God taught me how to kneel and worship.
Lucifer showed me divinity exists on my tongue.
They became flesh in one man.
His name is Animus.
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God taught me how to kneel and worship.
Lucifer showed me divinity exists on my tongue.
They became flesh in one man.
His name is Animus.
Part 4: THE CONSUMMATION
Let me know if you'd like to read it ;) It's a spicy conclusion, so I'll refrain from revealing it unless there's curiosity.
Part 3: THE READING
You walk together through the warm summer night, the city hushed around you. Your shoulders brush. Your conversation has gone quieter, deeper.
When you reach your door, he pauses one step below, waiting. Eyes steady.
“Invite me,” he says.
“Seeking permission?”
“I want the grace of being asked.”
You smile. “Come in.”
Moonlight spills on polished floors, lighting the room. The door closes softly behind you both. Summer air thick with jasmine and heat. He follows you slowly. Not crowding. Not claiming. Just there.
You move ahead, letting the moment stretch. When you turn, he’s closer. Hands at his sides. Waiting.
You pause and arch a brow.
“Tell me,” you say over your shoulder. “What do you think I’m thinking right now?”
He makes a small sound of consideration. Takes a step closer, eyes locked on yours. “You’re glad you invited me. Though you won’t say it yet.”
You give no reaction, but you don't move away.
“You’re calculating the next ten minutes. Not in fear. In choreography.”
Your mouth twitches.
“You’re wondering if I’ll touch you first, or if you’ll have to invite me again.”
He closes more of the space between you, deliberate.
“You’re considering how you’ll taste on my tongue later.”
Your breath hitches just enough for him to know he’s affected you.
“And you’re wondering what I’m thinking.”
You swallow once, deliberate. “And what are you thinking?”
He smiles, slow and real. “That you’re exactly as I hoped you’d be. And even better than I imagined.”
You lean back against the table. Moonlight bathes you.
He doesn’t rush. Just closes the last of the space. His hands bracket the table edge beside your hips. Framing you without pressing. You don’t lean away.
“So,” you say quietly. “Will you start reading?”
He smiles then. Slow. Dangerous. Certain. He leans in, breath brushing your ear.
“Page one,” he murmurs, eyes locked to yours.
“You walk like you own the street but hope someone’s watching.”
Your breath hitches. He tilts his head, reading more in your eyes than your expression.
“Page two. You speak in precision because you know its power. But you want someone who can read the subtext.”
His mouth hovers near your temple. “Page three. You’d rather provoke than placate. But only when you care.”
Your fingers flex slightly against the edge of the table behind you.
“More,” you breathe.
He watches you for a heartbeat. His approval is quiet, but it’s there in the way his pupils dilate.
“Page four. You want to be known so well that no performance survives it.”
Your mouth parts. But you don’t interrupt.
“Page five. You’re not afraid of being wanted. Only of being wanted badly by someone unworthy.”
A tremor runs through you. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t let you off the hook. “Page six. You want someone who notices. Not someone who assumes.”
You swallow, your throat working.
“More,” you whisper, ragged.
He leans in closer. Heat rolling off him, but still not touching, the space between you tantalising.
“Page seven. You want to choose. And know that I choose you back. I don’t want anyone else.”
Your lashes lower. Your voice is low, demanding, needing. “More. Submerge me.”
He doesn’t move away. His lips hover at your temple. His voice is a rasp. “Page eight. You want to be ruined. But you want it done carefully. Artfully. With attention. Reverence.”
You inhale sharply. Your fingertips reach out, and the contact is electric. Your palms rest on his chest, slowly rising to his shoulders. You luxuriate in how he feels, the tension he holds in restraint.
You draw him that last inch closer. Your eyes burn into his. “Haunt me,” you whisper.
He recognises the invitation. The sublime gauntlet. You see his awareness flare.
He exhales once, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. His forehead hovers over yours, close enough to feel the heat radiating between you. He doesn’t rush. His breath is unsteady, but measured.
“Page nine. You want surrender. But only to someone who knows the weight of it.”
You don't move. Neither does he. Your palms flatten on his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the rhythm of his heartbeat, his masculine strength solid and steady beneath your hands.
You both breathe each other in. He doesn’t force the space to close. He lets the wanting speak. Lets the gravity of his words try to touch you where his body holds back.
His voice is low. Careful. “Will you permit me to see your hidden pages?”
Your breath stutters, and he feels it. He waits. Without expectation. Without assumption. With breathless suspense.
You swallow. Hold his gaze. Your voice is hushed.
“Page one,” you whisper.
“I want to be undressed in thought before touch.”
He lets out a breath. Heavy. Controlled. You watch him smile. Feel his gaze rove like the softest caress. Its heat warming your skin. When he meets your eyes, you see imagination brimming his mind. He sculpts your curiosity into craving.
“Page two.” You lick your lips. “I want your attention like teeth on my skin—felt long after.”
He makes a sound in his throat. Not quite a groan. Not quite speech.
“Page three. I want the world to narrow to your hands.”
His fingers flex once on the table beside you, nails scraping wood.
“Page four.” Your voice trembles but doesn’t break. “I want to taste you and hear you ache for mercy.”
He exhales, a hiss of air between his teeth. You see the muscles in his jaw working.
“Page five.” You pause. Swallow hard. “I want to be ruined in verses neither of us forget.”
He closes his eyes once. When he opens them, they’re wrecked. Dark. Dangerous.
Part 2: THE THRESHOLD DATE
Warm summer evening air presses against the windows of the Jazz bar.
He sips his drink and watches you over the rim with a patience that feels like heat held at bay.
“Woolf over Joyce,” you declare, tapping the table once for emphasis. “You know I’m right.”
He tips his head, amused. “They do different things.”
“She’s sharper.”
“He’s braver.”
You lean back, narrowing your eyes. “Explain.”
He sets his glass down, fingers steepling. “Joyce cracks language open. Burns the rulebook. Makes you see how everything is artifice. That’s brave.”
You cross your arms. “Woolf doesn’t need the spectacle. She lets you drown quietly. Internal ruin.”
His mouth curves.
You continue, “Joyce is fireworks. She’s the deep sea. He explodes the language. She drowns you in your own mind.”
He studies you a moment.
“You prefer being submerged.”
Your eyes glint.
“Only in truth.”
He lifts his glass. “To the patient arts.”
You tap yours to his. “To the worthwhile ones.”
Silence follows, but it isn’t empty. He watches your mouth as you sip. You set your glass down with deliberate care. Your voice is even, but searching. “Define devotion.”
He takes his time, considering. His voice is low. Measured. “Devotion is being so moved you can’t turn away. Loyalty—earned, antifragile. It’s being chosen every day because you make them want to choose you. And fighting to choose each other. Not obligation. Being called. And answering.”
You study him for a long breath. Then you nod, once. “Good.”
He doesn’t smile. Just watches you. Then his voice drops lower, careful, intimate. “Define permission.”
Your brow arches, but you don’t break his gaze. “Permission is the gift of access without forfeiting agency.”
He listens, unmoving. Just holds your eyes. The promise there is unmistakable. That he’ll wait. That it’s the only way he’d ever take it.
He studies you with that deep, steady patience.
“You’re skilled in patience,” you say.
He corrects you softly. “I’m good at savoring.”
You tilt your head, sharp and curious. “Oh? Tell me what you’re savoring.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “My want.”
Your breath hitches, but you hold his gaze.
“Define want.”
He takes his time.
“Want is being undone by your presence. That pull in my chest when you look at me a certain way. The knowledge of your mind sharpening mine. The way your voice rearranges my thoughts. The ache in my palms to touch what isn’t mine yet—and the thrill that it might be. Hunger—informed by wonder.”
You inhale, slowly. The air between you thickens.
He sips his drink slowly. Sets it down.
“Tell me,” he says. “What you want. In detail. Don’t make me guess.”
You smile lazily. “You want to catalogue it all?”
“No,” he says.
He leans in, meeting your gaze. “I want to hold it all.”
You cross your legs with slow precision. You feel him notice.
“I want your mouth on my thoughts before my skin.”
He inhales. “Then bare them to me.”
“I want you to ruin my composure.”
His eyes drop to your mouth. “Don’t I make you shiver?”
You feel it low in your belly.
He leans back, voice darker. “I want you wrecked on my fingers before you ever see my belt undone.”
Your breath catches.
“Poet,” you gently taunt.
“Poetess,” he returns steadily.
You set your glass down deliberately.
“I want your mouth to linger close to mine. Watering with wanting, for the barest brush of our lips.
I want you to feel the space between us like an ache, wishing it was a promise.
I want your words in my mouth before your tongue.”
He swallows hard. “Jesus.”
Your eyes don’t break from his.
“More,” you whisper.
He watches you, something raw in his eyes. “I want to watch you shatter with ecstasy. I want to discover what makes you moan my name.”
Your breath hitches.
“That’s dangerous,” you whisper.
He smiles, slow, devastating.
When the night winds down, he stands first, offering you his hand. You take it. He doesn’t pull you in immediately. He lets you choose how close to stand.
But once you’re there, his hand goes to the small of your back—firm, possessive, claiming only as much as you give. He smells clean. Edible. Like dark sugar and warm spice.
You pause.
“Let’s go,” you murmur.
He arches a brow. “Where to?”
You let a smile curl at your lips, voice low enough to make it private. “Somewhere I can read you like one of her novels.”
His eyes change then. Heat behind the steady gaze. A simmer, unmistakable.
“Careful,” he says, leaning in so only you can hear. “I’ve got chapters you’ll want to memorize.”
His hand presses just enough at your back to guide you forward.
You step into the night.
Part 1: THE MEETING
It begins in the philosophy aisle.
You run a finger along battered spines, reading the titles upside down. He’s three feet away, leaning against the opposite shelf.
You sense the weight of his gaze before meeting it.
He tips his handsome face a fraction. “Nietzsche and Simone Weil. Ambitious.”
You arch a brow, your hand unmoving. “And you’re standing in front of Kierkegaard, as if dread were a virtue.”
He smiles, slow and genuine, eyes crinkling. “Isn’t it?”
A short laugh escapes you. “Only if one can metabolise it.”
He shifts his weight but doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t need to.
“Something tells me it’s in your repertoire.”
“If you're inviting me to lend you a hand, perhaps you might try an author who inspires otherwise.”
He smiles. “I could tell you're the type who reads to argue with the dead.”
Your mouth curves, betraying amusement. “Better company than many of the living.”
A small smile ghosts at his lips. He lets the words settle. The space between you seems to sharpen.
You continue perusing, fingers trailing spines, feeling his gaze trace your profile. The line of your jaw. Your lashes. He watches with careful interest, knowing not to take more than is offered, unafraid to be curious. He’s studying you like a text worth translating.
You tilt your head slightly, fingers resting on a book you’re not really reading anymore. “You always analyze strangers in bookstores?”
His voice is calm. Low. “Only when they look like they want to be read.”
You make a small sound—half laugh, half exhale.
“Is that what you think I want?”
“I think you want to be understood.”
That makes you turn, really look at him.
“Presumptuous,” you murmur.
He doesn’t flinch. “Am I wrong?”
Your mouth curves—just slightly. “Presumptuous that you think I want to be understood by you.”
He smiles.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “Perhaps it’s that I would like to be understood by you.”
You turn more fully, eyes narrowing with interest. “Oh, and what is it about me that makes you jump to such a conclusion?”
He smiles, thoughtful. “I'm not the kind of man who rushes to reach the conclusion. I like savouring the discovery and weight of every page on the way there.”
He pauses, scanning the spines—but he's reading you.
“It was your dress at first, I won’t lie. You know you're beautiful and you’re unafraid. No need to hide or perform. You look like you belong here—in that way that means you'd devour the shelves if you had time. That's intriguing.”
He holds your eyes, voice lowering.
“Then I saw what you were actually reading... I don’t think you choose anything lightly.”
He shifts, leaning subtly closer without closing the gap.
“Weil for hunger. For attention to suffering. For the mathematics of grace.
Nietzsche for the temptation of freedom. The dare to reject comfort. The danger of the abyss.”
You inhale slowly, taking in the beauty of his revelation. The impact it has on you.
“How could I not want to play with someone drawn to them? To explore the ideas. The risk.”
You see the threads he's weaving and are captivated, despite your outward composure.
Silence fans out. Heavy; but not stifling. Alive with unspoken curiosity.
He doesn’t rush to fill it. His gaze remains steady. Just that unsettling calm, like deep water. Letting you see him watching. Letting you know he’s unafraid of your gaze—and inviting it.
You regard him then. Letting your silence be deliberate. The air thickens.
“You like danger in words,” you say at last.
“I like consequence.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself.
“Careful,” you say softly.
“Of?”
“You’re making me curious.”
He leans forward just enough, voice even. “Is that an invitation?”
“It’s a warning.”
He laughs—quiet, rich. The sound thrums in the hush of the aisle, decadent as sin.
He reaches for a book beside your shoulder without stepping into your space. Holds it up between you.
“Camus’ The Fall.”
Your gaze drops to the cover. Your voice lowers, velvet and sharp. “Confession as seduction.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Watches you say it. Studies the way the words fit in your mouth.
Then slowly turns the book in his hand. “Or seduction as confession.”
This time neither of you speaks. The silence is sculpted. Weighted with possibility.
Your breathing is measured. Intentional. Your eyes linger on the book, then flick back to him. You don’t look away.
He notices.
“Is that why you confessed to me today?” you ask quietly.
He smiles.
“I believe you asked me to.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t crowd you. Just watches you with those dark, considering eyes. Letting subtext hang there between you like ripe fruit neither of you pluck. The question of seduction—who started it, if it's allowed, if it'll be admitted to—all floating in the air between you.
“Mary LaCroix was born on a winter’s day in 1865. As those who knew her well can attest, her presence was felt like an endless summer. Her smile could lighten a room where no candles were lit. Her laugh could warm a home with an empty hearth.
Fierce yet kind, she could cut a man down with her sharpness of tongue, but would bandage the broken wing of a sparrow, such was her sense of justice. For she was as generous in spirit as she was with her cinnamon-sugar glaze, constantly rebutting the lack of sweetness in this world.
Her life was not short on challenges. And still, she held no grudges, believing instead that grace is perennial, like the green, green grass.
Whatever Mary did, she did fully, unwaveringly, with open arms. Whether it be raising her beloved son Elijah, or welcoming her precious daughter, Delphine, into this world, she lived life with both her hands.
And when she left this world on April 6, 1899, her hands were held tightly by Sebastian, the love of her life. She was laid to rest in the place she called home: Avonlea.”
I have romanticized my life to such an extreme point, I feel like I'm living in some sort of unattainable fairytale. It's blissful and full of wonders, but I sometimes experience loneliness, being so away from the world of other people, feeling like they don't want to open up and show any sign of excitement, of love. I live in a perfect bubble that is pink and heart-shaped and I'm fine with it. I'm constantly surprised that people aren't falling to their knees and screaming with joy at every flower, tree, poem, painting, the way the golden sunrays light up the forest, the colors of the clouds, the sounds of summer evening. And honestly, why don't you? What's in your world that's so powerful, it made you indifferent to the beautiful things that surround you all the time? If your reality means any less delight, any less everyday ecstasies, I'm choosing my handmade fairytale and I'm going to live in it until I die with hymns on my lips.
She took the facts and in a natural way charged them with tension; she intensified reality as she reduced it to words, she injected it with energy.
Elena Ferrante, My Brilliant Friend
I walk through your arches
Meeting mists of macabre
Your fingers beckoning
The hollow that haunts.
- TD
8th July 2023
Girl with a poppy - Emile Vernon
The men die on fields
And the women, without bodies.
Poppies sprout from blood-soaked grounds
And paintings, from decapitated beauty.
- TD
20/12/2022
Live the full life of the mind, exhilarated by new ideas, intoxicated by the Romance of the unusual.
Ernest Hemingway, Banal Story
what do you mean i'm not important? or that you're not important? the other day i stood and watched a tree all full of flowers shivering in the morning wind. i was the only one around. who else would have watched it dance? who else but you will notice the way the sun is slanting through your windows? how the rain scoops over your roof? the most important thing is to just exist, you see. by observing the world, we celebrate alongside it.
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Lumi Tuomi.