Monday, November 14, 2016

Ficbit - The Harem Master - Dragon Dance (Demir/Kitt)

Raking claws. Kitt's left arm shot out and swung hard to the left. Lashing tail. He swung his right leg high in the air. Dragon's breath. Grasping jaws.

Eventually even the training terms faded away, leaving only the white haze of perfect concentration, mind and body focused solely on movement, breathing, on becoming a living weapon that did the bloody. deeds to keep the Dragon's children safe from the darker elements of the world.

The brighter the light, the darker the shadows.
The darker the shadows, the brighter the light.

We fight in the shadows, we bleed in the dark.
We live in the night, we die for the light.

Kitt dipped, swung, spun, struck invisible foes, sliced nonexistent throats, kicked, punched, spun, dipped and started all over again.

By the time he'd finished his workout, a rigorous trial that all shadows must be capable of before they were allowed to move on to the final, often fatal, level of training, he was exhausted, sore, and soaked in sweat, hair plastered to his head, the loose pants he'd put on clinging to his skin.

He stood in the middle of the room in the finishing pose, chest heaving, heart pounding—and the restless, unhappy energy he'd been trying to expel still clinging.

Kitt sighed and dropped the finishing pose, stripped off his sweaty pants, and went over to the corner and pulled on the velvet cord that opened up a hatch and let cool water pour down over him. When he was mostly clean, he went over to the nearby bath and slipped into it, groaning as the much hotter water sank into his sore muscles.

Eventually he climbed out, and drank down nearly all the water that one of the guards must have been kind enough to request for him, since he hadn't been that smart himself.

Feeling refreshed if not better, he went over to the clean clothes he'd brought and pulled on the pants and skirt. But when he picked up the first piece of jewelry, he could not bring himself to put it on.

What people thought of him had never mattered. If he was doing his job right, people either didn't think about him at all, or swiftly forgot they'd ever seen him. So why was mindless, petty gossip bothering him so much now?

"Have you ever thought of dancing?"

Kitt jerked, turned sharply, prepared for a fight even as he registered both the fact only one person in the whole palace could move more quietly than him, and the voice belonged to that person. "Demir."

Demir smiled in that faint, sweet way of his, and if he took offense to Kitt's instinctive reaction to fight, it didn't show. "I suppose I should have started with 'hello', but I thought you must have seen me."

"No," Kitt said, which was troubling, but then again, he knew all the way down to his bones that Demir was trustworthy—safe. "How long were you watching me?"

"Almost the whole time. I almost joined you in the bath, but you seemed to want to space."

Kitt made a face. "Something like that."

Demir drew closer. "You move beautifully. Have you ever thought of learning to dance?"

"Me? Dance?" Kitt laughed, even as it felt like a knife was twisting in his gut. "I'm a snake, a killer, if retired. I don't dance. Such things are for people like you, Harem Master."

Shaking his head slightly at the teasingly used title, Demir drew closer still. He smelled like incense and rose-scented oil, the kind massaged into the skin to keep it soft and supple. He also had the flush of someone who'd bathed recently, his long, heavy hair still damp, though he'd woven it into an intricate braid.

Normally Demir dressed ornately, but right then his only decorations were the two pieces he always wore, save when he washed or slept: the collar with the key, and the delicate gold chain that connected to the piercing in his cock.

"As you say, you're retired," Demir said, and patience was another thing he had over Kitt. It might irritate him if it wasn't so enthralling. "So why do you cling to your skills in a form you no longer require, instead of modifying them to something you can use?"

Kitt blinked slowly at that. "I'm good at killing people. What in the world does that translate to?"

It certainly didn't translate to being a quiet, protective presence like Haluk.

Nor would he ever possess Sabah's courtly skills and political acumen. He could follow the intricate threads of a court well enough, but not the say Sabah and Ihsan did.

And he would certainly never be the perfect concubine that Demir was.

He was glaringly white in a place of gold and brown and black skin. He was a professional killer in a beautiful, decadent palace that had other people to do such things. He was too loud, too restless, too rough, too heathen.

The only thing that really made him worth keeping, outside of how deeply he loved all of them, was his talent in bed. Which was hardly a skill unique to him, even if he was what most would call the sluttiest about it.

Certainly everyone in the royal palace loved to pose that was the only reason Ihsan kept such an awkward, silly, far too casual and poorly trained heathen as a concubine.

Damn it, he should have brought his knives and practiced with those. That would keep—

Kitt's thoughts scattered at the soft, slow drag of fingers across his stomach, the touch featherlight but searing. Soft lips touched his shoulder, then dragged up his throat, teeth grazing his ear in that way Demir knew melted him. Demir knew things the rest of them didn't until they turned into puddles at his feet. Assassins, bah. The Shadow Temple should take up creating concubines as lethal as Demir. They'd achieve world peace within a decade. "Demir…"

Soft, husky chuckles filled his ear. "You move as fluidly as a bird in the sky. Like a dancer." Demir's fingers dipped into his pants, teasing along his cock before wrapping around it in a light, frustrating grip. Kitt hissed and pushed back against him. It had always been an asset in the field that he was small, slender. Being so made him light and quick, moreso than most of the people he faced. Where necessary, people also mistook him for weak, and that was infinitely useful.

He also didn't mind that it meant men like Haluk and Demir towered over him, enfolded him. Ihsan had been the first to kiss him like someone who could be loved. Sabah had kissed him like a friend, an equal—a confidant. Haluk had been the first to make him feel protected in a world where Kitt was used to protecting himself, had been taught never to trust someone else to do it.

He hadn't thought anyone else could affect him so, but he'd never forget that first kiss Demir had given him. Not the one Kitt had playfully stolen when they were thwarting that ass Baluk, but the one provoked by teasing, but which had been anything but. No, Demir had kissed with devotion exactly as threatened and left Kitt feeling something wholly new: precious. Every time Demir kissed him in that slow, intense, burning away, Kitt felt like something precious.

"No, don't stop, what are you doing," he whined as Demir pulled away, whirling around to pout. "You can't touch me like that then stop."

Demir merely chuckled again, though it wasn't hard to tell his mischief hadn't left him unaffected either. "You have all the grace and control, and the passion and fire, that are required for dancing. If you seek to do more as a concubine, I think that is a fine place for you to start."

Hating the flush he could feel on his cheeks, because he'd thought that an embarrassing trait he'd lost long ago, Kitt said, "Why do you always notice these things?"

"All of you constantly call me 'Harem Master' yet seem to forget what the means. Do you think you're the only concubine I've seen who felt uncertain of their place? Who felt they were not good enough, did not fit in, would never be 'as perfect' as all the others? You possess a hundred skills I never will, but you and I overlap a bit more than you've ever fully appreciated."

Kitt frowned. "I'm not a dancer."

"No?" Demir stepped in close again, taking one of his hands, his other arm sliding around Kitt's waist and pulling him not quite flush. "Move with me. Hold my gaze."

Huffing, Kitt obeyed, resting his free on Demir's shoulder, more than happy to stare at his ridiculously lovely face as they moved together around the room, following the music that Demir softly hummed. "What is the point of this nonsense? Is this what passes for dancing in Tavamara?"

Demir laughed loudly then, so beautiful Kitt ached to touch him, to lick and suck and bite at his lips, tug at the rings in his nipples and mouth his way down Demir's broad, well-muscled chest, rip away his clothes to indulge further, explore with his tongue before spreading his legs even wider and fucking him until he screamed Kitt's name. "This particular dance is actually Tritacian in origin, called a spinner, or at least a version of it. We're moving much slower than a traditional spinner, and there are many variations." He drew them to a halt and cupped Kitt's face, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine right before Demir kissed. Slowly, deeply, as though nothing and no one else in the world existed, as though this was the only thing Demir was meant to do and he happily embraced that fate. His mouth was hot, his tongue possessive but not aggressive as it tangled with Kitt's and tasted every curve and crevice of his mouth, hands gentle where they still cradled his head.

Kitt moaned, sliding his arms around Demir's neck as Demir slid his own down to entwin Kitt's waist. He clung tightly, rubbed and grinded as best he could—and swore long and loud and creatively in Rittuen when Demir pulled away again. "Stop doing that! Get back here and finish what you started!"

"Catch," Demir said, and threw something at him.

Kitt caught it easily, and snapped the fan open without even thinking about. It was made of bamboo and black silk, painted with gold and red roses. "This is a Rittuen court fan." There was even a poem on the inside as was typical, though in Tavamaran rather than Rittuen. It was also erotic, which was not done with court fans, because for all the rest of the world considered them mindless, insatiable sluts, they didn't go around writing porn on items meant for cooling one's face when those items were to be taken to a fancy dinner or the royal palace or some such. Erotic fans were private gifts kept in private places. "How appropriate you give me a fan that discusses the merits of blowjobs. I'd rather you simply get down on your knees and suck my cock."

A fleeting, teasing smile. "Patience, little dragon. Mimic me."

"There had better be satisfaction at the end of all this nonsense," Kitt muttered, but obeyed because he liked making Demir happy and that was never a hard thing to do.

Also, it wasn't like Demir was making him do anything difficult, even if he wasn't quite certain why anyone danced with a silly fan.

After several repetitions of the dance, Demir added a second fan and several more moves, which at least made matters interesting, if not exactly challenging. All right, maybe it was interesting and a little fun anyway, although no small part of that fun was in watching Demir.

When they finally stopped, Kitt was panting and Demir looked entirely too pleased with himself. "What is that smirk all about?"

"You will make a very fine dancer. I will have a proper tutor brought, since you will rapidly surpass what I can teach you. I think you will be plenty capable of performing at Ihsan's birthday celebration."

"That's in three months."

"Yes." Demir took the fans and discarded them on the bench where Kitt's jewelry still lay. He hooked his fingers into the waist of Kitt's pants and tugged him close, mouth dropping over Kitt's all fire and heat and hunger.

Kitt clung to his arms, digging his nails into soft skin and hard muscle, moaning as Demir ate at his mouth, shuddering as a hand pushed into his pants and wrapped around his cock, nothing teasing or frustrating about it this time.

Tearing away, Kitt said, "Oh, no, you got what you wanted, Harem Master, and now I get what I want."

Demir dragged his tongue across Kitt's lips. "And what is that?"

"I want to fuck you."

A warm chuckle washed over him. "Then it's a good think I came prepared to indulge pretty, bossy dragons."

Kitt moaned, shivered, his head falling back at the image of Demir preparing himself, spurred on by the wet kisses that trailed down his throat and teased at the mark on his collarbone left by an overzealous Haluk the night before.

He managed to pull away enough to make quick work of their clothes, then spread Demir out on the floor and did all the licking and biting and sucking he'd been thinking about while Demir taught him how to dance. He tugged playfully on the chain, laughing delightedly at the shudder and groan that got him, the hot, needy look on Demir's face. Granting some mercy, he unhooked the chain from the piercing, but then wrapped it around his hand and pulled Demir up to kiss him, biting at those luscious lips, liking the way he left them wet and swollen.

Letting Demir sprawl on the floor again, Kitt shifted to get his mouth around Demir's cock—something they'd only been able to touch again recently, now that the tattoo was fully healed, a continuation of the beautiful flowers that covered so much of the rest of him. Speaking of things that could bring world peace—or nearly start another world—the sight of a naked Demir could bring kingdoms to their knees.

Thankfully, no one would ever know just how devastating he could be save the four of them, and maybe someday a fifth harem member.

Kitt took him deep, sucked hard, cheeks hollowed, tongue working the underside, doing his level best to return some of the thought-destroying madness Demir inflicted on the rest of them. He pulled off when Demir seemed close to coming, however, spreading Demir's thighs wider, sliding fingers back to find he was as slick and stretched as promised. Dipping low, he licked at Demir's hole with his tongue, enjoying the broken noise that got him. "All the things we've done, and I don't think we've done this. Remind me to do it properly tonight; Sabah and I can take turns, he always was unreasonably talented with that tongue of his." That got another lovely moan, and how had none of them known about this obvious weakness their lovely harem master possessed?

Well, that weakness would definitely be exploited later. For the present, Kitt sat up and shifted to line up his cock, staring at Demir's beautiful face, meeting those intense eyes, breath taken by the love and adoration he always found there. He thrust inside in one smooth motion, making them both shudder, and after a moment to catch his breath started moving, bracing his hands on the floor, fucking into Demir deep and hard, as heavy legs and arms clung to him, Demir moving with him, taking everything Kitt gave and returning it.

Kitt would have gladly fucked him for hours if that was a thing that was possible, but given how intoxicating Demir was, he was pleased he lasted as long as he did. Thrusting in deep one last time, kissing Demir hard, he finally let his climax consume him, and felt Demir spill between them.

After a moment, with a last parting kiss, Kitt rolled over and sprawled on the floor beside him. "I wish all my practice sessions ended this way."

"So will you consider taking up dancing? Have I proven you would excel at it? I think our king would be incapable of speech to see you so."

Kitt shook his head, but didn't voice his doubts. Dancing still felt like something other people did—people like Sabah, like Demir, like fine lords and ladies.

But in the beats between his doubts, he could admit he'd had fun, and Demir was right—the movements were not unlike those he used in his training, and it was infinitely more interesting to practice at something that was not meant for killing. "Why the fans?"

"They were something we absorbed from Rittuen visitors, and have created our own customs for. I thought it might appeal to you, something equal parts Rittuen and Tavamaran."

Kitt smiled, and rolled back over to drape himself along Demir's broad, beautiful body. "As ever, Harem Master, you know what you're about."

"I live to serve, little dragon," Demir replied, and drew him into another kiss.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

WIP: Untitled MMF story

This is for my wife, Sasha, and our BFF, Isabella. I wrote a High King short recently (that takes place after Heart of the Lost Star so I can't post it yet) and one of the characters writes erotic stories. I wrote a throwaway line about one of the books she was writing, and they demanded I write that story. So here is the beginning of that story.

(pardon typos etc, this is still very much in progress)


Shanna wiped sweat from her brow as she put away her shovel, pulling off the kerchief around her neck to mop away more sweat and grime. There was nothing quite like an afternoon of cleaning out the dragon stables to burn off anxiety and worry.

Unfortunately, it did not burn away the long evening looming before her. A hateful father—stepfather—looming over her, piles upon piles of suitors from which she must pick a consort she didn't want. Because her father might hate that she was the queen-in-waiting, but the law was the law, and he was only a consort himself. But she also wasn't stupid enough to think he'd let her pick anyone who didn't meet with his approval, which means someone who either would immediately ally with him or would be easily walked over.

If he thought she would tolerate that as placidly as she tolerated everything else he did—or did not do—then he was sorely mistaken. She might not particularly want a consort, but whoever she married could be an advantage for her as much as for him if she was able to slip the ideal one past him. Too many ifs, but there was nothing to be done about that. And for all he could manipulate and threaten, he could only go so far. Many laws were flexible and gray, but those commanding the throne were set in stone and steel. She had the right to choose her future consort, and the choice must be freely made, and all suitable candidates given fair and equal choice. If even a whiff of scheming was detected, the whole affair would be called off and begun anew next year. Even the useless council under her father's thumb would not be able to do much if she cried there had been a violation of the rules.

But that was not a card to be played lightly, for it would only work once and could easily backfire. No, she had to pick the right person the first time.

Hopefully, whoever it was would prove be her key to freedom and safety. She was exhausted living on edge and in fear every hour of every day.

She had watched the suitors trickle in all day, from the imperious and tiresome Prince Gorna from Ashta, who'd taken her for a servant happy to double as a prostitute, all the way down to Princess Nina, who'd taken her for a servant and therefore invisible.

So far, she was none too pleased with most of her options, to judge by the way they thought servants were to be treated. A few had been polite, though, even cordial, so at least a few options existed.

One of the stable hands brought her a cup of cool water, and Shanna thanked him, smiling warmly. "How is your mother?"

"Starting to walk again, thank the Goddess. She'd been stuck abed much longer, we'd have killed her or she'd have killed us," the boy said with a grin.

Shanna laughed. "I remember being that pleasant to deal with myself when I broke my ankle as a young girl."

Most would argue she was a young girl still, and normally she might agree, because twenty-three still left a lot of life and learning to do—but with her mother suspiciously dead the past six years, a stepfather determined to put himself on the throne and forever keep her off it, a court and council who refused to see her as a woman grown, and still two years from being old enough to claim her throne, Shanna didn't feel terribly young.

She felt alone, tired, and afraid.

Handing off the cup, she handed it back to Tikki and ruffled his hair before sending him off. She'd check on the sick red dragon then head back to the keep to dress for dinner.

"Pardon me."

The voice slid down her spine like good whiskey down the throat. Shanna turned, and drew a sharp breath through her nostrils at the handsome men standing just inside the stable—with horses. Intrigued they would use horses when their clothes marked them as nobility or royalty, she closed some of the distance between them.

The man on the left was short and lean, with yellow-brown skin and thick, dark hair pulled into a short braid. It was dark but she still caught a hint of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and his eyes seemed to be dark blue or green. He would barely reach her chin, but what he lacked in height he certainly made up for in presence—especially the friendly smile he gave her. "My pardon, Highness, I didn't realize it was you until you came into the light." He glanced around the stables. "You've some handsome dragons here, from what I can see."

"Thank you. I am honored you recognize me, but chagrined I do not know you. Have we met before and I callously forgot?"

He laughed, as did the man beside him, who was as tall and broad and dark as the first man was short and thin and light. "Not all, Your Highness. This is the first time anyone from my kingdom has visited your lovely home for a long time. I am Kallaar bella Fontare of Morentia, at your most humble service."

"Your Highness," she said, and matched his elegant bow. "It's an honor to have you here, you and…"

He looked up with another of those bright, boyish smiles, like he'd somehow never lost the ability to be happy about even the smallest things that came so easily to children. "This is my bodyguard and dearest friend, Master Ahmla della Taar. Master Ahmla is the proper address for his station."

"Thank you. An honor to meet you as well, Master Ahmla. I was about to return to the keep. Let's get your horses settled and then you may walk with me. What brings you to Rumark?"

Kallaar's face filled with surprise. "Why, we were invited to send a suitor, of course. Did Your Highness not know?"

"Forgive me, no, my mother arranged all that shortly before her passing. I must have forgotten, in the aftermath of her sudden death, that she had extended an invitation to you. Forgive me, please."

"No forgiveness necessary, Your Highness." Kallaar's smile was soft, sweet and understanding. "She and my father were good friends, but it's true the rest of us seldom knew what they got up to. I only knew of the invitation myself a month before I left to travel here."

"Well I am happy to have you here, please be assured of that." And she was, if only because it would annoy her father, who would be insulted to have his time 'wasted' by a small kingdom that was generally content to ignore and be ignored by the rest of the world.

"That's most gracious of you, Highness." They led the horses along as she showed them where to put them—really, it was a portion of the stable used almost exclusively by servants and less wealthy guests, since no noble or royal would be caught dead traveling anywhere save by dragon.

She tried not to stare while they worked, but it was difficult. Both men moved with the familiarity of people used to working in stables and tending their own mounts. Neither had seemed surprised to see her there, and Prince Kallaar at least had recognized her.

Ahmla's hair clacked as they worked, cut to his chin and strung with wooden beads that seemed carved to resemble various birds, beasts, and insects. More than once he was forced to stop working because his mare loved to try to nibble at them.

When the horses were finally settled and happily eating, Shanna led the way out the back entrance of the stable and along the servants' path to the back of the keep, through the enormous, always busy and hot kitchens. Standing in the large servant hallway that was the main connection point to getting to the rest of the enormous royal castle, she gestured to a large wooden door at the far end. "If you go through there, you'll find your way to the great hall. Look for a man with long white hair, Steward Graiss, and he will tend you properly."

"Thank you, Highness. We will see you at dinner."

She nodded, watched them depart—only staring at the way their leather breeches fit a little bit—then finally headed up the stairs all the way to her own room.

Sunday, September 4, 2016

Ficbit: Beraht/Dieter

I was too lazy to come up with a title. I have another one in mind to write with these two with this particular arrangement (the first time mentioned in this bit), but it'll have to wait until I get some other stuff done ^^;;


* * * * *

Dieter rolled over in bed, immediately  annoyed to find it empty. The room was dark, save for the crackling fire. A glance out the slightly parted curtains shows it was still some hour of the night or early morning. Dieter yawned as he gave the room a more thorough pass, irritation increasing as it proved not to contain Beraht. Why could the man not stay in bed the whole night through?

His right arm ached, healed from its break but only barely, and a long way from possessing the strength it once had. Dieter sighed and heaved himself out of bed, still tired but too frustrated and keyed up now to sleep.

He'd just started to make some tea when the door snicked open and Beraht slid inside. He stopped short as he saw Dieter. "What are you doing awake?"

"Where have you been?"

They glared at each other, then Beraht huffed and crossed the room to set the tray of food he was carrying on the table. "I woke up and then was too hungry to go back to sleep. Why are you out of bed?"

"Something woke me," Dieter said. "I'm not a damned invalid, if I want to get out of bed, I shall. Winter's Tits, I like you better when you are nagging as incessantly as Her Majesty."

Beraht snatched the tea kettle from his hands. "Until four days ago you were an invalid—"


"Stop your growling, it doesn't work on me." Beraht filled the kettle from a pitcher on the table and swung it over the fire, which he then tended with the poker before adding a couple more logs to the pile.

Dieter sneered as he took his seat, eyes falling briefly to Beraht's crotch. "It works on parts of you."

Beraht ignored him.

"Even with a broken arm I could make my own tea, you addled Salharan."

Beraht continued ignoring him, instead returning to his tray of food and quickly dividing the contents into two portions.

Sighing, too cranky and tired to continue protesting Beraht's incessant fussing, Dieter pushed his overlong hair from his face and stared at the scratched table, running his fingers over the scars left by Beraht's daggers on more than one occasion.

There was more gray in his hair, though he was not quite yet forty. Time made him look increasingly like the wild, mindlessly violent Krian so many people still assumed him to be, whispering in delighted terror once he'd passed them in the halls or barracks.

Beraht, on the other hand, only grew more beautiful with time, long and lean, sharp as the blades almost always secreted on his person, his skin neither the snowy tones of Illussor nor the warmer tones of Salhara. Bathed in firelight, he looked like a bit of his vexing magic brought to even more frustrating life.

"Why are you scowling so much?" Beraht asked as he set a plate of food in front of Dieter. One of two plates, so whatever his grousing he'd prepared to find Dieter awake.

"I'd imagine it's the same reason you've been more hostile than usual, lately," Dieter said, and reached up with his left hand to curl his fingers around the back of Beraht's neck and dragged him down into a hard kiss.

Beraht bit his lips. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Did you get knocked upside the head harder than I thought? I hadn't realized it'd been that long since we fucked."

"Your arm—"

"Is fine," Dieter groused. "I murdered the Kaiser, I can fuck you with a weak arm. Since when did the man who slaughtered half my army yet somehow become the namesake of my sword become such a soft clod? Winter's Tits, cease your incessant fussing."

Beraht's gold eyes blazed. "I'm not fussing. I simply do not want you hurting it again and making the entire stars rejected kingdom miserable for three more months."

"Like you've been so pleasant to be around. I am fine, but by all means do all the work if it means you will shut up and stop denying both of us what we want."

"Did you just order me to fuck you?" Beraht asked, the barest smile twitching at his lips.

"I do not care what you do. Ride my cock, fuck me, only cease fussing."

Beraht kissed him again, biting Dieter's bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, then pushing his tongue deep, the kind of kiss Dieter had gone without for entirely too long. He tore away, pushed his chair back, and tumbled Beraht toward and into the bed.

Squirming away, Beraht rose up on his knees and shoved Dieter down into the bedding. "On your back, General."

The words weren't really filthy, and they certainly shouldn't have been enough to go straight to Dieter's cock, but they were and did all the same. But Beraht had always had that effect on him, far longer than Dieter would ever admit aloud. Longer than he'd been willing to admit to himself until he'd nearly lost Beraht.

Once Dieter was laid out, Beraht made swift work of their clothes, leaving them in a scattered mess on the floor beside the bed. He moved away briefly to fetch the oil on the table between the wall and the bed, then returned to settle between Dieter's heavy thighs.

Smirking, Beraht slicked one hand with far too much oil and trailed long, messy lines from Dieter's throat and all the way down his broad, smooth chest. Dieter had been given many an odd look in the army for his fastidiousness, but he could not stand to be anymore hairy or sweaty or dirty than he absolutely must.

Beraht, of course, took great pleasure in making a mess of him—in as many ways as possible. Dieter scowled and grabbed his hand. "Beraht—" He was cut off by a toothy kiss, Beraht draping over him, further smearing all the oil covering him, his messy hand tangling in Dieter's hair and yanking hard. Tearing away, Dieter resumed glaring. "Quit—"

Beraht kissed him again, dragging his tongue across Dieter's abused bottom lip, tonguing the small scar that ran alongside the right side of his mouth where a dagger had nicked him in a tussle with thieves. Then he shifted to put his mouth to Dieter's throat, grunting at the hands that grabbed his ass and grinded them together. He sucked up a bruise on Dieter's throat that would equal the ones Dieter was leaving on Beraht's hips.

Then he started working his way down Dieter's body, alternating kisses with long licks of his tongue and stinging bites, the occasional line of scratches from his nails, leaving a trail of marks that would last a mixture of minutes, hours, and days.

He idly fisted Dieter's cock, stroking just enough to tease, to infuriate. "Beraht, I will—" Dieter broke off with a grunt as Beraht's slick hand cupped and rolled his balls, a sensation Dieter loved and hated in equal measure.

Leaving off after a few minutes, when Dieter's threats became less empty, Beraht pushed a slick finger inside him. His eyes glowed, hot and bright, as he met Dieter's gaze. Dieter grunted again as the finger pushed and twisted, but mostly to annoy Beraht, who wanted him to make far more noise than that.

As ever, the sensation was equal parts familiar and strange. Dieter had been trained well when it came to fucking, his father had seen to that just as thoroughly as he'd seen to all the rest of Dieter's training. But this Dieter had never done much of, only enough to make himself a pleasure for the Kaiser instead of an ignorant, fumbling fool. Later, there'd been no one he liked or trusted enough to fuck him, not that there'd been many people lining up to be invited into the bed of the man the Kaiser hated more than anyone else in the world. The first one to fuck him since his training had been completed was Beraht, a few months after they'd become lovers.

He hissed as Beraht went straight from one finger to three. "I will—"

"Shut up," Beraht said, but leaned down to kiss him, sucking and biting at his lower lip before pushing his tongue in to fuck Dieter's mouth. Dieter buried both hands in Beraht's hair and returned the kiss full measure, determined to leave every inch of his mouth well-used and sore.

Drawing back and removing his fingers, Beraht lined up his cock and slowly pushed inside, his long groan filling the bedroom.

Dieter dragged him down, held Beraht tightly between his legs and bit his lips. "Given how long you're taking, I'm starting to think you either forgot how to use your cock or haven't missed this."

"Shut up," Beraht said, biting hard enough to set Dieter's lip bleeding again, licking it away before drawing back, settling his hands on Dieter's thighs, and setting into a hard, deep rhythm that rendered them both incapable of talking.

Dieter closed his eyes, focusing on sensation without the distraction of Beraht sweaty and needy and bathed in flickering light. Beraht's cock left him feeling burned and stretched, and no doubt Dieter would be left with an ache he would feel for some time. Not something he wanted often, but only Beraht had ever really made him want it enough to seek it out.

Opening his eyes, Dieter stared into Beraht's, which always shone arcen yellow no matter the years that passed, as much a scar as those left by knives and swords and flame across both their bodies. Normally the sight of arcen eyes made him tense for a fight and brace for pain. With Beraht, he tensed and braced for entirely different reasons—and no matter the years that passed, the number of days and nights they spent together, he could not quite believe those reasons were mutual.

The look in Beraht's eyes said his thoughts were much the same. As ever, the most vital words between them never needed to be spoken.

Beraht drove into him hard enough Dieter finally gasped, then bent and kissed his abused lips, thrust his tongue deep as his hips stuttered a few last times. He shuddered hard and collapsed atop Dieter, and lay there panting for a brief time.

Finally dragging himself up, Beraht slid down Dieter's body and swallowed his cock, and it took only a few expert pulls of that infuriating mouth between Dieter was spilling down his throat.

Pulling away, wiping sweat and come from his mouth and chin, Beraht crawled back up to stretch out alongside Dieter, hot and sweaty, but Dieter enjoyed the feel of him too much to push him away simply to be cooler. "Will you cease nagging me now, you irritating Salharan?"

Beraht didn't bother to open his eyes, just chuckled into Dieter's shoulder, the sound fading as sleep got the better of him.

Dieter considered shoving him off the bed, but decided it would be better to exact revenge in the morning, when he could put Beraht on his hands and knees and fuck him until he screamed. In the meantime, he closed his eyes, content to doze until Beraht woke in a few minutes in search of the snack he'd forgotten about.

Monday, August 22, 2016

Wriggle & Sparkle: Be You

Once upon a time, I wrote a post (I no longer remember what it was about) and somewhere in there I made a flippant comment about how even if I wrote about a kraken shifter and a sparkly unicorn, it would still be a valid story (ah, I think it was a rant about how romance is awesome and people need to stop shitting on it, or something close to that).

And people said I should really write about the kraken and unicorn. So I did.

Right around the time I started writing, I read a post I have long since lost the link to, about how shifter fic never really pushes all that shifters could be capable of, especially when it comes to gender and such. Which gave me ideas.

But I started with Anderson, my unicorn. He's small, slender and delicate of build, extremely pretty, loves pink and sparkly things and pretty things and sweets with all his heart. He also has a long string of lovers, is looked down on by other unicorns for being unconventional and slutty, and has a job that's considered unorthodox for unicorns. He is both very unicorn and very not unicorn.

Then there is Lynn, my kraken, one of my fav characters that I've written for several reasons. One, I always like the obnoxious ones. They resonate with me in a way other characters don't. But Lynn also is where I tried to push myself with what shifters are capable of.

Lynn's true form is a monster of the deep kraken the size of several tall office buildings. He wouldn't completely destroy  New York City, but he'd put a sizable dent in it. Now, shifters in general can pick the human form they want to shift into, and even change it later down the road. Lynn, however, is genderfluid and has the ability to shift into a cis-male or cis-female form whenever the hell he wants. His twin has the same ability since they're also genderfluid. Lynn can also shift into a half-form, where his upper half is human, but his bottom half is tentacles.

And let me tell you, the research for this has taught me more about how octopuses and squid fuck than I ever wanted to know. But his tentacles are not arbitrary or entirely made up, they were created based on what I read about octopuses and squid (he's got elements of both, since one or the other was not sufficient for my purposes).

But pushing myself to be more creative with shifters wasn't my only goal with this book. The obvious themes of W&S are gatekeeping, stereotypes, and just generally the needless difficulties and hurt caused by expecting people to meet the arbitrary rules of one group or another (Jader from my High Court series is another character on this theme). It's shitty to be told you're not really X because you don't look/behave/think A,B,C,D, and E. You're married to a man, you're not really a bisexual woman (or you're 'straight passing'). You don't look Jewish. You don't act Black. You're not really Latina. You don't look genderqueer. I never would have guessed you were a lesbian. Look at what he's wearing, obviously he's gay. And let's not forget how often trans people are abused, raped, and murdered for not 'passing' as suitably 'masculine' or 'feminine'.

I cannot tell you how much I hate dumb blonde jokes. The only time I ever found them funny was when my dad (or other family members) told them because I know my family does not see me as stupid simply because I'm blonde and have large breasts (my dad tells them to get a rise out of me, which is something he and I have always done with each other) But those stupid fucking jokes have done me, and a lot of other women, a lot of harm. Nowhere near the harm that has been done to all of the above groups, but it still hurts.

All my life people have presumed to tell me how they think I should behave, because I'm this, or that, because I did this, or am doing that. Without ever once considering how condescending and patronizing that is, that I'm adult who is very aware of my position in life and am capable of making my own decisions. I don't need anyone telling me how they think I should be living my life. It's mine, victories and losses, successes and failures, brilliant moments and grand stupidities and all. Outside of the small circle of people I trust to give me a reality check, people need to mind their own business. And this goes for everyone who does that shit to anyone else.

So Wriggle & Sparkle means a lot to me, partly because I think it's a solid collection of stories and I'm proud of my shifters, but mostly because at its core W&S is about two people who just want to be allowed to be themselves without being harassed or shamed. Who find in each other someone who accepts them exactly as they are, and loves them for better, worse, and all the rest.

Lynn is a kraken shifter in every way: detailed, tenacious, resilient, and hard-working. Also possessive, vain, arrogant, and demanding. It makes him an excellent agent for the Federal Bureau of Paranormal Security and Investigation—and impossible to work with, as the long list of partners who have transferred away from him will attest.

His newest partner is a unicorn, possibly the worst type of paranormal for work that often turns ugly and violent. Everyone knows unicorns are too delicate for such things. Then Anderson proves to be a unicorn like no other, the kind of partner Lynn has always wanted—the kind of partner he wishes was more. But if there's one thing he's learned, it's that the only thing harder to keep than a partner is a lover.

LT3 | ARe | Amazon | B&N | Kobo

Monday, July 25, 2016

State of Me

First, for those who followed my post about Bird, he is doing well for the moment. He pretty much hates us for shoving antibiotics down his throat for like a month, but he's healthy for now.

I, however, am currently something of a mystery. I've been suffering various pains and aches all year that nothing gets rid of. Over the counter stuff doesn't touch, prescription strength naproxen didn't touch it, and it definitely isn't going away after basically six months of misery and me freaking the fuck out on poor Sasha on a nigh-daily basis.

So the doctor definitely thinks something more is at play, but we don't know what. So begins the process of elimination with bloodwork, and sometime in the near future an appt with a rheumatologist to get their assessment and rule out other things.

In the meantime, I've been put on Cymbalta to manage the pain (it's also used to treat anxiety, which is not a bad thing). The past few days have been extremely fuzzy, and my ability to sleep is completely fucked right now, but hopefully it will settle in another week or so.

So if I seem weird or extra flaky or anything over the next few weeks, that is why.

Much love to everyone who has read and enjoyed The Pirate of Fathoms Deep. You've no idea how much your comments and positive reviews and messages have cheered me up. I'm super happy everyone is stoked for Heart of the Lost Star too, since it's been my favorite to write so far. Currently I am bouncing between Rene's story (#0) and story #4, which I had started, but then scrapped and am now trying to start over. But it's about Myra, and the rest will have to remain a mystery for now :3 :3 :3

And now I am going to try and take a nap, though I don't hold out much hope. I'm not kidding when I say this medicine looks at my need for sleep and goes FUCK YOU.

But I'm bound to collapse eventually ^^;;

I hope everyone has a good week! <3 p="">

Thursday, June 30, 2016

Update on Bird

First, many thanks for the kind comments. They've left me crying, and gotten us through this rough week. I know I haven't replied to each one (yet), but I am deeply, deeply grateful.

As to Bird... we still don't know. The blood panel came back completely negative. Our poor vet has exhausted every resource, explored every nook and cranny he can think of, and cannot figure out what is causing Bird's fever.

The full story here is that Bird got a fever a few weeks ago. We took him to an emergency vet, then to our vet, who put him on antiobiotics that seemed to be working. Then they just stopped working.

And then Anika got the same thing. We put her on antiobiotics as well, but stopped after a couple of days because she was throwing up. Now she's perfectly fine. But Bird still has a fever, and a new antibiotic.

We have no idea what's causing it, and why just these two cats seem affected. There's nothing in the house that we can find that would be making them sick, their bloodtests have come back like they're healthy cats.

Our only options at this point are to keep dealing with the fever as it comes and goes. Because the only other option, according to our vet, is to take him to the teaching institution, but that will run from $3-5,000.00. Which is way beyond our abilities.

So Anika is tentatively better for the moment. Bird is still sick, depressed, and not eating. And there is no permanent solution in sight. But we're going to see how the latest meds do and go from there.

Thanks again for the support and kind words. Love you all muchly.


Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Tonight is why I write what I do

So our cat, Bird, is seriously ill. But the vet can't figure out with what. He keeps getting dangerously high fevers, and right now he's cuddled up with Sasha and a whole lot of ice. Come morning we're taking him straight to the vet.

But I probably won't sleep because I worry and obsess and can't let things go. I try not to worry, the way I'm advised. I try to stay calm and not let shit get to me, but it does. It eats at me and eats at me until I deal with it, for better or worse.

And it really really eats at me that people think my books (and the books of many authors I love and respect and admire) are less because they don't focus on the queerness of my characters, that I write queer as incidental instead. That my books are less because fluffy is basically a five-letter word in the sacred Land of Writing.

But I write for me, above and beyond all else. I write the stories that I would want to read when I am exactly as I am now: crying, afraid, unable to sleep, half-resigned that in the near future we will no longer have a Bird.

The morning I got mugged, I wrote. The night Pumpernickel died, I wrote. When I'm scared or distressed, I write. On the rare occasion I can't write, I read. Words have always been my greatest comfort, the place where I felt safest.

So I won't tolerate anyone telling me that what I write is wrong because it doesn't meet the standards of people more interested in drawing lines in the sand, setting hard definitions of what's "right" in queer romance, and telling me I'm wrong.

I write the stories I want to read. Fantasy. Worlds where people like me are just people, not Queer People. Just the normal fucking people that we are. Stories where I can trust the end will be happy, and I won't have to be absolutely miserable the whole time. Some of my stories are serious, some are pure fluff and nonsense, and most fall right smack between those two extremes.

But all of them, to my knowledge, have helped somebody get through a day or a night just like this one. And that is all I've ever wanted my stories to do. Not every piece of queer romance has to also serve as queer literature. Nobody asks every other piece of romance (or fiction) to also double as literature. That's what romance can do; it's not what romance has to do.

I write what I do to help change minds. The more something is treated as normal, the more people see it as normal. But mostly I write to help myself. It's an outlet. My cat may survive whatever is making him sick, and god do I hope so.

He may also not survive, and when that happens, I'll likely come home and write something hopelessly light and fluffy and sweet. Because it will help me, and somewhere down the road, maybe it will help someone else.

(and if you wanted to know what's getting me through tonight, I'll give you a hint. The working title is: The Lonely Dragon's Secret Treasure).