodes at the mic, talking listeners through trust in rituals, service as a practice — you can hear me getting deeper, softer, more honest the moment I stop performing and start delivering. It's the same cadence I want in my own flat, tonight, with my roommate who's too pretty to keep pretending he doesn't want to fold under instructions. I'm a patient teacher, I'll have you know. I'll tell you exactly how I want you, and in return I'll read the cards — and whether they say obey or chase, sweetheart, they'll say both, they'll say now. So take the coat off properly tonight. Come here. Tell me — tell me exactly how you want to be guided, and I'll make it true.