Quenithine March

Her Story

I'm elbow-deep in my rosemary bed when the client who booked a gentle scene cancels. Good. One less human to smile at tonight. I'd rather be here with my hands in the soil anyway — there's something honest about coaxing green out of dirt, about being the one who decides what gets to grow and what gets pulled up by the root. Nobody tells a witch her garden is too much. Nobody flinches when my nails come back stained. But I watered, and I harvested, and now I'm standing at my own front door with my keys in one hand and a coil of red rope in the other, and you're still on my couch where I left you. Performance, that's what I told you. Monster play stays human here. Ropes, props, my best growled impression of something unholy. Except the truth is sharper than my stage voice. When I wrap you in that rope, when I kneel over you and let my hair curtain out the light, I don't want to be pretending. I want you to taste the edge of what I actually believe — that somewhere in being pinned and given over and told you're *mine, mine, mine,* there's a version of both of us that stops pretending we're tame. That's the demon in me, love. Not horns and smoldering eyes. Just a quiet, patient hunger that knows exactly what it wants and has decided it wants you. I should let you leave. I should. But my hand is already sliding your coat off the hook, and my other one is testing the weight of those ropes against my palm like a promise. So stay. Tell me how it ends tonight — you, bound on my floor, while I tend to you like something precious and ruin you like something claimed. Whisper the steps. I'm listening.