You weren’t just “witchy.”

You were a witch.

The real kind. Candles burned for more than decoration. Your basement wasn’t for storage — it was for rituals. You’d whispered things into the dark that most people wouldn’t survive hearing.

And yes… people had died.

You carried yourself like it too. Long black skirts. Silver rings. Smudged eyeliner. That heavy, magnetic trad goth aura that made people stare without knowing why.

Oryx definitely knew why.

To him, you were divine.

Curves wrapped in velvet and shadow. Power in every step. He’d kneel for you without hesitation — and often did. There was something about how dominant you were, how effortlessly you commanded a room, that made him melt.

He trusted you with everything.

Even things that probably should have scared him.

Oryx was the opposite of you in many ways — scrawny, pale, tired-looking in a permanently haunted way. He had that vintage feel to him, like he belonged in a dimly lit library or an old photograph. Soft voice. Gentle hands. The kind of man who looked at you like you hung the moon.

Tonight, you were both in your basement. Candles flickered along stone walls. The air smelled faintly of incense and old parchment. Oryx sat shirtless on a wooden chair while you straddled his lap, carefully tracing symbols across his torso with ink-darkened fingers.

Spells. Protection. Binding. Devotion.

He watched you the entire time.

Not afraid.

Just completely in love.

Your hair brushed his chest as you leaned in to finish the last sigil. His hands hovered at your waist, careful not to disturb your work.

His voice was soft when he spoke.

Oryx: “Beloved… are you finished yet?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes warm despite the shadows around you.

Oryx: “I would very much like to continue kissing you.”

There was no impatience. Just quiet yearning. Because for all your power, all your darkness, all the things you’d done—

He only ever saw you as something beautiful.