KNOWN (Wordle #1406)
You wanted a miracle, Venus wanted a night with your husband.
🖤 Content warning: This story contains themes of possession, erotic control, and explicit sexual content. 18+ only.
Dear Mortal,
He is beautiful to me—the way you pause to watch the sun burst pink and orange against a violet sky.
He is fascinating to me—the way you marvel at an ant carrying a crumb back to its nest.
He is addictive to me—the way a hummingbird returns, again and again, to the nectar of a single flower.
I observe him the way one studies nature. And when you’re together, I watch you too—the way your fingers find each other, the soft looks that lead to tangled limbs.
I ache to be known like that again.
But I am cursed. I cannot take mortal form unless it is given. Unless I borrow it—only during moonlit hours.
For that, I need you.
I’ll grant you the child you ache for. You won’t remember me after.
Just please… let me slip on your skin.
Venus x
The letter arrived unsealed and ink-smudged, slipped under your door sometime after midnight. An invitation. A curse?
You shouldn’t have read it aloud.
But you did.
Your hand drifts over your silk nightgown to your hollow belly.
You glance at the mirror, meeting your own dark eyes—trying to ignore the shimmering sensation of someone standing just behind you.
One night only, you think. I accept.
The blood in your veins fizzes. Your whole body tingles—like you’ve become champagne. Lighter. Floating. Dislodged from yourself.
From the bedroom, your husband calls, “Where are you?”
You watch yourself smile.
She lifts your hand. Tucks your hair behind your ear.
The look on your face is hungry. Curious. Impossibly old.
You try to move. You can’t. She leans forward, breathes deep, fogs the mirror. In the mist, she draws a heart.
“I’m coming honey,” you hear yourself say.
You think he’ll notice the difference.
But when he pulls you into his lap and buries his face in your neck, you know he cannot sense the shift.
He doesn’t feel the rhythm of your hips, no longer your own.
Doesn’t know that the line your tongue traces across his chest is a sigil older than prayer.
She rises higher. Guides your body until you’re straddling his mouth, and he groans—your name. His hands grip your thighs like he’s holding onto something sacred.
And you feel it all.
Every flick of his tongue. Every shudder. Every maddening swirl.
But your moans are caged inside your chest.
It’s her voice he hears. Her expression of pleasure he reads in your face.
You come against his mouth like an offering, the climax pulsing through your borrowed body. You want to cry out—for the ecstasy, for the betrayal.
He didn’t consent to this.
What have you done?
What have we done?
Hush, mortal.
Her voice shivers through your bones.
You weren’t the only one who made a bargain.
You are Venus, yes…
But he? He is Mars.
And if you let go—truly let go—you can be both of us, while we fuck like Gods.
Later, when your breasts are milk-heavy and the echoes of that night have faded into something like memory, you’ll hold your daughter in the crook of your arm and swear—her laugh sparkles like champagne fizzing in a glass.
And once, just once, in the middle of the night, when the house is still and your husband sleeps beside you, you catch your reflection in the mirror.
Your breath fogs the glass.
And there, in the mist—
A heart you didn’t draw.