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.

Writing for love and money

So Tess Sharpe posted a twitter discussion recently about writing books for love vs. writing books for money . But the main take away, f...