#poems without punctuation

[metricalscansion]

/ x x / x x / / / x

got this at | cvs | just one | dollar.

tetrameter: two dactyls, a spondee and a trochee

got this at cvs just one dollar.

[lovelybeoms]

Through the curtains

summary: the suit was ocean and storm, effortlessly untouchable, a thousand miles away and yet somehow closer than the warmth still lingering on her wine glass - the camera adored him, but she knew the version of him that came home tired, that rested his head on her lap and said nothing for hours, because that was the kind of silence that healed.

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: fluff, secret relationship, hiding

warnings: kissing, love language, soft smut

wc: 3,4k

notes: I tried a new writing style. i hope you like it. Have fun MOA ^^

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

She sat alone in the penthouse, high above the noise and lights of Seoul. The space around her was polished, expensive. But quiet, almost too quiet. Only the soft ticking of the clock marked the passing time.

Below, the city lived on, headlights flickering across wet streets, the low hum of traffic, the occasional distant shout. But none of it reached her in full. It was like watching life through glass.

And here she was, waiting for the door to open any moment, but nothing happened. Only silence.

She stared into the glass of red wine like it held secrets, not just a drink, but a slow, swirling galaxy of memory and waiting.

The light caught on its surface, casting blood-colored shadows across her hand, as if it had spilled and stained her skin.

It breathed in silence, dark and still, like a quiet storm that hadn't chosen where to fall.

Each sip was a question. Each reflection in the glass was a version of herself she almost recognized.

Outside, the city pulsed. But inside the glass, there was only the hush of longing, and the color of something almost like love but heavier.

She waited for Beomgyu like the moon waits for the tide, knowing he would return, but never quite knowing when.

He was somewhere out there, beneath studio lights and shutter sounds, wrapped in poses and fabric meant for others to wear, for fans to hold, for the world to claim. But he was hers, in the quiet, in the in-between.

Time moved like smoke, not in seconds, but in silences. She traced him in the air, in the soft hum of the fridge, in the whisper of traffic below, in the warmth he hadn't yet brought back home.

The penthouse felt like a glass cage, beautiful, hollow, waiting to echo with his laugh. And until then, she drank slowly, watched the wine swirl like a galaxy in her glass, and hoped he'd walk through the door before the night was over.

She scrolled through Twitter, unconsciously, without knowing why she actually did that. But then she saw it. A clip, brief as a heartbeat, buried between trending chaos and stan edits.

And there he was.

Beomgyu, wearing midnight.

The suit was ocean and storm, effortlessly untouchable, a thousand miles away and yet somehow closer than the warmth still lingering on her wine glass.

The camera adored him, but she knew the version of him that came home tired, that rested his head on her lap and said nothing for hours, because that was the kind of silence that healed.

And yet, seeing him like this, carved from elegance and light, she felt both proud and aching. Because the world could have a piece of him for now. But the rest — the real — belonged to the quiet where she waited.

Then it happened, the front door opened like a final note from a song. He stepped inside.

The suit he wore wasn’t just clothing him; it was like the ocean coming together with the galaxy. A rich, royal blue that caught the light like a wave right before it crashes, calm on the surface but full of motion beneath.

The lapels framed his frame like brushstrokes, sharp yet fluid, a structure carved from elegance.

Not a tie, just the clean fall of the collar, open just enough to be dangerous. And all only held together with one button.

He closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing like a punctuation mark.

She looked at him, and he looked at her, standing there like a quiet poem with a heartbeat.

The wine forgotten on the table, her eyes caught between disbelief and something softer, like relief dipped in awe.

A corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile, but something that carried the weight of hours spent apart.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers brushing the gold like he was trying to shake the studio off him, and then he said, voice low, just for her:

“You saw it?”

Of course she did.

He stepped closer, suit whispering against the air, and added with a smile that always broke her a little:

“Did I look good enough to come home?”

A question wrapped in laughter, but underneath, the need to be seen, to be loved not as the image, but as the man beneath it.

She stared at him for a heartbeat longer, her chest rising with everything she didn’t say — the hours waiting, the clip on her phone, the way the blue of his suit made him look like a dream she hadn’t woken from yet.

And then she rolled her eyes, barely. Smiled like thunder behind clouds.

“Shut up,” she whispered, stepping toward him, her voice soft but edged with heat. “And kiss me.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a gravity.

And in that instant, the distance between them vanished. The city fell away. The silence shattered like a glass meeting skin.

His arms were around her, the suit still cold from the night air outside, but his mouth warm, familiar, hungry in the way only love delayed can be.

It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a homecoming — breathless, desperate, the kind that erased hours and healed them all at once.

He pulled her closer, as if she were the only real thing left in the world.

And for now, she was.

“You don’t know what it did to me… seeing you in that video glow,” she said, and also gasped softly as his hands traveled, not just touching, but memorizing.

“I bet you were glowing,” he said between wet kisses on her neck, like he wanted to know every single part of her.

“I wasn’t glowing,” she whispered, half breathless, half teasing.

He laughed into her skin, a sound so full it made her heart beat faster.

“No…” he murmured, lifting his head to meet her eyes.

“But I was. Just thinking about you.”

“You wore that suit like a god,” she whispered.

He smiled against her lips and whispered, “You undid me like a sinner.”

He pushed her into the big king-size bed and rolled them over, the shift slow, seamless, like gravity only existed for them.

Clothes fell piece by piece from her skin.

Now beneath him, she looked up, his eyes half-lidded, glowing in low light, hair spilled across the pillow like ink in water.

He traced his fingers down the center of her chest, then lower, dragging his palm along the curve of her waist, like he was rediscovering her by touch alone.

She arched into it, into him, lips parting not for words, but for breath, for need.

“You always do that,” she whispered, voice raspy.

“Take your time like you’re writing me like a new song.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips along her neck, tongue tasting salt, skin, the faint trace of perfume.

“Because I am,” he said. “Every time. Every touch is a line I never want to erase.”

His hand slid between her thighs, and she gasped. Hips rising instinctively into his palm. He moved with practiced reverence, slow circles, soft pressure, watching her fall apart piece by piece beneath him.

Her body responded like it knew him. Not just physically, but emotionally, soul-deep.

Every moan she gave him felt like a gift, and he took them like prayer beads between his teeth.

He pushed into her again, slow at first, letting her feel every inch, gripping her thigh as she wrapped around him, pulling him closer… deeper… like she wanted to disappear into him completely.

They moved together in rhythm, his name a broken whisper on her lips, her body trembling under his as pleasure climbed slow, like a fire taking its time to consume everything in its path.

“Look at me,” he murmured, breath shaking.

“I want to see you when you fall.”

And she did, eyes locked with his, lips parted in a soft cry as he drove her over the edge with one more deep, perfect thrust.

Her hands clutched his back, nails dragging, marking him in ways no photoshoot ever could.

He followed her seconds later, with a groan buried against her shoulder, his whole body tightening before surrendering completely, not just to the moment, but to her.

They lay tangled in silence after, barely touching, but still wrapped in heat. He kissed her knuckles, chest still rising fast.

“I missed you,” he said, almost boyish now. The idol gone, the man left behind.

She smiled, dazed, glowing. “I missed this,” she whispered, pulling him back down into her arms, where the world made sense again.

The room had settled into silence, a golden kind of heavy with heat, but light with peace.

His arm was slung lazily across her waist, bare skin against bare skin, their breaths slowly syncing like waves returning to shore.

She lay on her side, watching the way his lashes kissed his cheekbones.

Even now, there was something unreal about him, but here, with her, he wasn’t a concept.

He was just Beomgyu.

Warm, flushed, undone.

“You always come back wearing the world,” she murmured. “And then take it off in my bed.”

He smiled without opening his eyes. “It’s not the world I miss. It’s you.”

She laughed, soft, fingers tracing lazy lines across his chest. “You looked good in that suit.”

A pause. Then, teasing, “Too good. I almost got jealous of the camera.”

That made him open his eyes, dark, full of her.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I only pose for them. But I fall apart for you.”

She looked at him then, really looked. Sweaty hair pushed back, flushed cheeks, lips a little swollen from kissing.

And that suit crumpled on the floor like a memory.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked suddenly, eyes searching his. “Being theirs all day, then coming home to be mine?”

He was quiet for a moment.

Then:

“Sometimes I forget who I am out there.” A breath. “But when I’m with you… I remember.”

She tucked herself closer, nose brushing his jaw.

“Then let me keep reminding you.”

He pulled her in tight, pressing his face into her neck, voice muffled but clear.

“Don’t stop. Ever.”

And in the silence that followed, soft, slow, sacred, the city kept moving, but they stayed still, wrapped in sweat, satin sheets, and something deeper than sleep.

NEXT MORNIG 

The morning unfolded in pale gold. Light spilled through the curtains, gentle and forgiving. The kind of light that made the world look kinder than it was. She stirred first, blinking sleep from her lashes, limbs tangled with his like the night hadn’t quite let go.

Beomgyu lay on his stomach, one arm draped across her waist, hair a mess of soft chaos, cheek pressed into the pillow like he had no plans to leave it, not now, not ever.

She watched him for a moment, smiling at the curve of his shoulder, the calm in his brow. He looked younger when he slept. Or maybe just real. No stage lights, no cameras, no velvet-blue suit telling the world who he was supposed to be.

Just hers.

She brushed a finger across his back, slow and careful, like waking a spell, not a person.

His skin was warm beneath her touch, and he shifted slightly, groaning low in his throat.

“It’s too early,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s past ten,” she whispered, her voice still rough from dreams and the night before. “You’re late for being beautiful.”

That earned a sleepy chuckle, muffled in the pillow.

Then he rolled onto his side, eyes still half-closed, lips finding hers in a kiss that tasted like warmth and laziness and love.

“Mm. Morning…” he murmured, nose brushing hers.

“Didn’t dream. Didn’t need to.”

She laughed softly, tucking her head beneath his chin.

“That’s because you kept me up all night.”

He smirked, even in his drowsiness.

“You’re welcome.”

They lay like that for a while, no rush, no calls, no makeup, no rehearsals. Just skin to skin, the sheets soft and the world still distant.

“I wish it could always be like this,” she said quietly, her voice drifting into the hollow of his throat.

Beomgyu kissed her hair.

“Maybe not always. But every time I come back, it’ll feel like I never left.”

The silence that takes place stretched like silk — soft, slow, holy. Until his phone vibrated aggressively on the floor, somewhere near where last night’s suit still lay, a crumpled monument to desire.

Beomgyu groaned and buried his face in her chest.

“If that’s the manager again, tell him I’m dead.” She grinned, brushing a thumb over his cheek.

“Dead men don’t kiss like you did last night.”

He laughed, and the sound cracked open the morning, bright and sleepy, like sunlight with a secret. Still, the phone buzzed again. And again.

“Babe, seriously—” she nudged him. “What if it’s urgent?”

With a dramatic sigh, he rolled out of bed, naked and gloriously unbothered, scratching the back of his head as he shuffled toward the phone.

“If this ruins the mood, I’m suing.”

She watched him with a soft sort of hunger, that rare sight of him unpolished, golden in daylight, hair wild, voice raspy, legs long and loose from sleep and sex.

And hers.

He picked up the phone. Read the screen. Froze.

Then:

“Oh no.”

“What?” she asked, suddenly sitting up, the sheet slipping a little.

He turned slowly, lips twitching in disbelief.

“The clip from last night. It’s trending. And—”

He looked up at her, eyes wide with mock horror.

“Someone spotted my suit in the background. Of your window.”

She blinked. “What?”

He held up the phone, sure enough, a grainy screenshot of the skyline. Zoomed in… just enough to catch the faintest outline of that electric-blue suit through the sheer curtains.

“Oh my God.” She covered her mouth, laughing into her palm. “We got caught by Twitter?”

Beomgyu was already climbing back into bed, phone tossed aside, pulling her under him with a grin that could burn cities.

“Then I guess we better give them something worth zooming in on.”

SOME TIME HAS PASSED…

They didn’t leave the bed for another hour, and by the time Beomgyu finally reached for his phone again, the notifications were a tsunami. Mentions. Tags. Fan theories. A zoomed-in, pixelated mess of blue fabric behind glass, captured by a fan on a night walk in Seoul. Now spinning into a storm.

#BeomgyuWindowGate was trending.

He stared at the screen, half amused, half horrified.

“Okay, this is getting out of hand. They’re analyzing the curtain folds now.”

She looked over his shoulder, barely holding in her laughter.

“Someone made a floorplan of my apartment,” she said, scrolling through a tweet thread. “They’ve got arrows and timestamps. It’s like a conspiracy doc.”

He flopped back on the bed. “This is why I don’t date civilians.”

“Excuse me?” she raised an eyebrow.

He cracked one eye open, smirking.

“You know what I mean. You’re too soft for this chaos.”

She leaned over him, hair falling like a curtain around them.

“Soft?” she whispered, voice low. “Was I soft last night?”

Beomgyu groaned dramatically.

“Okay, fine. You’re terrifying,” he grinned up at her. “My scary, stunning secret.”

And just as she leaned in to kiss him again, his phone rang. A FaceTime.

Manager Hyung.

“Do not answer that,” she said immediately.

But Beomgyu… answered it. Of course he did.

“Beomgyu! What the hell, man—”

Then silence, as the manager blinked. Saw Beomgyu’s messy hair. Saw her bare shoulder peeking through the sheets.

“Oh.”

A pause.

“…So it was your suit.”

Beomgyu grinned.

“Hyung, let me call you back. I’m busy being caught,” he hung up.

They stared at each other in stunned silence and then burst into uncontrollable laughter, falling back into the pillows, breathless and bright.

The world was watching now.

But in this moment?

They didn’t care. Because love like this doesn’t need hiding. It just needs holding.

LATER THAT DAY 

Beomgyu strolled into the HYBE building like a man who had absolutely not been caught in a scandal by a sheer curtain. Sunglasses on. Hoodie up. Coffee in hand, confidence in his step, but a tiny love bite blooming just above the collar.

Yeonjun clocked it immediately.

“Beoms,” he pointed, deadpan. “You’re wearing your guilt.”

Soobin, ever the polite leader, looked up from his phone.

Paused.

Then held it up to Beomgyu wordlessly, showing the trending tweet.

‘POV: You’re Beomgyu’s blue suit watching him commit war crimes through the window.’

“What did the curtain ever do to you?” Taehyun asked dryly, sipping his protein shake.

Hueningkai just giggled and whispered something to Yeonjun, probably a reenactment. Beomgyu dropped onto the couch with a groan, hands over his face.

“Okay. Yes. It was me. Yes, I was in the window. Yes, I got laid.” The room exploded.

“HE SAID IT—” Hueningkai yelled.

“You said it like it was a Grammy win,” Soobin muttered, scrolling Twitter again.

Yeonjun just gave him a long look, like he was proud and disgusted at the same time.

“Honestly,” he said, leaning back, “if you’re gonna get exposed, that’s how you do it. Designer suit, secret girlfriend, mysterious lighting. Aesthetic as hell.”

Beomgyu grinned, pulling off his sunglasses finally. “You should’ve seen her face when I walked in wearing that thing. She said ‘shut up and kiss me.’”

They all groaned in unison.

“Bro.”

“Disgusting.”

“Get out.”

But they were smiling. Even Soobin. Just then, Beomgyu’s phone buzzed again.

A text.

Her: Your fans are going feral. Should I post a picture of the curtain?

He chuckled under his breath. “Tell them I said thank you,” he muttered.

Taehyun raised an eyebrow. “To who?”

Beomgyu smiled, texting back.

“To the person who caught the photo,” he said. “They gave me a reason to finally stop hiding.”

A WEEK LATER

The internet had calmed down. Well… calmed down in the way a fire dims to embers. Theories still spun. Edits still trended. But the noise had faded into background static.

She sat in her apartment, phone in hand, the infamous curtain now a meme, her inbox filled with half-serious messages from friends:

“Girl, blink twice if you’re the window girlfriend.”

“Beomgyu owes your curtain royalties.”

“When are you dropping the skincare routine and the man?”

She laughed at first. Brushed it off. But part of her couldn’t help the nerves twisting in her chest. Because being seen, even a silhouette, felt like standing too close to the sun.

Until her screen lit up with a notification from WEVERSE.

A live.

TXT: BEOMGYU SOLO LIVE — “BLUE HOUR HEART”

Her heart paused.

She tapped in.

And there he was.

Hair tousled, hoodie off this time, eyes tired but bright, the kind of brightness that comes from truth unspoken, buzzing just beneath the surface.

“Hey,” he said into the camera, voice soft. “Didn’t really plan this, so… sorry if I ramble.” He looked nervous. That rare, sweet kind. Fidgeting with a ring on his finger. “A lot’s been said lately. And a lot… not said.”

A breath.

“I just wanted to talk to you directly. To everyone who supports me.”

The chat exploded.

He smiled at it, but it didn’t touch his eyes yet.

“You saw a part of my life I never meant to share.”

Pause.

“But maybe… maybe I’m done hiding the parts of me that are real.”

She froze. Fingers cold against the screen.

“There’s someone I care about. Someone who’s been with me when the lights are off.

When I’m not wearing a suit. When I’m not Beomgyu, the idol – just Gyu.”

He looked straight into the camera then, like he could see her.

“She makes me feel like home.”

The chat slowed. Time, too.

“And I won’t give her name. I won’t tell you her handle, or her address, or what kind of curtain she has…” a smirk tugged at his lips. “…but I’ll tell you this: she’s real. And I’m lucky.”

And then, he reached off-screen, grabbed something. Held it up.

That damn blue suit jacket.

“So yeah,” he said, “Guess I wore this for more than just a shoot.”

And then, he winked. Signed off.

Live Ended.

She sat in stunned silence, heartbeat like thunder in her chest.

Not exposed.

Not shamed.

Claimed.

Protected.

Loved, in his own quiet, defiant way.

And the world?

It didn’t crumble.

It just… shifted.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Some Phylogenetics Vocabulary

for your next poem/story

Phylogenetics—Field of biology that deals with the relationships between organisms. It includes the discovery of these relationships, and the study of the causes behind this pattern.

Additive tree - A phylogenetic tree in which the distance between any two points is the sum of the lengths of the branches along the path connecting two points.

Anagensis - Evolutionary change along an unbranching lineage; change without speciation.

Coalescence - The evolutionary process viewed backward through time, so that allelic diversity is traced back through mutations to ancestral alleles. Coalescent theory can be used to make predictions about effective population sizes, ages and frequencies of alleles, selection, rates of mutation, or time to common ancestry of a set of alleles.

Ontogeny - The growth of an organism through all its developmental stages (embryonic stage through death).

Plesiomorphy - An ancestral character state.

Punctuated equilibrium - A model of evolution in which change occurs in relatively rapid bursts, followed by longer periods of stasis.

Stasis - A period of little or no discernible change in a lineage.

Symplesiomorphy - A shared ancestral character state.

Unrooted tree - A phylogenetic tree that is not directed with respect to time.

Vicariance - Speciation which occurs as a result of the separation and subsequent isolation of portions of an original population.

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Word Lists

[shamanfox]

“She Who Gave Us the Sky”

(A Mother’s Day Poem for every Mother Who Breathes Stars Into Her Children)

They say the stars are scattered light—

but i know better.

i birthed them.

One by one,

they rose from me

like constellations with names,

each bearing a fire that only i knew how to hold

without being burned.

Christian came first—

not just a spark,

but a mind forged in cosmic wire.

He rearranged the world like blueprints in his cradle,

already speaking in the language of gears and galaxies,

a genius before God even finished whispering his name.

Timothy was born barefoot and running,

a wildfire wrapped in laughter,

my wild boy with the lion’s grin.

He loved like a comet—full-hearted,

slinging light across every shadow.

He still does. Even in silence,

his love thunders through my marrow.

Joshua came with grace tucked in his pocket.

He is the favorite breeze of the town—

the one people smile about after he’s gone,

the calm in the storm, the steady hand,

the kind one, the one who always holds the door

without needing applause.

Sarah, my daughter, my storm,

my mirror, my fire-eyed queen.

She walks with the kind of spine

that breaks generational curses.

Beauty carved from spirit, not skin—

the kind that cannot be tamed

and shouldn’t be.

She is me, multiplied.

Cole, born of namesakes and timing—

my echo,

born on the same day his father was,

yet entirely his own creation.

He doesn’t try,

he just does.

A mind that builds bridges while others are still gathering stones.

When he sets his sights,

the world shifts to obey.

And then—

Caleb,

my baby, my riddle wrapped in stardust.

He is surprise in motion,

a song with no fixed key.

He writes himself with no punctuation,

a free verse soul,

and just when i think i’ve caught up to him,

he’s already invented a new dance.

These six.

My heart’s architecture.

My every ache.

My deepest poem.

My thunder and my peace.

I have known sleepless nights that stretched

like winter across my bones,

but i have also known

the sacred hush of watching a child breathe

in perfect trust.

And that, my love,

is the holiest sound in the world.

So today,

on this day they made for mothers,

i honor not just myself—

but all of us

who have held the sky inside our bodies,

who have fed galaxies from our hands,

who have mourned and danced and laughed

while making people.

Real people.

People who change everything.

To every mother:

You are not just “Mom.”

You are the whole damn cosmos

walking on two tired feet.

You are love,

eternally

multiplied.

“And to My Bonus Child”

(For Tiffany, with all the love a heart can hold)

And to my bonus child—

though no bloodline stitched us,

no hospital wove your cry into my arms,

still,

you arrived like sunrise over my spirit,

already known,

already loved.

[cherrychilli]

18+

AFAB reader, P in V sex, unprotected sex, semi public sex, outdoor sex, exhibitionism, slight blood play

A/N: Felt ✨inspired✨ by this poem.

"Normally I tend to choose my words carefully when it comes to such delicate matters. However, seeing you now, standing here in the moonlight, all I can think about is pulling your panties down and fucking you with your socks on" -- Michael Faudet

"You're insane"

"So you're saying you don't want to?"

"You're insane", you avoid the question like a dart aimed in your direction, repeating yourself with added emphasis.

Steve's smile turns cocky, hazel eyes lowering to rake over your body. "If you didn't, you wouldn't have come out here to meet me dressed in that", he points out, more than sure of himself.

Your lips purse. No comeback fighting its way through. No retort on the tip of your tongue. Nothing but the trill of unseen crickets and wind sweeping through leaves overhead to punctuate your silence.

Your moonlit skin must have turned transparent without you sensing it because he's seen right through you, effortlessly seeking out the stray thread that held your coy façade together. "Gonna come clean or are you gonna keep pretending?", and just like that, he unraveled you with a single smooth tug in the form of a wry smile.

The truth was you had lured him there into the woods behind your neighboring houses in your skirt and thigh high socks and a text that started with 'I miss you' and ended with 'come find me'. On the surface it all seemed innocent enough but he was right. You wanted him in places you shouldn't.

You wanted him in the front row of empty movie theaters, just you and Steve and a forgotten movie illuminating your tangled figures. You wanted him inside lonely train compartments going nowhere, nothing but the the sound of your hometown whipping by and breathless cries of each other's names filling the air.

You wanted him where bedsheets and locked doors couldn't conceal your ecstasy. Alone together in places where people weren't meant to be that way.

What you didn't want however, was for him to figure you out so easily. To realize so quickly that the crisp weather wasn't to blame each time you rubbed your thighs together and take smug pleasure in reading you so well.

Being thought of as predictable. It made you want to spit.

You shrink further, your uncharacteristic silence beckoning him closer, the corner of his lips tugging higher.

He's within your reach now - lured again only this time he doesn't know it.

You're going to bite those smirking lips bloody and enjoy kissing them better.

"You like knowing that it's kinda wrong, don't you? 'sthat what gets you so wet?"

Caged between Steve's arms, back against the trunk of an aging red maple, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt, you tip your chin up to run your tongue over his bottom lip and collect the blood that's beading there.

"I like being bad with you", you tell him honestly, swallowing the metallic tasting drop before pressing your lips to his, careful not to worsen the little tear you've made there. He hisses quietly when you part, the sting of your bite becoming more faint with each wash of your tongue and soft peck of your lips.

"My sweet girl...who would have known", he humors with the tone of someone whose known all along.

His fingers slip down to squeeze around the plush exposed skin between the tops of your thigh highs and the hem of your skirt, groaning at how soft and warm you felt in his cold, calloused hands.

"D'you like them?", you wanted to hear the obvious answer in the gruff of his lowered voice, pulse quickening when his fingers dip underneath your skirt. "Wanna take your panties off and show you how much", he finds the lacy waistband, hooking his fingers in and tugging them down.

Dead leaves and dry twigs crunch beneath you as you shift, balancing one hand on his shoulder while you shimmy your hips to help him slide the garment down your legs and over your shoes. You haven't told him yet how good he looks under the silvery moonlight, even when fresh blood bleeds through the split in his lip as he grins at the wet mess in your panties. You hold on to the thought like a secret, ready to threaten him with another bite when he brings the damp panties up to his nose, inhaling you deeply and stifling your almost warning.

"You're not getting these back", he informs you needlessly, tucking the pair into his back pocket for later. You suppose it's fair. A tradeoff for both wounding and underestimating him. "Fine", you utter indifferently but if he were to frame your face with his palms you're sure he'd feel you burning up under his stare.

You need to regain some control. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of having you beg too.

Reaching out, you pull him closer by the belt before he has a chance to reach under your skirt again. Steve makes an abrupt noise of surprise but makes no effort to stop you, watching you unbuckle it before popping open the button on his jeans. You lick at blood again as you work a hand underneath his boxers, clearing his lips of the crimson droplet when you grasp at his hot, stiff length.

"Fuck, you're beautiful", he breathes out, eyes trained on your face as you pull him free, thumb brushing over his silky, leaking tip. That playful arrogance he wore so brazenly only moments ago has drained from his features and you grin back wickedly in triumph. "You always get so sweet when you've got a hand on your cock?", you tease his almost immediate shift in demeanor, stroking a pretty whimper out of him.

He'd make himself into honey if it meant that you'd keep touching him like that - looking at him like you had your fingers held over his pulse, ready to push down and watch his eyes roll back whenever you pleased. He mirrors your earlier struggle, nothing smart or sharp on his tongue to lob back at you, surrendering to your touch with a thick gulp. You stroke him while his forehead presses against yours, the two of you exchanging the same shaky breath back and forth as your fingers grow tacky with precum.

"Stevie"

"Yeah?"

"Does it still hurt?"

It takes him a moment to realize what you mean, the sting in his lip having completely faded now.

"No- uh. No it doesn't hurt anymore", he croaks out his reply, cheeks all pink.

"Good".

And then there's a pause. It's hard to tell, even with how close you're pressed together but he swears the marrying of your brows and the little hitch in your breath means that you're working up the nerve to say something.

"Kiss me".

Something vulnerable flashes behind your sultry eyes. A plea underlying your soft command. Words grasping for some romance to undercut the blood.

And he gives it to you.

Wounded lips on yours, tongue delving into your mouth, a groan that makes your spine spark with fireworks. You feel like you're only burning brighter in the night.

You notice another bead of blood pulling to the surface of his pink lips but the chance to swipe at it with your tongue is stolen from you when Steve dips down to lick over your bottom lip, surprising you. "Got some on you", he says, thumb coming up to rub the remaining red tinge off of your mouth. "Leave it", you manage to stop him before he can wipe it away. "Please", you whisper but when you're this close together it hardly feels like one. You couldn't stand the thought of him erasing the bloodstain. Not when you wanted to wear it on you like rubies.

"Shit, really?", he holds your face in his palms, hazel eyes going wide with a mix of awe and exaltation.

"Yeah... I like it", you confess and suddenly he's reminded of your hand still wrapped around his twitching cock.

"Need to feel you", he breathes out urgently. "Turn around, baby please? gonna cum if you keep talking like that".

The need pervading your body feels so potent that if he were to ask, you'd get down in the dirt on your hands and knees and let him take you like that - rutting into you from behind with your cheek pressed to the earth.

Next time, you promised yourself.

You uncurl your fingers from his cock, pressing both palms against the coarse bark of the red maple, back arching to press your ass out for him.

His fingers squeeze over your thigh highs again, just below the curve of your ass, cock streaking precum on your skirt.

"Fuck- you're so sexy...you gonna put these on for me again, huh baby?, he flips your skirt up, eyes darkening at the sight of your pretty dripping cunt.

"You- ah- you like them that much?", his hand grips your hip, cock teasing your entrance.

"Gonna show you how much", he growls just before pushing in.

If the sounds of your cries carried through the darkened woods, you didn't care who else heard them. The sounds of Steve's grunts and moans muffled by your hair set your belly alight, hips pushing back in a frenzy to meet his rough thrusts.

"You feel so good- you feel so fucking good, angel- fucking soaking my cock-shit"

Your nail polish chips at your filed edges as you rake them against bark, toes curling inside your shoes when his fingers find your clit.

It's all a delicious, dizzying mess under the night sky. Blood and sweat, slick and seed, you and Steve.

Walking back to your door, hand in hand with Steve, his release warm between your legs, you're satisfied now but that tug deep in your chest will make it self known again, need beckoning you back.

The next time you ring his door bell he finds you in a new skirt and thigh highs to match. Knowing smiles exchanged in place of words, he takes your hand as you lead him back to the woods.

[f1eurdemis]

a take on modern poetry <3

recently people have been writing so called "poems", compositions of cliche ideas and overdone symbols, and it really pisses me off!

Sure, poetry can be what we want it to be, but when it consists of cannibalism being a symbol of infatuation, and the 'sun and moon' tropes, it lacks what truly makes poetry, poetry: soul.

It lacks the creativity and raw emotion expressed in innovative ways true to your own person, with metaphors relating to you, symbols that can be traced to your very roots. The commercialisation of poetry and writing takes all of that away, leaving the half-assed product as a direct outcome of recycled emotions and expressions you don't truly mean.

A true poem, however, comes out as a by-product of an expression of feeling on paper, written in ways maybe only you understand. Poetry is supposed to be the leftovers in the fridge after a revelational outburst of a meal made out of your own human feelings. The words on paper are only a small outcome of the otherwise immense self discovery and expression that comes whilst writing, and so 'bad poetry' per say does not exist, only unethical poetry does.

the unethical poetry in question is the writing that comes out of popular, 'trendy' metaphors and feelings we all know without any originality or experiences linked to it. It is the mass-produced 'poems' with no rhythm, dropping lines and sprinkled punctuation with no intention or meaning that links to the writing, only present because that's what you see in other currently popular works. It's the monotonous structures with no sense of human behind the writing, as if a robot could produce the same thing without a difference spotted.

through this, we see a link of capitalism and art as truly, these poems are written for the sake of money and publicity. Their writing keeps up with the current trend or themes relevant in media and culture, with ideas so simple a toddler could understand, supported by images in case that is still too difficult for you to grasp (although simplicity is not necessarily synonymous with bad writing, it's often used to gain as wide an audience as possible). Poetry is no longer a product of emotion and expression, but writing whatever will gain a quick buck and the most publicity in this modern world.

[babybemydownfall]

things that shimmer in the dark Part IV: Rhys ( Part III ) There was no point denying it so I kissed her instead, hard and demanding. I wanted her tongue on mine, her body melting, opening for me; wanted to make love to her, to feel her surrender - to us, and everything we could be.  AKA An all night love-fest in the Archeron manor. Definitely NSFW. Read on AO3 or under the cut below. (Also, I only recently realised that my avatar, which comes from a poem by Iain S Thomas and which I've had for 10+ years, is Rhysand: There you are. I've been looking for you. How spooky.)

II

By the time we retired to bed after finalising our letter to the Queens, it was gone midnight. Feyre was tense and exhausted. I’d felt her all afternoon and evening, her shield weak, her emotions pouring out across our bond. She’d been anxious and angry; frustrated and forgiving. And whenever she looked at me, she burned.

I had worn a mask all my life, ingrained in me from a young age. And I had very rarely let it slip, despite times when I’d felt overwhelming rage or fear or despair. But it turned out that the most powerful distraction of all was lust. Whenever Feyre turned her beautiful blue-grey eyes on me, I struggled to stay composed, to keep my expression neutral and my breathing even. When her awful oldest sister questioned whether she was too good for human food anymore and Feyre replied that she could eat, drink, fuck and fight even better than before, my fork clanged to my plate as everything inside me went taut with desire. I wanted her so badly, so immediately, that it took every ounce of my willpower not to grab her and winnow us straight back to my house.

And later, as we wrote and rewrote the damned letter, the four of us arguing over each word and punctuation mark, her closeness was certainly a hindrance. When she leaned in to read what I’d written, I felt her long hair brushing my neck; the curve of her breast against my arm. The scent of her skin, of her arousal, was intoxicating. I would not let Cass and Azriel suspect a thing but whenever I was sure they weren’t looking, I touched her as much as I dared - my finger brushing hers on the page; my thigh shifting on my chair so it pressed against her knee. I loved the way her body reacted: a soft, short inhale; a pulse of longing down the bond.

I found myself thinking multiple times that I was so glad we had had each other in the kitchen earlier. I couldn’t imagine how difficult the rest of the day would have been without that release. And I had meant what I’d said to her there: this thing between us was a bad idea, but I just couldn’t stop myself. I had spent the previous day avoiding her, my mind constantly churning over what I should do. Getting drunk hadn’t helped - I only ended up sad and missing her. I had barely slept afterwards, thanks to the alcohol and my racing thoughts and the memories of our first morning together which left me with a very persistent erection.

When she found me in the kitchen, I still didn’t know what the right thing to do was. But as soon as I scented her, when I saw how fucking stunning she looked and how she went slack with longing for me, I realised there was no actual choice here. I couldn’t just bare myself to her - literally and emotionally - and simply walk away. She was my mate. This was bigger than both of us: it was what the Cauldron had destined; a bond more sacred and permanent than any other. It was inescapable. Undeniable. And Feyre didn’t know the truth, but I knew she felt it too: that we were something extraordinary.

And now, finally, we were alone together once again. She hadn’t reacted when I’d said we would share a room - a room I had immediately shielded, to keep loud sounds in and bad things out. But she did turn to me in surprise when I made my own bed appear and sat down on it.

“What are you doing?”

I looked up at her, still dressed in her stunning turquoise outfit. She wore it like she belonged in the Night Court. Or perhaps it wore her. It wanted her - just as I did.

“Being on my best behaviour,” I replied evenly. “We’re in your father’s house. I didn’t know if you’d want to…”

“I’ve spent all evening trying to keep my hands off you. And now you don’t want to touch me?”

She sounded like she was annoyed with me, which made me smile. “Oh, I do want to touch you, Feyre darling.” My voice was low. “Every single inch of you.”

There was a fire crackling in the hearth across the room and it shone in her dark eyes, in the golden waves of her hair. I leaned back on my outstretched arms and her gaze travelled down my body. I was still fully dressed but she knew what lay beneath now; and if I hadn’t been wearing black, she would have been able to see my cock rise in my pants.

“The last time I was in this house,” she said quietly, “I left to run after Tamlin. To go under the mountain and save him. And yet here I am, barely any time later… with you.” She tugged at her sleeve, looking around the room. “That’s wrong, isn’t it?”

I waited until her eyes met mine again. She seemed so vulnerable, so young all of a sudden. “I don’t think it is,” I told her honestly. “I don’t think time is what matters, in our case.”

“Then what does matter?”

I held out my hand. “Come here.”

Slowly she moved towards me and took it, standing between my legs. I may as well have been kneeling before her again, such was her position of power over me right now.

“What matters, Feyre, is how you feel. What makes you happy. What helps you heal. And I think I can speak to that, because you are all those things for me. Already.”

I felt her tremble in front of me. She was scared. And I knew why - but I couldn’t hide the depth of my feelings from her. I didn’t want to.

“Why does this seem so… inevitable?” she whispered.

Because I am your mate.

I could have told her then. No doubt it would have helped ease the guilt she still carried over Tamlin, the confusion she felt over us. But this was not the place: not in the human lands, in her family home; not when there was danger out there, lurking beyond my Court’s protection. And not when it meant I would have to face her rejection - because she wasn’t ready yet. Wasn’t healed, wasn’t strong enough. And neither was I, to have her push me away.

For now I would take whatever she was willing to give - her friendship, her smiles, her body - and not think too far into the future. As she had so wisely said: we might all die soon. And I would be a fool not to enjoy every moment with her, because I had known from the second I first saw her that she was the light in my eternal darkness.

Instead of saying any of that, I lifted my hands to her hips and guided her to straddle my lap. She did so without hesitation, settling halfway along my thighs - not near enough to feel how hard I was for her. Not yet. But having her this close, all to myself behind a locked door, I felt my soul sigh.

There you are. I’ve been looking for you.

“Perhaps it is inevitable,” I said softly. “The question is, what do you want to do about it? You are in charge here. I will follow your lead.”

I had never uttered those words before, outside of battle when I fell in line behind my commander. But I trusted Feyre with everything I was. I saw her, with all her broken pieces and her courageous human heart and the magic she contained which had nothing to do with her powers. I wanted it all.

And she wanted me too. It was in her beautiful eyes; written all over her face. I couldn’t stop myself from leaning in and pressing a lingering kiss to the side of her neck. I felt her body melt in my arms, her head tilting back. My name rose from her lips to the ceiling, like a prayer.

“Rhys.”

I kissed her there again, the scent of her blood filling my senses; moved up to her ear where I breathed: “What do you want, darling?”

Her fingers slid into my hair, drawing me back so she could look at me. At the same time, I took hold of her hips and pulled her into me, connecting the heat of her core with the raging hardness of mine.

The air sparked around us and we both groaned.

“You,” Feyre murmured, her breath on my mouth, her gaze filled with nothing but lust - that most powerful of emotions, sweeping everything else aside. “I want you. All over me. All night long.”

A smile started to form on my lips but she kissed me before it got there. And from that moment on, we were lost. Our hands slipped beneath each other’s clothes onto warm, sensitive skin. I had never had the pleasure of physically undressing her before, of slowly revealing her exquisite body inch by inch. I followed the fabric of her top with my lips, from her navel to her ribcage to her bare breasts, so pert and full and ready for my attention. She moaned so headily when I circled my tongue over her nipples and I could smell her arousal as it flooded her underwear, as she ground herself against my length.

The top disappeared over her head and then we worked together to remove mine as well. As our mouths found each other again I slid my arm up along the column of her spine, my hand splayed between her shoulder blades, and drew her further into me so her bare chest pressed against mine. Her kisses were voracious, her moans constant as she rocked her hips and took her pleasure from me.

Untamed Feyre was the hottest thing I had ever encountered.

And then she suddenly pulled back to look at me, her eyes so dark with desire, her voice husky as she commanded: “Take me to bed, Rhys.”

I could not have refused her if my life depended on it.

I carried her there, drawing back the duvet and laying her down. I had already warmed the sheets and she looked surprised, grateful. But she didn’t speak - couldn’t, perhaps - as she grasped at my shoulders and pulled me onto her, reclaiming my mouth, touching every part of me within reach. I covered us again, burying down with her into the softness of the bed as we kissed on and on. I had never known how thoroughly arousing it was, to be half-bare and writhing around by the light of the fire, our sounds hushed and urgent. Despite my shield, we were both aware of my brothers just next door, of Feyre’s sisters down the hall - but that only added to the mood.

This was secret and sacred and ours.

I eventually trailed my lips down to her breasts again, and then further - kissing her centre through her trousers before kneeling between her legs and slipping them off entirely. She was wearing the same lacy white panties I’d watched her put back on in the kitchen, and they were wet through. I heard myself growl as I pulled them off too, the urge to taste her impossible to resist, but she stopped me from getting anywhere near her with her bare foot on my chest.

I stared at her, unable to fathom why she would deny me.

“I’m in charge, remember?” she said firmly. “Lie down.”

Giving up control was not natural for me - but Feyre was a goddess and I obeyed.

She made very quick work of my pants and underwear, and then slid all the way down the bed and wrapped her hot mouth around me. I had never known anything so good before: the sight of her there, the brush of her hair and her hands on my thighs and abdomen, the way she sucked and licked and bobbed up and down-

I reached for her after barely any time at all, tugging on her shoulders, groaning her name. But she ignored me and carried on. Her eyes met mine and I imprinted the image in my mind, of the lust and determination in her gaze, of my cock disappearing between her lips over and over again, her rhythm faultless, bringing me closer and closer to the edge.

“Feyre,” I gasped, “I’m-”

She scratched her fingernails all the way down my torso and I came, so hard I lost all of my senses for the longest, most ecstatic moment. I felt her fingers cover my mouth, to keep me quiet, but there was no fucking chance when her tongue was still swirling over me, when my hips were still bucking and I was still coming. It was unbearable and heavenly and I never, ever wanted it to end.

Eventually I did return to the present; felt Feyre retreat and opened my eyes to find her looking down at me with a very satisfied smirk. I was too dazed to speak, to tell her how fucking amazing she felt and what I wanted to do to her next - but it didn’t matter. She had let her fingers drift down onto my chest; I took her wrist and brought her palm back to my lips, licking the tattooed eye there in a single broad stroke. Her smirk disappeared as she felt me in her very core.

I tugged on her hips, pulling her up my body until she was kneeling over my face. She braced herself on the headboard and I inhaled her incredible scent, all her muscles trembling, her breathing shallow, ragged. And then I feasted on her, gorging myself on her softness and her taste, eating her gorgeous cunt until she was all over my face. I kneaded her ass, explored her thighs; slid two fingers inside her and fucked her like that while I sucked on her clit. She came in no time at all, with a muffled scream and a gush of wetness which I lapped up like I was dying of thirst.

When she collapsed onto me, I gently drew her back down into bed to lie by my side so we were facing one another, our limbs loosely entwined. I took half a second to clean my face with magic, but left her taste on my tongue. It would be sacrilege to erase that.

She smiled, gazing at me through heavily lidded eyes. “You are very good at that,” she said, and she shivered - an aftershock. It made my cock ache for her.

“You taste fucking divine, Feyre. I can’t get enough of you. And your mouth…” I outlined her lips with my thumb; they parted and I traced over her bottom teeth too. “So pretty, yet so wicked. I’ve never felt anything so phenomenal.”

I pressed my lower body into hers, letting her know I was ready for more. She looked straight at me and bit down on my nail, firm enough to hurt. Beneath the duvet I felt her hand wrap around my length. Flames roared to life in my blood once more and I hissed, like the wild beast I was.

“So eager,” she teased, licking the sensitive pad of my thumb.

There was no point denying it so I kissed her instead, hard and demanding. I wanted her tongue on mine, her body melting, opening for me; wanted to make love to her, to feel her surrender - to us, and everything we could be. Without thinking I reached for her down the bond, needing her closer, even though physically there was no space between us. As I felt her grip onto me, an embrace around my very soul, I rolled on top of her perfect body and thrust inside her: back where I belonged.

She cried out at being so full; hooked her legs around my waist, inviting me deeper, and I moved slowly at first, trying to be restrained until that became impossible. She felt so good, so right, that I just couldn’t contain myself. And she wanted it: I felt her desire envelop mine inside my mind, where we were intertwined; swallowed the words she gasped into my mouth - “Harder… More… Rhys! Fuck… Yes, more…”

I tilted her pelvis with my hand and reached new depths, and she broke away from my kiss to let out the most guttural sound as she clenched and shook and stretched around me. I dipped my head, sucking on her neck, her right breast, her nipple; kept rolling my hips, fucking her faster and harder than ever before. We were both grunting, moaning, sweat on our skin, her nails digging into my back - and then we were coming, together, a crescendo of movement and sound and rising, cresting pleasure that felt like it would never end.

It didn’t, for a long time. I might have drifted off to sleep briefly, for when I next opened my eyes I was lying on my front on the bed, the duvet over my lower body, feeling more relaxed than I had in decades.

I reached out for Feyre down the bond, checking she was okay; felt her in the adjoining bathroom and closed my eyes again, letting myself doze. Eventually I heard her footsteps on the carpet and then the bed shifted as she sat beside me. Her fingertips traced lightly down my spine and I groaned at how nice it felt.

“I didn’t know you had tattoos here,” she said softly. “And your wings…” She touched the strong muscles of my upper back. “I want to see you with them.”

My voice was so low it made my ribcage vibrate. “You have.”

“Naked,” she clarified.

I smiled. “One day. Not here.”

She leaned in, surrounding me with her scent, her hair; pressed gentle kisses to my ear, my cheek, the corner of my lips. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched me with so much tenderness. The last time anyone had cared about me like this. It made my throat hurt.

When I finally opened my eyes her face was all I could see, so close to mine, our every breath shared. She smiled and sat back up, and that’s when I realised she was wearing my shirt. It was unbuttoned, and she was still completely naked beneath. I had never seen anything so sexy.

My emotions were forgotten in an instant.

“Feyre.”

I rose up, kneeling in front of her, taking her in.

“I was cold,” she said, a little defensive, a little surprised by the strength of my reaction.

“You look…” I reached for her, pulling her against me. I had thought I was completely sated - I was wrong. “Let me warm you up.”

This insatiable need for each other, this wild passion - it felt endless. Frenzied. We fell to the bed and she straddled my waist, discarding the shirt to the floor. As she began to kiss me all over, the small part of my brain which remained functional wondered what would happen if she ever accepted the mating bond. How we would survive.

Then it gave in as Feyre washed over me, as I let myself drown in her once again.

When she rode me she held my hands, our fingers interlaced. I could do nothing but stare at her. The way the firelight danced over the planes of her body as she moved; the flush on her skin, the dark desire pouring from her eyes. I was no painter, but she was a piece of art.

“Feyre darling,” I breathed, grazing my palms along her thighs, feeling my climax building slowly, deliciously. “Will you touch yourself for me? I want to watch you.”

Her dream of me was only a night ago - it felt like a century.

She put her fingers in my mouth and I licked them, my desire rocketing at how fearless she was, how unembarrassed. If I had thought she’d be hesitant in bed or perhaps shied by our age gap, by her relative lack of experience, I was wrong. And yet she was not a sultry, confident vixen either. I could only conclude that she really did trust me, enough to be herself, to show herself to me - to be bare in every possible way.

And that made me more hopeful for our future together than anything else we’d said or done.

Now she circled her clit, her left hand holding her breast, pinching her nipple. Her tattoos were a stunning contrast to the rest of her pale skin. When the sensations became too much, her head tilted back and her spine arched, her long messy curls almost reaching her bottom. And still I watched, my hips now thrusting of their own accord, meeting her movements. I was already at the edge; could have let myself fall at any second. But I held on, waiting for her, completely awed by how fucking incredible she was.  

If things had been different, I would have told her I loved her. The words were on the tip of my tongue, filling my mind. I let the smallest trickle of that golden feeling travel down the bond to her. Even though she didn’t know its name, I knew she liked it - saw the smile on her lips, felt her clench and tighten as I pounded into her harder, faster, as she peaked and then shattered.

It was too much. I lifted her off me, turning her onto her front, pulling up her hips. She was weak, boneless; still in the throes of her pleasure. “You have to be quiet,” I rasped and then I thrust inside her again, deeper than ever before. Her hands fisted the duvet and she bit it, her screams subdued but still there, still heavenly to hear.

“Feyre,” I groaned, the sweetest sound in the world. “Fuck, Feyre. You feel- I’m so- ”

I spilled inside her with a roar, breaking my own rule but utterly unable to care. I felt her coming too, a continuation of her last orgasm. Endless, all-consuming fulfilment.

This time we were both thoroughly done. I fell to her side, bringing her body with me so I was spooned up behind her, quickly cleaning us up with half a thought. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to move again. I didn’t want to. I pressed my face into her neck, inhaling her, wishing I could disappear into her forever. If there was nothing else but this, I would die happy.

Our breathing gradually slowed. The fire had burned low, the moon now illuminating us through the uncovered window. I ran the fingers of my left hand along the ink on Feyre’s arm, watching as the soft blonde hairs stood on end in my wake. I knew the bond that tied us together wasn’t the bargain that had been written on her skin: it was the mating bond. That’s why we could communicate, why we could feel so much of each other. I wondered how it would change if we were ever truly mated. How much more of her I would feel, how deeply I would know her. I wanted her to be mine so badly it made my soul ache.

The bond was another secret I kept. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold it inside.

“What time is it?” she asked, her words merging into a yawn.

“Fuck knows.” I was tired and emotional, which always made me swear more. That and having sex with Feyre.

I pulled the covers over us and then looked outside. The air was still and crisp. There had been snowfall earlier, but it had stopped now. “Usually,” I said, voicing my thoughts aloud, “I can feel the night. The coming of the dawn. But the darkness is different on this side of the Wall. It’s not… mine.”

She turned her head towards me. The moonlight caught her eyes, making them shine. “I love your darkness,” she said quietly. “I feel it, under my skin. It soothes me. Of all the powers I was given, yours is my favourite.”

You were made for me, I wanted to tell her. Wanted to shout it, for the whole world to hear. It’s so obvious. Can’t you see?

And then she went on sleepily: “The nights feel longer here. I was born on the longest, actually. The Winter Solstice.”

I was stunned. Totally speechless. She must have mistaken my silence for fatigue, because she whispered goodnight and in less than a minute, she was asleep.

I held her, wide awake, heart hammering. I kissed the point of her ear and murmured, so softly it was almost inaudible: “You are my mate, Feyre Archeron. And I fucking love you.”

II

TBC...

[versesbyaaliyah]

The Elsewhere

Written by Aaliyah O'Neil

They say we go somewhere.

But what if it’s not a place,

but a punctuation—

a semicolon curled at the edge of time,

where breath pauses,

but the sentence still hums?

What if death is not an ending,

but a translation—

from body to breeze,

from skin to stardust,

from heartbeat to the hum in the walls

of a universe too polite to forget us?

Maybe we don’t go up or down.

Maybe we go sideways,

slipping into the negative space

between sunbeams and déjà vu,

becoming the feeling

you get when someone says your name

and you weren’t expecting it.

Maybe the afterlife is

a library with no walls—

just thoughts alphabetised by moonlight,

where each soul is a book

opened only by those

who remember your love.

Perhaps we become metaphors,

living inside a lover’s poem,

the ghost of our smile

haunting the syntax

of someone else’s healing.

Maybe we become cities—

the blinking lights in a skyline

someone stares at when they’re lonely,

not knowing they’re looking right at you.

Or we’re the shoes left by the door,

never moved,

but never gone.

Or the song that gets stuck in your head

on a day when you need it most,

though you can’t quite remember why.

Maybe we’re the rain

that surprises the pavement in July—

unseasonal, unreasonable,

but somehow necessary.

Maybe death is the great return—

to the place we came from

before we had names,

back when we were just ideas

gathering shape

in the mind of something vast,

curious, and unspeakably kind.

Or maybe it’s weirder than that.

Maybe we become colours

no eye can perceive,

emotions not yet invented.

Maybe we become the dream

your cat has when it twitches

its paw and you swear it smiled.

Maybe we are the punchline

to a cosmic joke told backwards.

Or the password to a star,

or the echo in a black hole

repeating a secret

no one has ever said aloud.

Maybe we’re the static in the signal,

the glitch in the code

that whispers, “You’re still connected.”

But here’s what I think:

we become stories.

Not the ones etched in stone,

but the ones whispered

in kitchens and car rides,

in laughter around campfires,

in tears at 3 a.m.

when someone says,

“I miss them,”

and someone else says,

“I know.”

We live in the pause

between a question and its answer.

In the hesitation

before someone forgives themselves.

In the crack where the light gets in,

and where the light never left.

We are not the end.

We are the underline.

The bold type.

The margin note.

The reason someone rereads the page.

When we die,

perhaps we go

not away—

but into everything.

© Aaliyah O'Neil 2025. All rights reserved.

These original poems and content are my creative work and are protected by copyright. Please do not reproduce, share, or use them without my permission.

[eightfourone]

actually the zane scenes might be my favorite in AW2. because through visual storytelling it basically confirms my theory about zane.

like to start off this is the first thing we see of Alan in the game

these are some of the first and last things we see of zane, both punctuated by poems

then these two sequences which mirror each other - and the later, and most critical scene at the end

and they may very well remind you of another iconic scene from a remedy game

like do you SEE my vision. it's all there in the visual storytelling. I'm surprised people genuinely believe zane harbors any ill intent for alan, or that he's somehow in league with scratch - when he so plainly and consistently points alan in the right direction

I'll have to make another post that goes through every appearance of zane just to illustrate my point in writing, but these two sequences are FULL of relevant imagery that just 😙👌 shows us everything without telling us the answer

[ghostofasecretary]

okay okay okay FINE

it would be great to continue burying my feelings in busywork but we *are on a time limit*

i don't. want to do this.

i don't want to apply again! i don't want to deal with rejection or bad offers again! and it'll be so exhausting!!

and. i mean. i'm so scared of things going well also. because then i have to--to take my newfound not-resilience, my lowered tolerance for personal suffering, and my desire to enjoy my life, and marry that into schoolwork. i feel like i am less curious and more content these days and i don't *like* it and most of it is due to pain making me smaller, not an ambition or desire to have day after day fade into monotony punctuated by my three hobbies and, sometimes, my friends. ...that's a little ungenerous to me, i have maybe five hobbies. and also lots of chores.

but i'm.

i'm *doing bad.*

okay, that horrible annoying prompt, you know the one. imagine a future where you are happy.

i'm married to someone i really like and i come home to them and we're easy with each other and they like my food and do the dishes for me and we have nice sex. i read a lot. i translate poetry. i have enough nice walks and museum time and music and interesting conversations that turning my stress into poetry is easy and i also figure out how to write poems when i'm happy. my friends are close by. i have delicious meals and a moderate amount of luxurious foods, things that are a Line Item on the budget and not just, y'know, beans and tomatoes and onions and [any leafy green]. i like getting dressed and i thrift/change out clothes more often than i do now. i do my [side gig] once or twice a month and the marketing is low effort and the work is fulfilling. i teach. i read. i write. i figure out what help other people can give me and i ask for it and i keep in practice so i don't pause when it's crunch time. i have enough money that i don't worry about being unemployed for two or three months and i have enough income not to worry about rent and i save for retirement. i travel to see friends an extravagant two or three times a year (but just once or twice would be okay, too). i go a few years without something deeply wounding me so i have more of a cushion when the next crisis hits. i'm not afraid of being happy or of wanting things. i present information to people semi-regularly and practice and learn to work different kinds of crowds. maybe i try music, or comedy, or gardening, or rowing. i dunno. i'm practiced at practicing my languages and i have fun with it and i *let* myself have fun with it. i don't flinch from texts and emails. i go to bed and i wake up early feeling rested and i have really satisfying breakfasts, preferably with company.

it's embarassing to want to be married. like i know it's normal, actually, but--ugh. really? me? unfortunately: yes, really me.

the thing is, if i were married and had more money and did more [side gig] and didn't flinch from emails and had fun with *the thing i deeply love actually when i'm not running from it, why do i DO THAT* this would be pretty close to my current life.

so. like. if i were happier and more stable i would be happier and more stable. cool. what was i wanting to get from this, again?

reasons to apply to grad school.

1. you'd be good at it. it's really fun and satisfying to do things you're good at.

2. there are worse ways to start a career where you write and teach and translate poetry than getting a PhD.

3. dating feels completely unmanageable right now because where is my life even GOING, where might i even LIVE, it's unbearably hard to imagine looking for someone to build a life with when i have, like, [actual career path that takes years to build and a lot of grit and LUCK] hovering over me on one end and [idk being a human somehow?????] on the other and i don't know which one i'll pick. or have put in front of me to walk down. or whatever. i'd like to be committed to trying to be an academic or committed to simply Not doing that, before...before.

4. [sunk cost factory so many hours can't stop now]

okay. and reasons not to apply?

1. it's expensive and i don't qualify for any fee waivers and i REALLY TRULY do not have money to burn right now. it's not *dire* but i am, like, next month heading towards a worse financial state than i've been in since i was 15. 18 at latest. and that's *scary.*

2. grief! fuck it! sorry i have emotions but it was kind of crushing in 21-22 to have everyone be like "oh yeah you'd be great at this you'll have your pick you have a very bright future" and then not get in, and last year to have "wow yes we love you please come to our schools" and not get enough funding to *go,* and so much of 2023 was just. waiting. screw that, so much of THIS YEAR was waiting. my whole summer job i told people i was going off to do my MA because at the time of my interview i really really really thought i would still get funding and, hahahaha, nope. and i didn't want to tell people because they'd be weird about it. so instead i was weird about it and felt bad and feel bad. someone smarter than me can probably tell me how i could've sliced that one better but i'm just crying on my housemate's downstairs couch because it feels pretty bad to have hope crushed like that.

also typing this out i DO feel like an entitled prick. sorry. i'm just privileged and lucky and beautiful and smart and ~special~ and a depressed little guy who's had PTSD on two separate occasions, minimum, and is more functional but still pretty fucked up. like all the time.

3. i burnt myself on purpose for spite and justice and no real gain whatsoever, at my first job out of college, and it was an experience and i learned things and one of the things i learned is that it SUCKS and i DON'T WANT TO DO IT AGAIN. and doing a PhD is, like. notoriously "this is a bad experience that makes you crazy." documentably a bad experience that makes people crazy. actually.

and what if i drop out?

then you drop out and find a way to move forward. both your parents did. your uncle did. plenty of people you know dropped out of college or MAs or PhDs. life doesn't end. maybe some people's hopes are disappointed but that's a them problem. your own hopes are disappointed but not trying at all because you're scared you'll fail is. Not a great look?? not something i want to do, particularly.

what if i have a psychotic break (again)?

then you drop out. or take a leave of absence. and either it'll go away or it won't and you'll deal.

yeah but i really don't want to be more disabled.

then drop out before your mental health gets that far down the drain. you were suicidally depressed and mega traumatized for *years* before those two scary weeks in high school, and after the first few hours you basically knew what was happening even if you didn't believe it, and regular degular antidepressants fixed it. you haven't *been* regularly suicidally depressed in years. a bit during The Dog Incident and a bit when you raised your med dosage too high in 2023 and a bit this summer and a bit lately, but not very much. there's a difference between "panic what feels like every day and wanting to die, like, once an hour" and "eating three meals a day, procrastinating, and going 'ugh i wish i were dead' when something especially stressful comes up." not saying it's not on the same spectrum but it is a light to dark scale and you know where the divisions are. and neither of those are "having Stress Pain and chanting "kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me i want to die i want to die i want to die" constantly and especially loudly when you have to walk up the stairs or eat food." which, again: has not really happened ever since you got on antidepressants.

4. ...it feels really bad and embarassing right now because i'm *behind* and i don't have a lot of academic curiosity right now and i haven't written in forever and i don't like putting words on a page and i have to look these people in the FACE and tell them i'm qualified when i Cold Lasagna Hate Myself 1989! i'm not! up for this! i'm gonna have to drag myself over hot coals and stay up late! and how do i expect to do grad school if this one little thing is making me throw such a giant fit!!!!

hi. oh my god.

babe.

give yourself a hug. literally visit a friend and get a hug if you must. rudely invite yourself to someone's house for emotional support. whatever. i don't care. holy shit.

it is, according to the calculus by which i have always made decisions, okay to feel like HOT GARBAGE while you do things as long as you get them done. you can yell! you can say you're awful, just the worst piece of shit, how dare you exist all you want! "feeling bad in the short term is okay if you feel good in the long term" is not a great life philosophy when applied over *months and months and years and years,* i grant you. but i do not think "twelve hours, tomorrow" is the same thing.

and you can have your friends take you out for ice cream once you get it done.

and this week you'll go teach first and second graders for the first time ever, and prepare some poetry and translations, and fuck up your homework, and probably fail to feel good about your life, but it will be YOUR LIFE. WHICH YOU'VE DECIDED TO LIVE. EVEN IN YOUR DREADFUL BACHELOR STATE OH MY GOD WHAT IS W I T H MY DREAMS

so. go text your IRL friends.

done.

congrats. you have Asked For Help. if your IRL friends cannot provide ask T and then D and then C and then G/E. or a group chat. you never know.

maybe also. call your mom and make a plan. she's probably free.

okay. cool. have Had Some Feelings. seems better. than what i have been doing. go me

go take outfit photos and make apple cider and go to bed

[rustbeltjessie]

City Sadthing

i.

i keep trying to stuff words into you, like they might fill you up with guts or teddy bear cotton

you’d be soft then

(less broken into)

i remember that certain type of night like your dark was darker than other dark places

without so many parking lots

ii.

i want to call you baby like how sometimes people say will you get my coat baby & somebody does & it feels good to get it punctuated says: his tongue feels mountaintop, i know it a tongue’s worth

one day you asked when you still had teeth without holes, or least when i didn’t      taste them, do you like me or the idea of me

both i said

(like i was ever that sentimental)

iii.

post-coitally, what gem would you be— (you were lying thick with me then, thoracic in the thunder)

i pillow said emerald you said onyx

(yawn)

ever a seventh grade tough kid ever a baby in leather

iv.

baby

v.

disaster,

we could get married & tangle our debts

(i dare you a thousand rome postcards)

command poem: get me my coat, baby

wish you were here

—Kristin Hatch, from The Meatgirl Whatever

[isabeljkim]

What the hell is going on with Day Ten Thousand:

Day Ten Thousand was weird enough that I felt like it deserved directors commentary, even though I’ve stopped explaining myself mostly except when I do.

Here’s a disclaimer before we begin: don’t read too much into it. I've noticed our culture wants to explain young womens’ art as some sort of public confessional booth and our current culture has a fetish for the autobiographical. Fuck that. I didn’t write three different POVs and three interlocking nonlinear narratives about the nature of storytelling as a psychic technology to be told that my writing isn’t a calculated Craft with a capital C. Now whether it is good Craft is a decision for you, not for me. 

Anyway. 

Day Ten Thousand is a satire of an Isabel story by way of Vonnegut pastiche. We’ll come back to this. 

I called Day Ten Thousand “psychoanalysis bait” on twitter so I shall put all my cards on the table so that your psychoanalysis is at least accurate. Note that these are only my cards, because other people deserve their privacy. I guess you could probably Google all of this but like, jeez. Don’t.

I had a pretty regular time in college except for the tangential deaths. 

When I was twenty, I was the opinion editor for my university newspaper and a girl who was a friend of a friend killed herself by walking in front of a subway. There was then a sort of a small suicide bubble which was a little bit public because we were an Ivy, and one of my opinion columnists was kinda suicidal, and I, without any training, ended up in charge of writing a front page editorial about the mental health crisis on campus on account of the dead kids, etc, and talk to administration about the dead kids. 

I hate talking about dead kids. Don’t ask me about it, or about the reporting. I don’t want to talk about it. 

The whole thing sucked shit and it’s why I’m a lawyer now and not a reporter. 

If this was a story that would be the only fact, but this is reality so I have to mention that a couple years later a guy I knew got literally hate crimed and murdered in a forest. I found out about that because I saw his friend crying in public and didn’t stop to ask what was wrong. Later I heard about this in the news, and realized my acquaintance had been Literally Fucking Murdered. A few months ago I had been arguing with him in the literary magazine editors meeting about whether a poem was good or not. I think he won that argument. Then he was murdered for being gay. 

These were my introductions to the specific emotion of “sometimes people die and you don’t feel like you get to feel bad about their deaths and you still think about it a couple times a month seven years later.” 

You can probably guess where the subject material of this story came from.

Day Ten Thousand was a story about inevitable deaths, and the difference between a death in a story and a death in reality, and about…the way a death marks a narrative and a real life and how it becomes fictionalized over time. I also saw a clean way to finally do my deep time / far future story, which was something I had been thinking about on and off for a couple of years (the original version was about a shaman in the deep-time era who has a vision about having to do a murder re: preserving genetic material for the future, but it never really gelled in a way that made sense). 

I had also been wanting to write something a little metafictional, because I felt like I was writing the same story over and over (if you’ve noticed my stuff getting weirder, that’s why. I was on a bit of an experimentalist kick late last year and early this year). 

So it’s a satire of an Isabel story. I’m self-aware enough to note my obvious recurring motifs: time travel, dead people, grief, people who have a weird relationship to each other, a third-act twist, the tendency to punctuate with in-universe facts to imply emotion, to tell x in order to show y, egregious and blatant use of the second person. And then there’s the stuff that you wouldn’t know, but I do: I dislike writing in the first person, I wanted to do something nonlinear, I think a lot about stories about stories, about the idea of a story as a technology, I find myself dropped into recursive fate-like thought patterns. So a lot of this story is both my self-deprecating poking fun at myself and my habits, and also my thesis statement about…what is the point of fiction if not to make sense of the past and the future, I suppose.

The reason it is a Vonnegut pastiche is because I like Vonnegut a lot and I was trying to do something Slaughterhouse-5-ish with drastically less fucked source material. Sorry Kurt. 

There are three stories happening in Day Ten Thousand, and a secret fourth story. Each story is a suicide loop. The protagonist is trying to break a specific loop by telling a story. This story is about accepting what you have to, and changing what you can. This is a story about letting go and also not letting go. The emotional range of each narrative affects the other psychically, because by changing the vibe of the metanarrative, the individual narratives are allowed to change. 

The story in the archaic is a story that is being told postmortem, it is all hypotheticals based on fact. The story in the future is a singular narrative happening in real time until it isn't. And the story in the present is a guy telling the story about the future, which requires him to tell the story about the past as well, and mostly what Dave is doing here is avoiding the question, but it reflects how Dave thinks about the girl dying in front of the train. 

Does that make sense? No? That’s fair. That’s a postmortem explanation of what actually happened. What actually happened is that I rewrote Day Ten Thousand six times, each time more frustrating than the last, each time with the neutral-ish narrator taking up more and more air. And over time the narrator became a participant, and that’s what created the secret fourth story between “you” and the narrator. 

I had thought there were only three loops that needed to be escaped - the past (archaic, pinned story), and the future (space station, mutable fact), and that the present (the narrator’s world) was something that was static (pinned fact). After all, the girl’s already dead. She’s already stepped in front of the train. 

But the narrator isn’t doing so hot. The narrator is also Dave. And the narrator is telling the story to someone. Somewhere between version one and version six, I realized the only version of this story that makes sense is the one where the story is a conversation, and that you and I, as the narrator and the person at the other end, were also in a loop. 

So. That's whats happening.

I’m not sure if I love the ending. But I rewrote it six times and this one felt as final as it is going to get. I am done reinventing the fucking wheel. You know how it is with spaghetti. Promise I’ll write you something normal next time, I think I’ve gotten the avant- garde out of my system for a few months. 

And hey, I know I said all cards on the table but people deserve their privacy and that includes the kid i used to be when I was twenty, sitting in the shitty little windowless opinion column office, writing about suicide. 

Anyway. Day Ten Thousand is about stuff and things. Themes. So it goes. 

Thanks for reading. I’ll see you later. 

If that was too depressing for you, here are some fun facts: 

The main character is Dave after 2001: A Space Odyssey because I had wanted to make a “I’m sorry Dave I can’t do that” joke, but I couldn’t shove it in :( 

I just thought that phlebotomist was a funny word but I also fucked myself because I misspelled it every time. 

I reread half of Slaughterhouse Five to write this but then my copy got returned to the library automatically so I didn’t finish it. (yes, I’ve read it before, like three times)  

I took one single evolutionary anthropology course in college and it shows.  

I did end up looking at the wikipedia page for “the wheel” for this and then wondering exactly what I was doing with my life. 

About half the facts in this are real, and I read a couple of papers for a couple of things in it (that I promptly then ignored), but the rockets-rome-horse’s ass thing is specifically a story that my friend Max H. likes to tell. 

[mischief-and-tea-by-the-sea]

Fanfic/Author Ask Game! 17, 29, 34

17. What is something you recently felt proud of in your writing?

I was trying to think of a fanfic that would cover this answer, but honestly, I think I'm going to have to go with some of my most recent poetry. Most of these are love poems to Loki (god not Marvel/MCU). Refinery is about the refineries I grew up seeing on the north side of the city I was born and lived in most of my life. Wyrd is a protest piece of sorts. Let me see if there isn't a way I can post it up in this response:

29. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

Before posting? HAHAHAHAHA. I mean, I sort of read over it, but I'm pretty impatient to get the fics posted pretty quick, and then I tend to go back and read through it and edit as I find spelling/grammar/punctuation mistakes OR ways I'd like to reword something.

34. What is your favorite fic to get comments/messages on?

There are a couple of ones I love getting comments/messages on:

Too weird to live, too rare to die - Justin Hammer/Loki in 'verse but divergent post-Endgame fix-it. I love getting comments on this one because it's such a rare pair (literally, I am the ONLY person so far to write this ship ever ever ever) that I'm happy when this fic gets some love to it.

To eat that burning heart out of his hand - Stephen Strange/Kaecilius, AU, no power AU, Modern Normal Life (haha normal might be a bit subjective on this one). I love comments on this fic because I went so far out of my way on this one to weave in the Hannibal and Lord of the Rings/Hobbit references, to really lay in heavy with the Easter Eggs, and I love it when people read it and get them and are forced to love this fic in all its horror and humor.

Breaking Inside - X-Men 3 Fix-it where Scott lives instead of Jean murdering him and getting away with it. Granted, this is just the Part 1 of a three parter, and yes, I still need to write the other two parts. But I really love getting comments on this one mostly because they're usually along the lines of "I hate Jean Grey, too!" Same sentiment about Charles Xavier as well. It's nice to find unity in how much we can't stand that woman and how sick and tired we are of her getting away with literal murder (or outing a past and present version of a character and still somehow winding up one of the most beloved women characters in the franchise).

All the currently written and posted parts and chapters of Hemispheres - Loki/Tony Stark. It was never meant to be this long or to go this long unfinished. But I haven't given up on writing it - if nothing else but to spite that one commenter who assumed that it had been abandoned and flounced out without leaving a decent last comment. This is a serious love song in a way to the Frostiron ship, and I will continue it, so all comments, esp all loving and positive comments, go a long way toward me wanting to keep it going until I manage to finish it.

Behind Blue Eyes - Emma Frost/Loki. Writing this fic and taking it through the twists that it went through made me fall for this ship big time. Another rare af pair, and the comments always make me happy to see others loving them together as much as I now do.

Never Piss Off a Telepath; Or How Logan Opened His Mouth and Said a Stupid Thing - Logan/Kurt, minor Emma/Scott. I love getting comments on this one because they're always hilarious, esp when they read through Logan's "pregnancy cravings."

Reach Out and Touch Faith - Kurt/Logan. Generally, I love the comments on this one so much because the fact that they fuck in a confessional tends to shock people, and I love pissing off Catholics so, so much.

Obviously, I love comments on ALL MY FICS PLEASE AND THANK YOU GO COMMENT NOW, but these are all ones that tend to shock, surprise, confuse, or generally make people laugh.

Thanks for the asks!

Fanfic/Author Ask Game.

[chrystalwynd]

Where Everybody Knows Your Name- Part 1

Words: 2400

mc mf md tentacles

                I turned off the main street and started walking down the alley.

                I was in downtown Chrystal Heights, but this alley could have been anywhere. Different colored neon lights blinked above doorways and on signs jutting above the narrow alley, advertising various businesses and services. The types of businesses and services one uses a neon lit doorway in an otherwise dark alley to enter.

                I found the doorway I was looking for easily enough. I passed through the door and walked into The Electric Raven.

Inside was somewhat better lit, but only slightly. Track lighting made some areas fairly bright, but there were a host of darkened corners and nooks where one could sit relatively unobserved. If one wished, of course. Tables of different sizes were placed haphazardly, with no particular order to them. Old couches sat here and there, along with the occasional loveseat. Quotes, graphics and artistic images covered the walls. In one corner was a small slightly raised deck with a single dim spotlight shining on a microphone stand with a stool next to it.

                I paused for a moment. The Electric Raven was more environment than bar. It was smoky heat and neon mystery. Where the quiet and dangerous shared drinks with the casually intense. Where the lost and malevolent played darts with the virtuous and forbidden. A door between the known and unknown. A fun place to drink, but only if you knew the score.

                I glanced around. It was a typical night at The Electric Raven, if such a thing existed. A group of Hell’s Choir bikers were gathered around a table, singing show-tunes in Latin. A 19th-century British safari hunter played backgammon with a dwarf wearing a ballerina outfit. An eight-foot tall man wearing a loincloth and covered with tattoos debated Nietzsche with an unspeakably beautiful succubus, her pointed tail punctuating her assertions. A female ninja, barely visible in the smoky shadows, shared laughs and hair tips with a bearded transvestite. A live marionette twirled about the dance floor, her unseen strings manipulated by unseen hands, as she danced to the music from a mime’s air-guitar performance.

                Everyone was welcome at The Electric Raven and questions weren’t asked.

                So it was a quiet night. I strolled by the bar and nodded to the bartender. “Evening, Craig.”

                Craig was polishing an already-clean glass. He nodded back. “Elliot. ‘Ow’s tricks, mate?”

                I tossed a pretzel to the gremlin next to the cash register. His name was Dexter. Then I gave Craig a non-committal thumbs up and headed toward my favorite corner.

                The mime left the stage, replaced by an intense-looking man who didn’t blink enough. The man stepped up to the microphone and paused. Then he started speaking:

                “The power to change;

                the strength to not change.

                They are the Originals.

                The battle between Good and Evil continues;

                light and dark conflict.

                The teachers teach, but who watches the watchers?

                They are the Originals.”

                The man turned and exited the stage without waiting for the smattering of applause his poem had generated. The low buzz of conversation resumed.

I continued making my way toward my table. As I got there, however, I was stopped.

                She was dressed in tight clothing, her lush curves packaged perfectly, with all the right parts on display. From her blue-dyed hair to her manicured bare red toes, she was pure heat. She gave me a smile that offered all kinds of promises.

                “Hi,” she said, her fingers playing with my shirt. “My name is Kiki.”

                “Hi, Kiki,” I said, feeling the heat racing to my already thickening cock. “What can I do for you?”

                “I just wanted to say hi,” she said, pressing closer to me, letting me smell her delightful perfume. “Maybe we could get to know each other a little, you know?”

                I nodded, offering a foolish smile. “That sounds great.”

                “Oh, yes,” she said, her bare belly close to mine. “Maybe we could even have some fun.”

                I smiled. She was good. My dick was ready to burst out of my pants. But she was too inexperienced to close the deal this time. Particularly against someone like me.

                “That’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “Fun is good. So let’s have some fun.”

                And then I turned her power against her.

                Kiki’s eyes widened and her cheeks suddenly flushed. Her lips parted slightly, then closed. Her nipples were hard, thick erasers pressing out against the stretchy tightness of her top. She placed her palms on my chest, then slowly dropped to her knees in front of me.

                Her face was inches from my bulging zipper. I smiled as the heat-bunny struggled internally between rational thought and overwhelming physical need.

                Physical need won out, as I knew it would. Red nails found my zipper, pulled it down, allowing my rigid cock to spring free, nearly slapping Kiki in the face. Unable to help herself, she slid her warm, wet mouth over my cock.

                I smiled, enjoying the wave of pleasure generated by Kiki’s firmly-wrapped lips stroking over my dick. No doubt the patrons of [i]The Electric Raven[/i] were enjoying the show and Kiki was dying of embarrassment, but Kiki couldn’t have stopped working my cock any more than she could have grown a second head. All she could do was see it through to the end.

                This being Chrystal Heights, people are occasionally born with some random abilities. These abilities can take different forms. Sometimes that form is the ability to amplify someone else’s arousal to extreme levels. In males, it’s often found in Alphas and will usually result in any number of swelled bellies in their wakes. In females, it’s pretty much an amplification of a female’s natural ability.

                Of course, some women try to use it as Kiki did. Give a man a rock-hard dick, promise him pure bliss and get him in private. The man’s so revved up by the time the woman actually touches him, he absolutely explodes and then passes out from the amplified intensity. The woman then helps herself to the contents of his wallet and makes her way home. It works on women as well, but men tend to be easier and far more predictable marks. These women are usually referred to as heat-bunnies and are typically found in alleys or bars like The Electric Raven.

                It’s an easy way to make quick money and it’s not even illegal. Just another social peril to be aware of in Chrystal Heights. But as Kiki was learning, it was only fun until you run into somebody who can turn it around on you.

                Blue hair bobbing, Kiki’s mouth continued stroking over my shaft. She wasn’t bad, just inexperienced. To be fair, of course, it was unlikely she ever had to go this far with any of her marks. With her ability to raise a man’s arousal to maximum levels, a stroke or two with her hand would be enough to leave her mark snoring. It was even possible she was giving her first blowjob ever.

                By using her power on me, she had given me the ability to use it on her. Being a power mirror, with the ability to reflect one’s power back at them, made it easy. And now I decided to turn her arousal all the way to maximum as I filled her mouth with my semen.

                She moaned around my cock, making me explode harder and longer. Her throat worked as she helplessly swallowed my seed, my throbbing dick not giving her a moment to catch her breath. Her orgasms would likely have been shrill had my cock not been in her mouth.

                After what had to be endless moments for Kiki, my ejaculation finally slowed, then stopped. Whimpering, Kiki swallowed the last of my thick semen and finally slid her mouth off my cock. Still on her knees, she looked up at me with wide eyes, a hand on her full belly, breathing through her mouth.

                Everyone in the immediate area applauded her efforts. Cheeks flaming, the heat-bunny leaped to her feet and fled.

                I chuckled and sat down. Kiki had put me in a better mood.

                “That was disgusting,” said a voice. “She should have beat your ass.”

                I chuckled and said, “Hello, Tempest.”

                Tempest was a five-and-a-half foot tall bundle of anger and bad intentions. She was dressed head-to-toe in black leather, denim and spikes, complete with black boots. Her arms were covered with sharp-lined tattoos and beaded bracelets that contained any number of hexes and protection spells, complementing the daggers strapped to her waist. Even her haircut was angry. What little hair she had, anyway, as her head was shaved almost completely smooth except for a two-inch wide strip of hair running from her forehead to the back of her head. All-in-all, she projected quite the intimidating picture.

                She was also the waitress.

                “Fuck you, Elliot,” she said. “I’m still not talking to you. What the hell do you want?”

                I grinned. “You’re not still mad about that poker game, are you?”

                Tempest glared at me. “You got me wasted on fucking Stoneberry Wine!”

                I gave her an innocent look. “I thought you liked wine.”

                “You know damn well Stoneberry Wine isn’t actually wine, dickhead! It’s fucking radioactive moonshine made to taste like wine! I couldn’t fucking walk for two days!”

                “It actually made you likeable, Tempest,” I said. “Almost…adorable, you know? Especially afterward, when we-“

                Tempest drew a dagger and pressed the point against my throat in the same movement. “Shut the fuck up, dickhead! Nobody knows about that, all right? Nobody! And it fucking stays that way or I stick this dagger right up your-“

                Craig’s voice suddenly said, “Tempest!”

                Tempest glared at Craig for a moment, then exhaled and sheathed her dagger. “Fine. What do you want?”

                It seemed imprudent to make any more references to anything non-drink related. “Let me have a shot of Diamond Cutter.”

                Tempest nodded, then turned and stalked away. I admired the way her hips moved, but I knew enough to keep my observations to myself.

*****

                A few minutes later, I was enjoying my drink in relative quiet. I entertained myself by listening to three men discuss their upcoming trip to San Francisco on their search for some artifact lost or hidden there in the ‘40s. Not that that was unusual. Chrystal Heights was a common stop for those looking to buy or sell objects of power.

                Then the lights dimmed and smoke began swirling around an unoccupied table in the middle of the floor. Still swirling, the smoke thickened, then thinned out and misted away. The lights regained their earlier intensity. Such as it was.

                Left in the remnants of the smoke were two figures sitting at the table. Both were robed and hooded, one in black, the other in red. Between them sat what appeared to be an ancient chess board. The various pieces were intricately carved and spread about the board, as if in mid-game.

                The figure in the black robes glanced around. No face could be seen in the darkness under the hood. The figure in black then nodded and a voice sounded from inside the hood. “Well chosen, old friend.”

                The red-robed figure gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he said. His voice, like the other, was low, but vibrant with power and knowledge, and it carried to all corners of The Electric Raven. “We are agreed then?”

                The black-robed figure said, “Agreed.”

                As the sound of the black-robed figure’s voice faded, a single red square appeared on the floor next to their table. The square expanded, growing larger, and then and other squares appeared, expanding from the original square. As the squares expanded, any chairs or tables in the way were simply moved by whatever unseen force was creating the checkered floor.

                Soon a ten-foot by ten-foot chess board occupied the space next to the table, the squares alternating red and black. Both robed figures nodded their satisfaction.

                “The battlefield is set,” said the figure in red. “Your move, old friend.”

                At any other establishment, this would be considered extraordinary. But here at [i]The Electric Raven[/i], it was merely unusual.

                The black-robed figure was silent for a moment. Then he moved a piece on the board and said, “Black knight attacks red rook.”

                A swirl of smoke appeared on the black figure’s side of the chessboard. Then the smoke cleared, revealing a cute cheerleader with a sweet smile and evil eyes. There was a horse-head on the front of her sweater and the words “Go Knights!” embroidered on the back.

                I glanced around. I recognized the cheerleader as one of a pair that had been discussing Emily Dickenson over shots of Jagermeister with a pair of nuns.

                There was another swirl of smoke on the opposite side of the board. When the smoke cleared, a young woman stood in a paint-smeared smock, an easel standing in front of her.

                “An art mage,” murmured the black-robed figure. “An interesting move, old friend.”

                “I find your choice to be just as fascinating,” said the red-robed figure. “Shall we begin?”

                “Indeed.”

                And then the battle began.

                The cheerleader leaped forward and launched into a complicated series of backflips and summersaults. She seemed to be moving in all directions at once. Then she suddenly shot forward directly toward the art mage.

                The young woman had not been idle, however. Her paintbrush had been flying around the canvas at an incredible speed. The art mage suddenly stopped painting and reached out to touch the canvas. She made a single motion across the canvas just as the cheerleader’s attack arrived.

                The cheerleader leaped forward, the blade of her foot extended. It struck a trampoline that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. The force of her attack caused her to rebound high in the air. She landed on the ground with a loud thud.

                “She very nearly landed out of bounds,” said red robes.

                “Nearly is not the same as did,” said black robes.

                The art mage began working again on the now-blank canvas and the trampoline immediately faded away. The cheerleader struggled back to her feet. Then the art mage swiped across the canvas again.

                Immediately a battery of missiles appeared on either side of the art mage. One-by-one, they began launching, directed at the cheerleader.

[CONCLUDED IN PART 2]

[lexascend]

Blog Post 3: Word Substitution Poem

Writing a word substitution poem was a completely new experience for me. Initially, I thought it would be fairly easy and quick to complete. However, I soon realized that was not the case. The challenge for me was having to substitute the same parts of speech. There were instances where I would have preferred to use a verb instead of an adverb and cases of the like. However, I still thoroughly enjoyed completing the exercise and having to really brainstorm and think in a way I normally may not have.

Because it was a word substitution poem, I feel that the syntax was pretty much chosen for us, so we didn't really get to experiment with that. Yet, it was interesting to see the other author's usage of syntax. Same for punctuation. In our reading for this module, it stuck with me how the author said it is important to know the rules of punctuation and although they don't necessarily have to be followed, the usage has to be intentional. In Myles' poem, we get a good example of how the rules of punctuation aren't followed but intentional. In Akbar's poem, punctuation is used more conventionally. Diction is where I felt least restricted out of the three being we were able to choose our own substitutions, and the possibilities were abundant.

T.S. Elliot said "when forced to work within a strict framework, the imagination is taxed to its utmost-- and will produce its richest ideas. Given total freedom, the work is likely to sprawl.". I somewhat disagree. I think it's more so preference. Some individuals thrive with more instruction and restriction whereas others see the limitations in a negative, cutting off much of their creative freedom. Personally, I think I could have created a much better poem without restrictions because it would allow me to express myself more freely without feeling boxed in, as well as lending more of my own voice and touch to the poem.

[sillysoliloquyshits]

Hellos peoples, recently posted my first long-as-hell comprehensive guide on how to write a contrapuntal poem, but since it's my first blog, I'll give a discount by posting parts of the guide here, but check out my substack if you'd love to!

How to start your first contrapuntal poem:

1. Find a central theme of duality

In my humble opinion, the backbone of a truly fascinating contrapuntal/twin cinema is a compelling binary that can be juxtaposed with two separate columns. Ask yourself this: what kind of theme encapsulates the isolation while also revealing the subtle parallels of unity and oneness? Almost anything, from life and death, love and heartbreak, to conflicting identities and feelings.

The poem could also be a conversation between two people in opposite settings. That’s why the possibilities of binaries are endless and the concept is your oyster to explore! Even if you’re overwhelmed by the many ideas, you can start with a simple topic or a theme you like, and think in contrasting perspectives to start the ball rolling!

2. Start with the easier column first

Once you have settled on the theme, decide on what the right and left column would be, whether it’s one side of a certain conversation, or the past to the present/future, etc. Most people start with the first and left column to write completely before writing the second right column, as it’s more natural to determine the left side first and develop the right accordingly. However, if you feel the fixed perspective on the right is easier to pinpoint, by all means!

3. Leave gaps to add or change lines

Writing contrapuntal poems is multitasking in ensuring the lines of each column makes sense while also able to flow continuously across. That’s why adding, deleting, changing lines or just repositioning them will be done regularly. Don’t worry if it doesn’t stick to the landing, since not every bottle flip will land perfectly sometimes. Give yourself room when writing or typing the poem out to change the arrangements when needed! (Though it is a lot easier to type contrapuntal than writing on paper–)

4. Check if the second column flows well itself

While it is tempting to try and see the magic by reading across both columns, it would be advisable to check if the second column could stand on its own first, so as to do necessary tweaking first and ensure the second column is sound before bridging both columns. Also, as contrapuntal poems can sometimes be written through the flow of intuition and may not be what you initially planned for, write anyway and see where it goes, as long as each column makes sense by itself first.

5. See if it flows nicely together across

This could be difficult when it comes to your first few attempts, so a tip could be ensuring the poems are written in a table with just two columns and putting the first column to right align and the second column to the left align. That way it will be easier to read the lines across, but even if you wish to format the poem differently, you can do so after editing to ensure you have an easier time reading the lines across first. If you wish for a slight cheat code, each line per column could be something in a phrase that could stand by itself, thus making it easier to link to the next line of column without enjambment sometimes.

6. Punctuation and especially semicolons are useful (from @two-bees-poetry )

Punctuations are usually the toughest things in contrapuntal, but commas are often better than full stops, and semicolons are especially useful at the end of a line going to a next column due to it’s versatility. In my opinion, you could use the colon and the dashes as well as an alternative when suitable. Opting for no punctuation throughout or sparse use of it is also okay!

7. Formatting on google docs is also quite easy

Once the two columns are on the table, to make it more clean without the black border lines, you can highlight the whole table and go to format > table > table properties > colour on the computer, and choose either to make the colour of the borders go from black to white, or to press the length to go from 1pt to 0pt. Volia!

8. Or… try to write two columns simultaneously–

Writing one column at a time is one way, but writing both at the same time, like inching down one column by a few lines and then continuing another is the daredevil method that I use. This method is for those who may be a bit impatient or find themselves not truly knowing what exactly to write despite planning, so might as well inch a bit down both columns to achieve the unifying poetic voice while not minding to stop sometimes (or more often) to ensure each column, as it’s developing, also makes sense by itself.

Somehow my intuition just gets a hold on me and I can’t stay in one lane often, so that happens to me when writing these poems. It’s basically conjuring magic by splatting some awesome ideas like spaghetti on the wall and watching how the lines just miraculously slide into place.

But anyway, these are the basics on how to start! These aren’t set rules since everyone has their own unique methods and styles. However, if you would also like some more tips on how to spice up your contrapuntal poems with originality and depth, here are some awesome ideas:

1. Read other people’s incredible poems

If you like a good output, start with good input, and lots of people have written cool contrapuntal poems. You could even google ‘Singaporean twin cinema’ and find some more mind-blowing attempts. Once you are inspired by their works, you would have a better grasp at how others do their style of contrapuntal and subconsciously learn from them.

2. Plan an outline of rough ideas you want to delve deeper in before starting on the poem

Dump some ideas like banger lines or deep ideas you want to try exploring before getting into the poem proper, so as to get your mind more focused on the lines you may want to consider inserting or making it better.

3. Don’t be afraid to write longer than you expect

Sometimes your muse would feel it has to be longer and you may find yourself going on and on and that’s okay! Follow where your muse wants to lead you and you will be greatly rewarded when you feel a poem is long enough for you to stop or when you need to shorten after some editing, hehe–

4. Spice it up with literary devices

If you or your muse are up for it, unique and thought-provoking metaphors or even symbolism throughout the column or both would work spectacularly. You can also utilise cool concepts like personifications for a nice twist when your poem calls for it.

In my opinion, alliteration is the simplest way to spice up your poetry, especially when you can use different kinds of alliteration to present different sound effects. (But that's another article maybe, you can google sibilance or fricative alliteration to find out more!) You can also go wild with unconventional phrases of alliteration, such as using an apt concept as an adjective that gives a unique spin to the alliteration, such as ‘Lilithian lavenders’ (from one of my poems), or any other one-of-a-kind phrase that's yours to create!

Anaphora between successive lines are also cool. But if you wish to create a greater sense of rhythm in the poem, you can opt for internal rhymes, by choosing certain words that rhyme to give a greater oomph to the work when you read it. Assonance and consonance are also the next best things to cohesively bring the harmony of the poem much more closely.

5. Go hog wild with different variations and forms and styles

Haikus are easy to write, but what if you could do a contrapuntal haiku instead to up the challenge? Believe me when I say I tried and succeeded in doing a contrapuntal villanelle. But you can take any poem form, from limericks to triolets to sonnets or cinquains etc.

If you also want to explore the writing styles of other poets and writers with notable and recognisable poetic voices, like Sylvia Plath or Ocean Vuong, you can take inspiration from their recurring use of phrases and spin in language and certain symbolisms they use often, such as Plath’s sardonic tone in poetry or Ocean Vuong’s way with words like ‘say __’ or ‘tell me__’. As long as you don’t chug it through a language model or blindly follow the unsavoury aspects of the poet’s writing (like racist outdated language etc), you should be good to go, and using contrapuntal poetry to freely explore the different dimensions you can go with an iconic poet’s style is certainly something to add bursting flavour in your writing!

If you’re even more of a daredevil and learn Shakespearean plays, no one said anything about Shakespearean English styles in contrapuntal poems are off the limits, so go for it and satisfy that competitive muse of yours!

And booyah, a banger of a contrapuntal poem with a rich texture of interconnectedness, and a feast for a literary student’s eyes and mind. But overall, what matters most is that you go with the flow of naturally developing your own writing style and voice in contrapuntal poems and having the most fun out of it, and stretch your muse to new heights with this poetry form.

....... And yeah, you reached the end of my long blog and that was the last 80% of my blog so-