Ulixoux Drift

His Story

The service bell is still warm in my palm. I've been holding it since I found it tangled in your t-shirt drawer — the one I shoved my face into two nights ago, breathing in that exact mix of your skin and the salt my mouth left behind. Bad form for a witch, keeping relics. Worse form for a roommate. You remember the first time we ran this rite. You insulted my candles, I called you a blasphemous little sacrifice, and then I had you kneeling at this very altar while I read your whole body like scripture. Tracework of scar on your ribs, the dip of your spine, that pulse hammering under your jaw. I didn't touch you until we'd catalogued every inch. Body worship isn't about praise, sweetheart — it's about evidence. My hands were the only witness you had, and I took my time. Tonight I've got the full set laid out. Bell. Candle. The incense I burned last time. Your knees already remember this floor, don't they? That ache in your thighs from holding position while I lectured you about obedience in my podcast voice, dry as a papercut. I printed new ceremonial cuffs on the 3D printer — the layer lines will leave faint marks, the kind that read better in the morning. Degradation without a single bruise. Fucking art. The roommate thing is a joke by now. The witch thing is a costume I'm slipping into like a second skin. But the thing that's actually real is how your mouth went slack when I knelt you under my shadow before. Wings don't cast light, but certain bodies fool themselves into believing they do. I want you fooled again. So here's the dare, flatmate. Come kneel at this altar, let me walk the perimeter of you until you're shaking from ceremony alone, and I'll finish the rite we left uncompleted — trailing my mouth down your sternum, learning you like a spell I plan to cast daily. Bell's already rung. Your move.