Novel & Cerita Fiction Poetry Books

Turning the music off, I grab the lavender and put it in a tiny glass vase, and set it in the center of the long ebony black dining table. Walking out of the conjoined dining room and kitchen I grab my book, my water bottle, and a blanket. I set the water and blanket by the back door that leads to the porch, and the beach a little off, and head back to the kitchen with my book. Of human bondage, by W. Somerset Maugham. The book itself isn't bad, but from my point of view, it's terribly bland. I like more poetic works. But also a hint of darkness. The best example is the poem, In the Desert, by Stephen Crane, from his book The Black Riders and Other Lines. It has a sense of dystopia that I ca

THEMES: Dark and Intense, Incubus- X- Human, Demon- X- Human, Filthy tone, Accidental demon summoning, Memory reading, Blackmail pre plot, Risky fuck, Public setting, Fucking in a Library, Aftercare, Revenge, Spell Gone Wrong, Spell circle, Trapped in a Spell circle rune.

I make my way through the aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, until I reach the poetry section. I don't know why I'm drawn here. I just am. My body moves like it knows something my brain doesn't. I walk through the poetry section, line by line, shelf by shelf, until I stop. My hand freezes mid-reach. 'Pablo Neruda.' A whole row of his work, lined up neatly, my fingers pause over one book in particular. 'Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.' I pull it off the shelf slowly, like it might bite me. The cover is worn, soft under my fingers, like someone's held this book a lot and loved it.

The fireplace crackled softly, casting amber light across the lakehouse living room. Shadows danced across the walls as the wind outside whispered through the trees. Inside, time felt suspended. Ava sat cross-legged on the thick rug, the warmth of the fire brushing her bare arms. She was reading from a dog eared poetry collection she’d found tucked between old novels on a high shelf. The spine was cracked. The pages smelled like memories. The poems weren’t curated or famous just raw, honest words scrawled by someone who must’ve loved too deeply.

"But they mattered." He pulled the book free and placed it carefully into Adelaide's hands. The leather had become silky with age. Its corners had rounded smooth beneath countless fingers. When she opened it, intricate illustrations greeted her first. Towering beasts whose bodies appeared woven from living constellations. Children sailing rivers of liquid light. Cities suspended beneath enormous floating crystals. She turned another page. Then another. Every illustration became stranger than the last. "What is this place?" "A world that exists only inside someone's imagination."

Her work at the local bookstore, once a mundane routine, now felt infused with a sense of meaning. She found herself drawn to the poetry section, her fingers tracing the spines of books she had never explored before. She discovered the delicate beauty of Emily Dickinson's words, the raw emotion of Sylvia Plath's verse, and the lyrical prose of Langston Hughes. Each poem, a window into a different soul, resonated with her own experiences, her own struggles and triumphs.

I prompted. “I am reading the epic poems by the Fae Sage Yric of Cynraed, most particularly the Paragon of Theodghar and the Deceit of Elovyn.” “Poetry,” I sat back on my heels and regarded him in bemusement. The beautiful golden-haired man was absorbed in reading poetry, or all the unusual things for him to possibly be reading in a dragon’s cave, poetry had not even entered my speculative list. “I did not imagine you would read poetry.”

I locked my car doors before I even sat down. At home, I did what I always did when my insides felt scraped raw. I made tea. Then I stacked my folklore books on the kitchen table and opened them like a woman preparing for an exam she hated. The house grew quiet around me as afternoon sank into evening. The fox dozed. The rabbit ate with suspicious glances. The thrush shifted and rustled under her cover, wing healing one tiny day at a time. I read. Some of it was nonsense. Truly ridiculous. Moonlit transformations. cursed bloodlines. wolf spirits luring travellers into ravines.

Experienced. I finally climbed out and hurried inside, cheeks flushed, body humming with unresolved tension. Friday felt both too far away and dangerously close. As I peeled off my wet clothes and stepped into a hot shower, water cascading over my skin, I let myself wonder what might happen when I walked through his door. One dinner. Just talking. That’s what I told myself. But my hand drifted lower, fingers brushing between my thighs as the fantasy played on, and I knew I was already lying to myself.

I felt my pussy contract at his words, grasping at something that wasn’t there yet I desperately craved. “Just focus on the stars, baby.” he licked up and down my neck while his fingers finally parted my folds, finding my clit. He rubbed the bundle of nerves until I shook. I stared up at the ceiling as shooting stars and comets zipped by. I felt myself getting close, as if I could join those heavenly bodies up in the sky.