I’m fine.I’m okay.I’m okay.It’s fine.It’s all fine.Everything is okay. This is fine.This is fine.This is okay.This is okay. I think. I think I’m fine.I think I’m okay.No—No no, I am okay.I’m okay.Honestly.Don’t worry.Don’t even think about it.Don’t stress.You’ve got enough on your plate,

I don’t know—I just…I feel so tired.Not the kind that sleep fixes,not the kind you can stretch out with a yawnand shake off with coffee and routine.It’s the kind that seeps,the kind that erodes,the kind that turns flesh into shell. Like I’m living in my own skinon a lease that’s almost up.

don’t look at me like that —like I was a side streetyou turned down by accident,and I mistook it fordestination. you were the kind of quietthat felt like thunderin my chest.I thought it meant something.you just didn’t speak much. // my fault //for dressing your distancein meaning.for thinking your shrug…

I.I walk into rooms like I’m apologising for breathing—shoulders hunched, voice tucked in,smile stapled on like it might fall off under inspection.Every hello feels like an intrusion,like I’ve stepped into a space not built for me,and all I can think is:they're just being polite,waiting for me to leave so they can exhale again.

Obedience and Fire The hotel door clicked shut behind them. She stood just inside the room, blouse torn from earlier, skirt still clinging to her thighs, hair a mess from the wind and what he’d already done to her. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. She felt the shift in the air the moment he stepped closer — the heat of his presence, the danger in his silence.

It started with a playlist. Windows down, warm air rushing through, her legs curled up on the seat, skirt hiked dangerously high. He tapped the steering wheel in time to the beat, mouthing lyrics to a song they both knew far too well. “You’re off,” she teased, smirking. He glanced at her. “I’m always on.” “Really?” Her voice dipped, all syrup and challenge.

She owns the night. He begs to be undone. He watched her like a man starved.Crimson lips wrapped around the rim of a glass, eyes sharp under dark lashes, posture commanding even as she leaned back casually on the velvet barstool. She clocked him the moment he walked in.Confident enough to look but not approach. The type that wanted to be chased but secretly longed to be hunted.

The morning started soft. I woke to the smell of fresh tea and coffee with the warmth of his body curled around mine. His hand rested on my hip, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles into my skin. I stretched and yawned, pressing back against him with a sleepy smile. "Happy birthday, gorgeous," he murmured against my ear, his voice still rough with sleep.

The moment we stepped into the cinema, I knew I was in trouble. You shot me that look as we handed over our tickets. That sly, wicked curve of your mouth that made my stomach twist and my thighs clench involuntarily. There was a heat in your eyes that never quite simmered down, not even in public, and tonight it radiated from you like a living thing.

The door crashed open with a violent crack that rattled the frame and slammed into the wall.I barely had time to scream before they were on me.Boots pounded against the floorboards.Masks, black gloves, heavy breaths.Hands .... too many hands — grabbing, wrenching, pulling me roughly from the couch onto the floor. I fought.I screamed.I thrashed as hands pinned my wrists, dragged me up by the hair, forced me stumbling toward the bedroom.

His body hovered just above mine, a wall of heat and control, his cock resting heavy against my soaked pussy - not pushing in, not yet. Just rubbing. Teasing. Torturing. And I was dripping for him. I could feel the slick mess between my thighs, my folds hot and swollen, so sensitive that even the drag of his thick length sliding through my wetness made me gasp and twitch beneath him.

A decade spent swallowing the knife,not a blade of glory—just rust and regret,twisting slow in the gutlike a promise I never madebut still had to keep. The only point of a pitiful nightwas survivalnot victory, not light,just the bitter breathof another hourI didn’t ask for. I suffocatebeneath the weight of monsters…

I’ve become the sight I hate.The kind you don’t linger on.The kind you blur in the backgroundof better things. And I hate that it’s me.I hate that I see it.And I hate that I can’t stop looking. There’s this battleunder my skin.And I don’t know who's winning anymore. See,there’s this voice.Not loud.

I’m a million miles away,but your breath is still in my lungs.It clings.Like smoke from a fire I didn’t start but kept feeding,just to feel warm for a second.I lie dreaming of another day,one where I’m not a corpse wearing a smile,one where my hands aren’t shaking from words you haven’t said yet.

HIS VIEW She sat on the sofa as if she owned it, legs spread open, that little half-smile she wore when deep in thought tugging at the corners of her lips. Her fingers absently played in his hair as he sat between her thighs, the soft circles she traced on his scalp almost reverent. He closed his eyes to it, surrendering momentarily—not to her, but to the quiet thrill of knowing she had no idea how close he was to snapping.

I have paper wings.Not the kind made for fairy tales or freedom songs.Not the kind folded by children, thrown toward ceiling fans,hoping for lift-off in living rooms too cramped for dreams.No.Mine were etched in the margins of grocery lists and eviction notices,taped together with leftover faithand just enough desperation to call it architecture.

You say you do, then swear you don't.You play the saint, but no, you won't.I ask for depth, you skim the skin.I reach for truth; you just grin.I need a hand, you need applause.I bleed for peace, you fight for cause.I build a home, you bolt the door.I beg for less, you scream for more.

You kneel for me,and the world falls away. There’s nothing but you.Nothing but the way your body hums under my gaze,the way your chest rises and falls, desperate for air that will never fill you enough without me inside you. You tilt your chin up —blue eyes wide, shimmering, open.That look.That fucking look.It strips me bare,

The club hummed with sex. Everywhere I looked, bodies were writhing, grinding, gasping.The velvet couches were packed with couples and small groups, some fucking openly, some simply watching, hands wandering under clothes or over bare skin. You kept me close at your side on the couch, fingers tracing idle circles just above the hem of my sheer slip. It didn’t cover much — just a whisper of fabric that clung to my nipples and teased over my thighs.

Have you ever said a word so many times that it stops sounding like a real word? Like it unravels in your mouth, loses its meaning, and suddenly feels made up? A word that’s always been there—ordinary, familiar—but when repeated over and over, it feels foreign and empty. What if that same thing happens when you talk about yourself?What if you keep telling the world who you are, keep telling…

My knees are grazed.Not from clumsiness.From crawling.From begging the floor to hold mewhen no one else would.From praying to a Godwho won’t even look me in the eye anymore. There’s cancer in my brain.Not medical.Metaphorical.It’s you.It’s every “I love you” you never meant,growing like rot in the corners of my skull.

Fever I Never Want to Break Heat builds lownot just lust, not just wantbut that raw, aching burnthe kind that lives in the hollow of my stomachin the clench between my thighsin the space behind my ribswhere I keep your voice like a loaded gunand your name, cocked, ready, whisperedjust before I break.

The pub was buzzing - laughter echoing off old brick walls, glasses clinking, low music curling around the conversations. But in our corner booth, tucked into shadow, none of that mattered. You sat close, your thigh against mine, your arm stretched casually across the back of the seat, fingers tracing lazy lines on the nape of my neck. Your voice was low in my ear, teasing, dragging out the wait.