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Dark magic shadow queen, You’ve set a desire thick and heavy in me— A slow poison, sweet as smoke, Curling through every dream and nightmare. If I bleed, I am bleeding you; Your shadow is mixed into my pulse, Your name is stitched into the dark behind my ribs. And now, I am done with the haunting. I need you close—not as a promise, but as a force. I want you stripped of velvet in the cathedral’s bruised light, A silhouette carved from dusk and unholy intention. I want to feel the fire I’ve longed for, Standing close enough that your heat Finally rewrites the shape of my restraint. You descend like a sovereign claiming her altar, A naked, obsidian shock that strikes through bone. I want the visceral slide of you, wet and slow, As you straddle the space where my pulse betrays me. I want to feel the heavy, rhythmic grind of your hips into mine, A slow-burn friction that turns the cold stone into a furnace As you sink down, taking all of me into your dark. No more whispers. No rituals half-spoken. Just the steady, punishing cadence of our bodies, The slick of our sweat gluing chest to chest. I am buried deep in the wreck of your addiction, Feeling the possessive clench of your heat As it tightens around me, demanding my total surrender. Your back arches into the candlelight, Your teeth bared as you map the depth of this sin. This is the hunger that knows my name better than I do— The kind that brands the soul, that leaves the taste Of salt and copper on the breath. Sweat becomes scripture as we move, A frantic, fluid liturgy written in the slick of skin. I want to feel the sharp catch of your nails in my shoulders As you drive the rhythm harder, faster, Until the "holy" is scorched away by the heat of the flesh. Move with the dark. Let the incense choke the air. Let the cathedral watch as we turn its silence Into a scream of recognition, A breath-shaking ritual of bone and wet, heavy heat. So if I fall, let it be into you— Into the dark, into the hunger, Into the place where your shadow finally meets my hands, And we drown in the ritual I was never meant to survive.
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May 1
May 1, 2026 at 12:02 AM UTC
The Profane Anointing of the Shadow Queen
Dark magic shadow queen, You’ve set a desire thick and heavy in me— A slow poison, sweet as smoke, Curling through every dream and nightmare. If I bleed, I am bleeding you; Your shadow is mixed into my pulse, Your name is stitched into the dark behind my ribs. And now, I am done with the haunting. I need you close—not as a promise, but as a force. I want you stripped of velvet in the cathedral’s bruised light, A silhouette carved from dusk and unholy intention. I want to feel the fire I’ve longed for, Standing close enough that your heat Finally rewrites the shape of my restraint. You descend like a sovereign claiming her altar, A naked, obsidian shock that strikes through bone. I want the visceral slide of you, wet and slow, As you straddle the space where my pulse betrays me. I want to feel the heavy, rhythmic grind of your hips into mine, A slow-burn friction that turns the cold stone into a furnace As you sink down, taking all of me into your dark. No more whispers. No rituals half-spoken. Just the steady, punishing cadence of our bodies, The slick of our sweat gluing chest to chest. I am buried deep in the wreck of your addiction, Feeling the possessive clench of your heat As it tightens around me, demanding my total surrender. Your back arches into the candlelight, Your teeth bared as you map the depth of this sin. This is the hunger that knows my name better than I do— The kind that brands the soul, that leaves the taste Of salt and copper on the breath. Sweat becomes scripture as we move, A frantic, fluid liturgy written in the slick of skin. I want to feel the sharp catch of your nails in my shoulders As you drive the rhythm harder, faster, Until the "holy" is scorched away by the heat of the flesh. Move with the dark. Let the incense choke the air. Let the cathedral watch as we turn its silence Into a scream of recognition, A breath-shaking ritual of bone and wet, heavy heat. So if I fall, let it be into you— Into the dark, into the hunger, Into the place where your shadow finally meets my hands, And we drown in the ritual I was never meant to survive.
To that gothic muse that never leaves my dreams.
photodude
Written by
54/M/North Carolina USA
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 12:02 AM UTC
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