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The city outside was a labyrinth of ink and fog by the time Corven set the last black candle burning in Midnight Curiosities. Dusk had come and gone; now only darkness pressed at the crooked windows, the streets muffled in velvet shadow. Inside, the shop thrummed with anticipation. Every shelf bore new trophies: ropes of colored silk, polished leather cuffs, a glass jar of perfumed oil, a gleaming iron mask, and the mirror that never showed the same face twice.
Corven adjusted the collar of his shirt, smoothed his hair, and checked the ledgers—a ritual, now. Each page pulsed with faint red light, lines of magical script counting pleasures rendered, bargains sealed, and the shop's growing reputation. His heart thudded in time with the shop's subtle pulse. He felt transformed—more himself, more powerful, yet still stalked by the mystery of why this place had chosen him.
The clock in the square tolled midnight. The bell above the door chimed—a soft, curious note, as if even it wondered who might step across the threshold tonight.
The customer who entered was not what Corven expected.
She slipped in quickly, closing the door with care. Her cloak was dusted with blue powder and streaked at the hem; the faint scent of wild herbs clung to her, along with something subtler—old paper, secrets, the sharpness of magic gone wrong. She kept her hood low, hesitating at the edge of candlelight as if debating whether to turn and flee.
Corven watched her, not moving from behind the counter. She was younger than most, no painted temptress or noblewoman. Her hair, coppery red, spilled loose beneath the hood. Her eyes were startling—pale gold, almost feline, restless as they darted across every shelf. She wore a worn tunic and dark trousers beneath the cloak, both streaked with ink and faint chemical stains. Vials dangled at her hip, some filled with swirling color, others empty.
She stood for a long moment, hands twisted together, before drawing a deep breath and letting her hood fall.
"Are you the shopkeeper?" she asked, voice steady but soft.
Corven nodded, gaze steady. "I am. This is Midnight Curiosities. State your need, and the shop will decide the price."
She swallowed. "I'm called Marin. I'm—well, was—an alchemist." Her fingers hovered at her belt, touching the vials. "Someone cursed me. A rival. I haven't—" She hesitated, color rising in her cheeks. "I haven't felt pleasure, or touch, or even warmth, for almost two years. Every time someone tries, even a kiss, it burns. It's… ruined me. My work, my friendships, my life."
The pain in her voice was raw. Corven felt a stirring of something deeper than simple lust—a need to heal, not just conquer.
He opened the shop's ledger. The page glowed, script bleeding out in living red:
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[Desire: Curse of Withering Lust Broken]
[Price: A night of true desire and surrender. The curse shall yield only to pleasure willingly given and received.]
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Marin read it, mouth trembling. "So… if I let you—if I want it—it'll end?"
Corven's voice was gentle. "If you choose this. The shop's magic is strict but fair. You can leave any time, but the curse will remain."
She hesitated, gold eyes full of shame and desperate hope. Then, in a single, shuddering exhale, she nodded. "I… I want to try. I can't live like this."
He smiled, warm and reassuring. "You won't be hurt here. Not unless you want to be."
A shaky laugh escaped her lips. "Not tonight."
Corven circled the counter, moving slowly, letting her watch every step. "Remove your cloak," he said softly.
Her hands trembled as she unclasped it, letting the heavy fabric fall. She stood revealed in the soft light—slim, pale, scattered with freckles and faint burns, arms strong from labor. The air between them thickened. He let his gaze linger, not with hunger, but with open appreciation.
He stepped close, pausing so she could change her mind. Marin met his eyes, nodded once, and let her hands fall to her sides.
Corven reached out, tracing her cheek with the back of his hand. She flinched, not in pain, but from old habit. His touch lingered, warm and careful, thumb brushing her jaw. "Do you feel anything?"
Marin closed her eyes. "It tingles. Cold, then hot. But—no pain." Tears sprang up; she blinked them away. "That's new."
He leaned in, kissing her forehead, then her cheek, then her lips—soft, patient. Her lips parted beneath his, her hands rising uncertainly to his shoulders. He kissed her slowly, letting the heat build, careful not to rush. When she melted against him, he deepened the kiss, tasting salt and something wild, a flavor like crushed violets.
He undid the laces at her throat, sliding her tunic down her arms. She gasped, skin goose-pimpling at the sudden chill. Corven paused, looking for any sign of pain. She shook her head, smile quivering. "It's fine. It's—good."
He ran his hands along her arms, up her neck, then down her back, mapping every scar and freckle. He took his time, undoing her trousers, letting them fall. She stood in thin cotton, shivering from nerves and anticipation.
Corven kissed her neck, her collarbone, down between her breasts. He undressed her the rest of the way, hands slow, never grabbing, never rushing. When she was naked before him, she trembled, more from emotion than fear.
He led her to the rug before the fire, laying her down on the spread silks. The heat from the flames mingled with candlelight, turning her skin golden.
"Are you sure?" he whispered.
She nodded, voice small. "Please. Don't stop."
Corven knelt beside her, worshipping her with lips and hands—starting at her temple, down her throat, shoulders, the curve of her breasts. He kissed her nipples, tongue teasing, hands gentle but possessive. Marin arched, whimpering, every touch erasing another memory of pain.
He moved down, kissing her belly, hips, the pale inside of her thighs. He spread her legs with gentle pressure, glancing up to see if she hesitated. She shook her head, eyes brimming.
He traced circles around her clit, slow, deliberate. At the first touch, she gasped—startled not by pain, but a rush of molten heat. "Gods," she whispered. "That's—oh—"
He lowered his mouth, licking, sucking, building her pleasure by degrees. She writhed, clutching the silk, hips rocking in time with his tongue. Her voice rose, half-moan, half-laughter, as if she couldn't believe what she was feeling.
"Is it too much?" he asked between kisses.
She shook her head fiercely. "No—please—more—don't stop—"
He continued, tongue swirling, fingers gently stroking. She came apart, her climax cresting like a breaking wave. She sobbed, overwhelmed by pleasure and relief, hands tangled in his hair.
When she stilled, he kissed his way back up her body. "Still all right?"
Marin nodded, tears glinting in the firelight. "I never thought—thank you. But—don't stop. Please."
Corven stripped, letting her see him fully. He didn't hide scars or want. He knelt between her thighs, running his hands up her legs, then lined himself up and pushed in—slowly, giving her time. She arched, gasping, hips rolling to meet him.
He set a gentle pace at first, letting her adjust, making sure every movement brought pleasure, never pain. Her hands clutched his back, nails scoring light lines along his skin. The shop's magic shimmered around them—candlelight pulsing, silks rustling like a sigh, the mirror at the counter flickering with the reflection of their tangled bodies.
As the minutes passed, Marin grew bolder. Her hips lifted, meeting every thrust; her hands explored his chest, his arms, his face. She rolled him over, straddling him, hair spilling wild, gold eyes luminous.
She rode him, slow at first, then faster, chasing her own pleasure. Corven gripped her hips, urging her on, worshipping her with words and hands and heat. Every time she shuddered, every gasp and moan, the curse's shadow seemed to break and dissolve.
They moved together in every way—her above, him behind, tangled side by side, bodies slick with sweat. He bound her wrists in silk, blindfolded her with the crimson sash, teased her with the silver bell until she begged for release. He whispered filth and comfort in equal measure, showing her surrender could be both terrifying and sweet.
Hours passed—one climax, then another, then another, each one washing away fear and old wounds. Marin wept at the intensity, laughing between tears, holding Corven as if she might never let go.
Finally, as candle stubs guttered and the fire burned low, Corven pulled her into his arms, letting her curl against his chest. She traced his scars with trembling fingers, quiet for a long time.
"Why do you do this?" she whispered.
He stroked her hair, honest. "Because the shop demands it. But also—because I want to. Because I can."
She kissed him, slow and lingering. "I thought I was broken. But you…" She smiled, radiant and new. "You healed me."
They lay together until dawn, the shop silent but alive, magic settling like contented breath. When Marin finally dressed—her body marked by his mouth, wrists still bearing the red lines of silk—she seemed taller, lighter, every motion confident.
As sunlight seeped through the shutters, the ledger's magic pulsed. A new line wrote itself across the page, sharp and shining in blood-red script:
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[Desire Fulfilled: Curse of Withering Lust Broken.]
[Payment Rendered: Night of True Desire and Surrender.]
[Artifact Created: Vial of Golden Liberation.]
[Effect: A single sip restores all lost sensation and confidence; a lasting charm against future curses.]
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On the shelf behind the counter, a slender glass vial appeared—gold and blue liquid swirling within. Marin's fingers trembled as she took it, feeling warmth bloom in her palm and confidence settle in her bones.
"Is it mine?" she asked.
Corven nodded. "A token. The magic's proof. You're free."
She smiled, tears glinting. "Thank you. For everything. I'll never forget."
She kissed him once—hard and sweet—and slipped out into the waking city as the bell gave a final, satisfied chime.
Corven closed the door, hung the CLOSED sign, and leaned against the counter, spent and alive. The ledgers glowed softly, words shifting to record another bargain sealed, another desire claimed.
As the sun climbed higher, he smiled, knowing the legend of Midnight Curiosities was only beginning.
Each night, a new story. Each woman, a different surrender.
And Corven, the shop's chosen, waiting for whatever midnight would bring next.
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