Introduction

I am only interested in women, for those who know how to write, to love, fuck and fight with passion and need. So no men.

In terms of wants, sex-fights and catfights are my primary interest, but if you touch me properly I will melt into you and whisper sonnets between your thighs and moan as your fingers and tongue unravel me.

Dark Queen

In the velvet hush of want,

your words set me ablaze.

“You make me wet,” I confessed,

my desire gathering low and slow,

a tide pulled by the gravity of your gaze.

Your fingers slipped into my hair,

firm and possessive,

drawing me closer,

sending bright sparks racing beneath my skin.

The world narrowed

to the fire dancing in your blue eyes,

to the wicked curve of your smile,

to the dangerous promise hidden there.

I pressed myself against you,

caught between invitation and surrender.

“Do you want to play?”

Your answering grin

was all the warning I would get.

You kissed your way downward,

unhurried,
each touch deliberate,

each pause undoing me.

By the time you looked up at me,

kneeling before your prize,

my breath escaping like a secret.

“May I?”

Such a simple question.

Yet my trembling thighs

answered before my voice could.

The first touch shattered thought.

Pleasure rolled through me

in waves that stole language,

leaving only gasps,

only instinct,

only you.

You held me as though I belonged there,

guiding me deeper into the storm,

your hunger matched only by my need.
And when I dared look down,

I found those blue eyes waiting.

Watching.
Knowing.
My body surrendered long before my pride.

I came apart beneath your devotion,

beneath your wickedness,

beneath the exquisite certainty

of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

When the tide finally receded,

I found you smiling.

Radiant.
Victorious.
My dark queen.

I slid down beside you

and stole a kiss from your lips,

tasting the ghost of my own surrender.
I pulled you close,

held you against me,

and smiled.

Because queens should never grow comfortable.

And I was already planning

my revenge.

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This poem is a gift for another based on her bio and the story it wrote inside my head

Nukik of the Long Dark

There is a particular kind of silence,
it lives at the edge of the world —
before the storm,
before the crack of ice,
before everything falls into the silence of Mother Night.

On the glacier’s edge,
where the ice groans
when the pressure is too much to bear—
I exist.

Here, where the wind does not howl —
it hunts.
It claws along the walls,
finding every seam,
every weakness,
screaming like something that remembers your name.

The furs do little.
The pitiful fire does less.
And the night… the night has no edges.

Something knocked.
Not loud. Not desperate. Certain.
A patient thing,
tapping bone against wood,
as if it knew I would break before the door did.

I did not move.
I pressed into the furs,
breath shallow,
praying not like the faithful do —
but like the hunted.

Praying for the sun’s return.
Begging the dark would not reach inside me
and take what little warmth I had left
before the long dark loosened its grip.

It knocked again.
And the wind howled louder,
as if trying to cover the sound.
Or answer it.

Out here, the wind has names.
The Glacier’s Wrath.
Daughter of the Deep Cold.
The wind of a thousand knives.
Widow-maker.

I learned something that night.

The dark is patient.
It does not break the door.
It waits for you to open it.
To invite it inside your soul—
where it takes the light
and feasts.

Born of the North.
Shaped by mountains and frozen water.
It lives in my flesh and bones,
carved deep into my soul.
A daughter of the ancestors.

I walk the endless night—
the liminal road,
where the wind remembers every name it has taken.

I have bled into the ice.
I have fed the dark and lived.

I live within its shadow.
It knows my name.
I breathe its air.
It walks within me—
a shadow folded within shadow.

And the Winter always comes.

Oh Mother Night, I name thee—
dost thou desert me,
or have I already been claimed?

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No Longer Yours

It started with calls.

Traded insults.
Then threats.

You could not decide—

would not choose.

You manipulated our jealousy.

Our needs.

Our naked desires.

Our lust.

The scene was set.

The date chosen.

We would decide for you—

with fists, with teeth, with nails.

We tied you to the chair.

Our eyes full of rage—
for each other.

You were the witness.

The prize.

There are truths only bruises can tell—

and we spoke them in front of you:

in bites,

in fists,

in the trembling smack

of flesh meeting flesh.

My claws raked red across her back,

carving my name into her skin.

We opened for each other—

like doors torn from their hinges.

I forced her open with two fingers.

She answered in kind.

We fucked and clawed for you—

wet heat,

fighting for dominance.

She didn’t just strip me—

she translated me.
Every scratch etched in skin: a vowel.

Every gasp:

a sentence too sacred for speech.

And you watched—

oh, how you watched—

as our thighs locked tight,

as we tore each other open

for your gaze.

We fought.

Bloody.

Relentless.

Feral.

Fighting for whatever goddess
grows wet

from women warring like this.

She pinned me.

I ground against her.
Our sex at war.

Giving everything.

It was punctuation—

a full stop

at the end of who I was

before she broke me open

with her own need.

We spoke in sweat,

in hair between fingers

in the holy ache

of cunt against cunt—

bloody, female combat.

You moaned when I cried out.

With your free hand,

you touched yourself

when I whimpered your name.

And still,

you whispered without words:

I am no longer yours.
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Brentwood Rivals

I watch her.

Her eyes track my every motion—

jealous, tense—
her gaze a blade of jagged need.

She covets what’s mine.

She wants her.

And sooner or later,
she will move to take her.

We both know the ritual.

As women do,

we will speak with teeth and nails,

in the brutal music of impact and breath.

In the alley behind Sunset,

or on the polished hardwood of Brentwood,

we will debate our claim with skin and bruises—

each strike a question,

each gasp a frantic answer.

My body already remembers the pattern:

the tightening of thigh,

the heave of breast,

the low, electric hum before the lunge.

The ghost-feel of fingers tangled in hair,

the salt of desire and wet heat.

She catches my gaze.

Neither of us blinks—

predator meeting predator,

sisters in the art of wanting.

The doe watches from the bar,

wanting to see which of us will break the other,

and who she slips under tonight.

Desire stirs like a fever—

a hot, wet hunger to demonstrate our superiority,

to see the other beneath us, mewling.

Tonight, one of us will learn the kiss of thorns—

the price of the crown we seek—

and lie in the bed of pain we have built for each other.

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The Liturgy of Ache

We circle each other like dark priestesses—

offering pain as prayer,
pleasure as sacrament.

We worship the tension:

the long, excruciating wait,

the breath held before claws meet skin.

This ache is a living thing.

It coils in the dark between us,

daring us to demand

what the other refuses to yield.

And when we finally clash—

rolling across the floor

in our naked, terrible glory—

even the gods go quiet.

The boards groan 
under the gravity of our want.

Nails rake as we hiss and moan.

Hair litters the floor

as we scream out hate.

The air thickens with musk,
with salt,

with the sacred violence of women

who have forgotten how to hold back.

And when the silence returns—

when we lie shattered and wet,

your nails etched into my side,

our souls unspooled—

we know the truth:

It was never just lust.

It was an offering.

It was a recognition.

It was a vow.

Before you,
I unfasten the mask.

I bare my truth—

not as surrender,

but as conquest.

I give it to you, sister:

the silk of my fingers,

the breath before the kiss,

the purple kisses across your skin,

the dance we never leave.

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Start of membership: 2025-06-07