R. Cooper's Blog, page 11
March 6, 2013
Steampunk Thoughts
Coffeetime Romance has a new steampunk section, and they asked me to do a blog entry today. Y'all can check it out if you like. I am still trying to figure out WordPress, (for the life of me I can't see where to upload a profile picture but other people do it so it must be possible) and I am having internet connection issues today, so I am a little flustered.
Okay I was already flustered because what do I even know about making blog posts about Things?
Anyway, if you want to check it out or educate me on WordPress, or discuss historical nerdiness with me, head on over there.
Let There Be Light
Okay I was already flustered because what do I even know about making blog posts about Things?
Anyway, if you want to check it out or educate me on WordPress, or discuss historical nerdiness with me, head on over there.
Let There Be Light
February 28, 2013
i just want your dirty love
Hey there, you people so patiently putting up with me while I go through things and don't write at all. Well, I did write a few short things, but the reaction to them among the people I showed them to was sort of underwhelming, so I assume they, uh, need work, to put it mildly. Sometimes things just don't happen (I blame my brain chemistry) and sometimes they do. In the meantime, I've been editing ye olde (embarrassing as hell) Ideas of Sin.
Editing in the sense of cleaning it up and resisting the urge to rewrite it, because it's kind of insane, but it's also clearly me at a certain point in my life and I can't change that now. Also a part of me thinks I should write crack like that more often. Glorious cheese!
ANYWAY. I'm going to put it up on Smashwords and take it down elsewhere. I will probably also make Under the Bridge free and slap a pricetag on My Man Godric. (Aren't I nice to warn you?) That's probably what I should have done in the first place, but I was playing around with Smashwords at the time and just figuring things out. I doubt the pricetag will be high.
In other news, on Wednesday, March 6, I will be doing a blog entry for the brand spankin' new Steampunk section at Coffee Time Romance. I will probably talk about corsets and dirigibles and Jules Verne, and maybe even about Karol and Hart. There will *probably* be a book giveaway, but I have to figure out how to do that. Especially since Let There Be Light is only available in ebook format. Please come check it out, if not for me than for the other authors. This putting yourself out there shit is *terrifying*.
And before I go... I got fanfiction. FANFIC, YOU GUYS. I am too nervous author to ever read it, but IT EXISTS and that is delightful. You can find it on Goodreads under the group minemineminemine.
Editing in the sense of cleaning it up and resisting the urge to rewrite it, because it's kind of insane, but it's also clearly me at a certain point in my life and I can't change that now. Also a part of me thinks I should write crack like that more often. Glorious cheese!
ANYWAY. I'm going to put it up on Smashwords and take it down elsewhere. I will probably also make Under the Bridge free and slap a pricetag on My Man Godric. (Aren't I nice to warn you?) That's probably what I should have done in the first place, but I was playing around with Smashwords at the time and just figuring things out. I doubt the pricetag will be high.
In other news, on Wednesday, March 6, I will be doing a blog entry for the brand spankin' new Steampunk section at Coffee Time Romance. I will probably talk about corsets and dirigibles and Jules Verne, and maybe even about Karol and Hart. There will *probably* be a book giveaway, but I have to figure out how to do that. Especially since Let There Be Light is only available in ebook format. Please come check it out, if not for me than for the other authors. This putting yourself out there shit is *terrifying*.
And before I go... I got fanfiction. FANFIC, YOU GUYS. I am too nervous author to ever read it, but IT EXISTS and that is delightful. You can find it on Goodreads under the group minemineminemine.
February 17, 2013
my love, she keeps me warm
I don't consider a story well done or characters drawn well until I can imagine them in Alternate Universes. Let me just say that, and that those Alternate Universes sometimes include their possible futures, but sometimes are just them in new situations. And sometimes those become actual stories.
The other day for example, it occurred to me that Tim and Nathaniel really should be set back in the day, and that they should be a werewolf arranged marriage story. Except that *is* kind of what they are.
Then I read a review of A Boy and His Dragon that asked for Arthur and Bertie's future, and as much as I spin stories of their magical egg (oh yes, that egg needs to get written) and Arthur meeting Bertie's parents, I can't help but think of Bertie and Arthur encountering each other, again, way back in the day. Peasant!Arthur meets fearsome beast!Bertie, and how an earlier version of them would have, er, combusted together much sooner.
I've written or talked about at least two AUs of Charlie and Will. No, wait, three. At least three. It's a problem I have. Especially when I'm not writing and I just keep imagining all these possibilities.
We won't even go into My Man Godric and the futurefic, how I've debated tragedy versus sublimely happy endings a million times. Really for all of them, but especially for Bertie and Godric. There is something delicious and yet reassuring about imagining their pain and then relieving it. (Oh god, what does that say about me?)
I don't know where I am going with this. Except when you guys ask for sequels it kind of chokes me up. Because it's sweet and yet you have no idea. ...
I need an emoticon for a wobbly smile. Because you guys. You guys. :)
The other day for example, it occurred to me that Tim and Nathaniel really should be set back in the day, and that they should be a werewolf arranged marriage story. Except that *is* kind of what they are.
Then I read a review of A Boy and His Dragon that asked for Arthur and Bertie's future, and as much as I spin stories of their magical egg (oh yes, that egg needs to get written) and Arthur meeting Bertie's parents, I can't help but think of Bertie and Arthur encountering each other, again, way back in the day. Peasant!Arthur meets fearsome beast!Bertie, and how an earlier version of them would have, er, combusted together much sooner.
I've written or talked about at least two AUs of Charlie and Will. No, wait, three. At least three. It's a problem I have. Especially when I'm not writing and I just keep imagining all these possibilities.
We won't even go into My Man Godric and the futurefic, how I've debated tragedy versus sublimely happy endings a million times. Really for all of them, but especially for Bertie and Godric. There is something delicious and yet reassuring about imagining their pain and then relieving it. (Oh god, what does that say about me?)
I don't know where I am going with this. Except when you guys ask for sequels it kind of chokes me up. Because it's sweet and yet you have no idea. ...
I need an emoticon for a wobbly smile. Because you guys. You guys. :)
February 6, 2013
we gettin' rowdy
Question regarding Facebook. I have a personal page and a fan page, and I don't really use either. I forget they are there in fact. Really a necessary thing? What am I supposed to post on them/what do people want to see? Just general publishing updates, that sort of thing?
Also I find it fascinating that ye olde Ideas of Sin is on quite a few lists on Goodreads, considering it was written so long ago and how most people don't like it. (Also, I know only the really, really old version is linked to on Goodreads, but there is a revised version available for free as well, just no one has ever linked to it on GR. ... I really should edit it again though and put it on Smashwords or something but there are only so many hours in the day and I am lazy/busy).
Ah, Ideas of Sin. Only read if you are in the mood for incredibly dramatic French pirates in love with uptight but hot English clerks, and if you can stand... well any part of my early writing.That story needs some fanart though, hot, pornographic fanart. ALL THE PORN.
Yes, I realize most of you do not what I am talking about. It's okay. I am avoiding work and all mentions of the Superbowl right now and mostly entertaining myself.
Here, have some epic cheese:
“You please me,” René murmured it, hiding his annoyance at saying such a thing out loud, twitching his eyebrows into something that was not a frown.
The rush of breath into James’ lungs stopped, and yet even with that, James found a way to speak.
“And when you sail to-morrow?” James asked him, tossing his head suddenly, with such strength that the bones in his neck cracked. Lights fired off the glass of his spectacles as he turned, reflections from the candles, leaving René blind as to the feeling in his brown eyes.
His heart sounded in his ears, and he knew he swallowed for his mouth was no longer dry, but it only became dry again, watching the abrupt, relentless motion of James as he covered his mouth with his hands and then dropped them to his coat, burying one in a pocket and grasping something so tightly that his arm shook.
James stepped forward, turning from the candlelight now, giving René a glimpse of eyes almost as dark as his own. “If I please you again, will those be left for me?” He waved at the floor, to where a mine of precious stones were scattered like pebbles. Treacherous obstacles for stumbling feet, but James strode toward him with deliberate steps that did not falter, and that was enough to have René searching the familiar face again, trying to find softly trembling lips.
Unsteadily, René leaned back until his hands found the smooth, cool table, “You want them?” He demanded in disbelief and then shook his head. But James would not pause to deny the words, and so they had to be truth.
“They are worthless to you,” James remarked, and he was standing before René, tall and strong and reaching for the tiny button at the top of his coat. There he trembled, his fingers slipping on the button, but René could not slow his racing heart, blinking at the strangeness of the vision before him. “You throw them away.” James was going on, still speaking though his voice was quiet in René’s ears. The table was hard against his back and his body throbbed with it, an unforgiving pounding that left him dizzy and motionless when he ought to run.
“What of what pleases me?” James demanded of him for the second time, but the cold words were not spoken to René, and James’ mouth twisted into something pained as he closed his eyes. His raised his hands to his face and only then did he reopen his eyes, looking beyond his hands to René, who could not move without brushing against the rigid body before him. So hot, he could feel the skin of his thighs tighten.
“James,” he meant to say, and perhaps he did, but his own voice was so weak that even his own ears could not hear it. Strange, when there were two heartbeats echoing in his head like the mad drumming from the fields, locking his muscles before he could think to shift and dart away.
“And what shall I give to you, René, if you please me?” With a grace that seemed to come from another man, James reached up and swept the horrible wig from his head and threw it to the side, lifting his chin as if daring René to challenge the action. He did not seem to care about the mess they had made on his employer’s floor, continuing to unbutton his coat with a darkened face but newly steadied hands.
René felt his gaze traveling from those hands to that face, and back again, over and over until James pulled himself free of the ill-fitting jacket and stretched his back as it landed near his feet. His white shirt was loose, but thin, and it was only the veste that kept his form hidden from sight.
Nothing of his eyes was visible now, with his chin so high and his body so straight and tall, and René had to let his head fall back, feeling the weight of his hair as it slid down over his neck. That, too, caused shivers, and he could not still his body as James stood there and studied him with his heavy lids, stern and forbidding.
“I don’t have anything of value to offer you.” James made it a condemnation, pressing himself forward until René could not see anything but the length of his body. There was James, and the table behind him, and something resting on that that fell over with a crash as James dared one last step, and René was pushed hard into the wood. “But if you are so thirsty…” he went on slowly, nearly grinding the words between his teeth, slapping his palms loudly on the table, one arm to either side of René. René knew he gave a start, able to finally control his shivers at last only to twitch at the mass of James’ body as it settled above him. He licked his lips as the English words became Parisian in his mind, and he could feel the word thirsty sink through to him to his spine and leave a drought in its wake.
He was not thirsty; he was dying of this.
The pains in his lower back were fleeting, settling to dullness instantly at the rough whisper, a sharper hunger between his legs sapping his strength. He could feel his flesh tighten there too, and frowned, lowering a hand to his sash.
Warmed linen brushed against the backs of his fingers, the sleeves of James’ shirt, and the muscles beneath the cloth rippled.
“If you are so thirsty, Villon…” Even now, René was not deaf to the anger hardening James’ voice; to the way his moved one hand until he found one of René’s on the table and covered it with grasping fingers. “…Then why are you still on your feet?”
Also I find it fascinating that ye olde Ideas of Sin is on quite a few lists on Goodreads, considering it was written so long ago and how most people don't like it. (Also, I know only the really, really old version is linked to on Goodreads, but there is a revised version available for free as well, just no one has ever linked to it on GR. ... I really should edit it again though and put it on Smashwords or something but there are only so many hours in the day and I am lazy/busy).
Ah, Ideas of Sin. Only read if you are in the mood for incredibly dramatic French pirates in love with uptight but hot English clerks, and if you can stand... well any part of my early writing.
Yes, I realize most of you do not what I am talking about. It's okay. I am avoiding work and all mentions of the Superbowl right now and mostly entertaining myself.
Here, have some epic cheese:
“You please me,” René murmured it, hiding his annoyance at saying such a thing out loud, twitching his eyebrows into something that was not a frown.
The rush of breath into James’ lungs stopped, and yet even with that, James found a way to speak.
“And when you sail to-morrow?” James asked him, tossing his head suddenly, with such strength that the bones in his neck cracked. Lights fired off the glass of his spectacles as he turned, reflections from the candles, leaving René blind as to the feeling in his brown eyes.
His heart sounded in his ears, and he knew he swallowed for his mouth was no longer dry, but it only became dry again, watching the abrupt, relentless motion of James as he covered his mouth with his hands and then dropped them to his coat, burying one in a pocket and grasping something so tightly that his arm shook.
James stepped forward, turning from the candlelight now, giving René a glimpse of eyes almost as dark as his own. “If I please you again, will those be left for me?” He waved at the floor, to where a mine of precious stones were scattered like pebbles. Treacherous obstacles for stumbling feet, but James strode toward him with deliberate steps that did not falter, and that was enough to have René searching the familiar face again, trying to find softly trembling lips.
Unsteadily, René leaned back until his hands found the smooth, cool table, “You want them?” He demanded in disbelief and then shook his head. But James would not pause to deny the words, and so they had to be truth.
“They are worthless to you,” James remarked, and he was standing before René, tall and strong and reaching for the tiny button at the top of his coat. There he trembled, his fingers slipping on the button, but René could not slow his racing heart, blinking at the strangeness of the vision before him. “You throw them away.” James was going on, still speaking though his voice was quiet in René’s ears. The table was hard against his back and his body throbbed with it, an unforgiving pounding that left him dizzy and motionless when he ought to run.
“What of what pleases me?” James demanded of him for the second time, but the cold words were not spoken to René, and James’ mouth twisted into something pained as he closed his eyes. His raised his hands to his face and only then did he reopen his eyes, looking beyond his hands to René, who could not move without brushing against the rigid body before him. So hot, he could feel the skin of his thighs tighten.
“James,” he meant to say, and perhaps he did, but his own voice was so weak that even his own ears could not hear it. Strange, when there were two heartbeats echoing in his head like the mad drumming from the fields, locking his muscles before he could think to shift and dart away.
“And what shall I give to you, René, if you please me?” With a grace that seemed to come from another man, James reached up and swept the horrible wig from his head and threw it to the side, lifting his chin as if daring René to challenge the action. He did not seem to care about the mess they had made on his employer’s floor, continuing to unbutton his coat with a darkened face but newly steadied hands.
René felt his gaze traveling from those hands to that face, and back again, over and over until James pulled himself free of the ill-fitting jacket and stretched his back as it landed near his feet. His white shirt was loose, but thin, and it was only the veste that kept his form hidden from sight.
Nothing of his eyes was visible now, with his chin so high and his body so straight and tall, and René had to let his head fall back, feeling the weight of his hair as it slid down over his neck. That, too, caused shivers, and he could not still his body as James stood there and studied him with his heavy lids, stern and forbidding.
“I don’t have anything of value to offer you.” James made it a condemnation, pressing himself forward until René could not see anything but the length of his body. There was James, and the table behind him, and something resting on that that fell over with a crash as James dared one last step, and René was pushed hard into the wood. “But if you are so thirsty…” he went on slowly, nearly grinding the words between his teeth, slapping his palms loudly on the table, one arm to either side of René. René knew he gave a start, able to finally control his shivers at last only to twitch at the mass of James’ body as it settled above him. He licked his lips as the English words became Parisian in his mind, and he could feel the word thirsty sink through to him to his spine and leave a drought in its wake.
He was not thirsty; he was dying of this.
The pains in his lower back were fleeting, settling to dullness instantly at the rough whisper, a sharper hunger between his legs sapping his strength. He could feel his flesh tighten there too, and frowned, lowering a hand to his sash.
Warmed linen brushed against the backs of his fingers, the sleeves of James’ shirt, and the muscles beneath the cloth rippled.
“If you are so thirsty, Villon…” Even now, René was not deaf to the anger hardening James’ voice; to the way his moved one hand until he found one of René’s on the table and covered it with grasping fingers. “…Then why are you still on your feet?”
February 5, 2013
what even
So every once in a while I encounter a weird glitch with Goodreads, like emails that don't get sent, or a blog post that should get reposted here that never shows up. Which just happened. So I'm wondering if I should repost it or just wait and see if it appears later. It wasn't important or anything, but still, that's vexing. I'm terribly vexed.
February 3, 2013
we gettin' rowdy
Question regarding Facebook. I have a personal page and a fan page, and I don't really use either. I forget they are there in fact. Really a necessary thing? What am I supposed to post on them/what do people want to see? Just general publishing updates, that sort of thing?
Also I find it fascinating that ye olde Ideas of Sin is on quite a few lists on Goodreads, considering it was written so long ago and how most people don't like it. (Also, I know only the really, really old version is linked to on Goodreads, but there is a revised version available for free as well, just no one has ever linked to it on GR. ... I really should edit it again though and put it on Smashwords or something but there are only so many hours in the day and I am lazy/busy).
Ah, Ideas of Sin. Only read if you are in the mood for incredibly dramatic French pirates in love with uptight but hot English clerks, and if you can stand... well any part of my early writing.That story needs some fanart though, hot, pornographic fanart. ALL THE PORN.
Yes, I realize most of you do not what I am talking about. It's okay. I am avoiding work and all mentions of the Superbowl right now and mostly entertaining myself.
Here, have some epic cheese:
“You please me,” René murmured it, hiding his annoyance at saying such a thing out loud, twitching his eyebrows into something that was not a frown.
The rush of breath into James’ lungs stopped, and yet even with that, James found a way to speak.
“And when you sail to-morrow?” James asked him, tossing his head suddenly, with such strength that the bones in his neck cracked. Lights fired off the glass of his spectacles as he turned, reflections from the candles, leaving René blind as to the feeling in his brown eyes.
His heart sounded in his ears, and he knew he swallowed for his mouth was no longer dry, but it only became dry again, watching the abrupt, relentless motion of James as he covered his mouth with his hands and then dropped them to his coat, burying one in a pocket and grasping something so tightly that his arm shook.
James stepped forward, turning from the candlelight now, giving René a glimpse of eyes almost as dark as his own. “If I please you again, will those be left for me?” He waved at the floor, to where a mine of precious stones were scattered like pebbles. Treacherous obstacles for stumbling feet, but James strode toward him with deliberate steps that did not falter, and that was enough to have René searching the familiar face again, trying to find softly trembling lips.
Unsteadily, René leaned back until his hands found the smooth, cool table, “You want them?” He demanded in disbelief and then shook his head. But James would not pause to deny the words, and so they had to be truth.
“They are worthless to you,” James remarked, and he was standing before René, tall and strong and reaching for the tiny button at the top of his coat. There he trembled, his fingers slipping on the button, but René could not slow his racing heart, blinking at the strangeness of the vision before him. “You throw them away.” James was going on, still speaking though his voice was quiet in René’s ears. The table was hard against his back and his body throbbed with it, an unforgiving pounding that left him dizzy and motionless when he ought to run.
“What of what pleases me?” James demanded of him for the second time, but the cold words were not spoken to René, and James’ mouth twisted into something pained as he closed his eyes. His raised his hands to his face and only then did he reopen his eyes, looking beyond his hands to René, who could not move without brushing against the rigid body before him. So hot, he could feel the skin of his thighs tighten.
“James,” he meant to say, and perhaps he did, but his own voice was so weak that even his own ears could not hear it. Strange, when there were two heartbeats echoing in his head like the mad drumming from the fields, locking his muscles before he could think to shift and dart away.
“And what shall I give to you, René, if you please me?” With a grace that seemed to come from another man, James reached up and swept the horrible wig from his head and threw it to the side, lifting his chin as if daring René to challenge the action. He did not seem to care about the mess they had made on his employer’s floor, continuing to unbutton his coat with a darkened face but newly steadied hands.
René felt his gaze traveling from those hands to that face, and back again, over and over until James pulled himself free of the ill-fitting jacket and stretched his back as it landed near his feet. His white shirt was loose, but thin, and it was only the veste that kept his form hidden from sight.
Nothing of his eyes was visible now, with his chin so high and his body so straight and tall, and René had to let his head fall back, feeling the weight of his hair as it slid down over his neck. That, too, caused shivers, and he could not still his body as James stood there and studied him with his heavy lids, stern and forbidding.
“I don’t have anything of value to offer you.” James made it a condemnation, pressing himself forward until René could not see anything but the length of his body. There was James, and the table behind him, and something resting on that that fell over with a crash as James dared one last step, and René was pushed hard into the wood. “But if you are so thirsty…” he went on slowly, nearly grinding the words between his teeth, slapping his palms loudly on the table, one arm to either side of René. René knew he gave a start, able to finally control his shivers at last only to twitch at the mass of James’ body as it settled above him. He licked his lips as the English words became Parisian in his mind, and he could feel the word thirsty sink through to him to his spine and leave a drought in its wake.
He was not thirsty; he was dying of this.
The pains in his lower back were fleeting, settling to dullness instantly at the rough whisper, a sharper hunger between his legs sapping his strength. He could feel his flesh tighten there too, and frowned, lowering a hand to his sash.
Warmed linen brushed against the backs of his fingers, the sleeves of James’ shirt, and the muscles beneath the cloth rippled.
“If you are so thirsty, Villon…” Even now, René was not deaf to the anger hardening James’ voice; to the way his moved one hand until he found one of René’s on the table and covered it with grasping fingers. “…Then why are you still on your feet?”
Also I find it fascinating that ye olde Ideas of Sin is on quite a few lists on Goodreads, considering it was written so long ago and how most people don't like it. (Also, I know only the really, really old version is linked to on Goodreads, but there is a revised version available for free as well, just no one has ever linked to it on GR. ... I really should edit it again though and put it on Smashwords or something but there are only so many hours in the day and I am lazy/busy).
Ah, Ideas of Sin. Only read if you are in the mood for incredibly dramatic French pirates in love with uptight but hot English clerks, and if you can stand... well any part of my early writing.
Yes, I realize most of you do not what I am talking about. It's okay. I am avoiding work and all mentions of the Superbowl right now and mostly entertaining myself.
Here, have some epic cheese:
“You please me,” René murmured it, hiding his annoyance at saying such a thing out loud, twitching his eyebrows into something that was not a frown.
The rush of breath into James’ lungs stopped, and yet even with that, James found a way to speak.
“And when you sail to-morrow?” James asked him, tossing his head suddenly, with such strength that the bones in his neck cracked. Lights fired off the glass of his spectacles as he turned, reflections from the candles, leaving René blind as to the feeling in his brown eyes.
His heart sounded in his ears, and he knew he swallowed for his mouth was no longer dry, but it only became dry again, watching the abrupt, relentless motion of James as he covered his mouth with his hands and then dropped them to his coat, burying one in a pocket and grasping something so tightly that his arm shook.
James stepped forward, turning from the candlelight now, giving René a glimpse of eyes almost as dark as his own. “If I please you again, will those be left for me?” He waved at the floor, to where a mine of precious stones were scattered like pebbles. Treacherous obstacles for stumbling feet, but James strode toward him with deliberate steps that did not falter, and that was enough to have René searching the familiar face again, trying to find softly trembling lips.
Unsteadily, René leaned back until his hands found the smooth, cool table, “You want them?” He demanded in disbelief and then shook his head. But James would not pause to deny the words, and so they had to be truth.
“They are worthless to you,” James remarked, and he was standing before René, tall and strong and reaching for the tiny button at the top of his coat. There he trembled, his fingers slipping on the button, but René could not slow his racing heart, blinking at the strangeness of the vision before him. “You throw them away.” James was going on, still speaking though his voice was quiet in René’s ears. The table was hard against his back and his body throbbed with it, an unforgiving pounding that left him dizzy and motionless when he ought to run.
“What of what pleases me?” James demanded of him for the second time, but the cold words were not spoken to René, and James’ mouth twisted into something pained as he closed his eyes. His raised his hands to his face and only then did he reopen his eyes, looking beyond his hands to René, who could not move without brushing against the rigid body before him. So hot, he could feel the skin of his thighs tighten.
“James,” he meant to say, and perhaps he did, but his own voice was so weak that even his own ears could not hear it. Strange, when there were two heartbeats echoing in his head like the mad drumming from the fields, locking his muscles before he could think to shift and dart away.
“And what shall I give to you, René, if you please me?” With a grace that seemed to come from another man, James reached up and swept the horrible wig from his head and threw it to the side, lifting his chin as if daring René to challenge the action. He did not seem to care about the mess they had made on his employer’s floor, continuing to unbutton his coat with a darkened face but newly steadied hands.
René felt his gaze traveling from those hands to that face, and back again, over and over until James pulled himself free of the ill-fitting jacket and stretched his back as it landed near his feet. His white shirt was loose, but thin, and it was only the veste that kept his form hidden from sight.
Nothing of his eyes was visible now, with his chin so high and his body so straight and tall, and René had to let his head fall back, feeling the weight of his hair as it slid down over his neck. That, too, caused shivers, and he could not still his body as James stood there and studied him with his heavy lids, stern and forbidding.
“I don’t have anything of value to offer you.” James made it a condemnation, pressing himself forward until René could not see anything but the length of his body. There was James, and the table behind him, and something resting on that that fell over with a crash as James dared one last step, and René was pushed hard into the wood. “But if you are so thirsty…” he went on slowly, nearly grinding the words between his teeth, slapping his palms loudly on the table, one arm to either side of René. René knew he gave a start, able to finally control his shivers at last only to twitch at the mass of James’ body as it settled above him. He licked his lips as the English words became Parisian in his mind, and he could feel the word thirsty sink through to him to his spine and leave a drought in its wake.
He was not thirsty; he was dying of this.
The pains in his lower back were fleeting, settling to dullness instantly at the rough whisper, a sharper hunger between his legs sapping his strength. He could feel his flesh tighten there too, and frowned, lowering a hand to his sash.
Warmed linen brushed against the backs of his fingers, the sleeves of James’ shirt, and the muscles beneath the cloth rippled.
“If you are so thirsty, Villon…” Even now, René was not deaf to the anger hardening James’ voice; to the way his moved one hand until he found one of René’s on the table and covered it with grasping fingers. “…Then why are you still on your feet?”
January 20, 2013
we've gone too far beyond the borders, it's just you and i
Sometimes somethings are so unexpectedly beautiful and touching, and just... it's continually a surprise to me that people actually read these things or care, much less when they like them to the point of analyzing them (recognizing a Jules Verne influence, comparing it to a *Star Trek* episode asdfjkl; do you know what that does to me?). But when I actually make people feel things (outside of their pants)? It's almost too much. I love you, stop making me feel feelings, especially these weepy, warm, wonderful ones.
I am going to focus on that accidental alliteration right now, and not all these fuzzy, golden emotions in my belly. Also, I feel like I should share something to get me back in the mood to finish this story after writing a random sort of sports-themed story for Dreamspinner's upcoming sport Daily Dose thing. (It's not sport-related at all. I might call it, "This Is Not About Baseball" because it really isn't.) Then I thought I'd write Bertie trying not to be possessive when he sees Arthur surrounded by people who recognize how awesome he is, but I am too tired for concentrating right now. (Trying not grab onto him, trying to be good, but internally thinking "mineminemineminemine" and getting hotter every single second, and Arthur would know, of course he would, and eventually just walk up and stand near him so Bertie could reach out and just put one hand, just one hand, on his lower back, and curl his fingers into Arthur's belt loop and just *hold* and try not to cling.
But you know he wants to make grabby hands and touch Arthur's bare skin and rest his head on his shoulder while Arthur is working. minemineminemine
Anyway, I need to get back in the mindset required to finish this, and squee over a confused tiny werewolf (who is average-sized for a human but was not raised around other werewolves and so just doesn't know things he should know) and the big alpha wolf struggling manfully to not claim him until he has learned some werewolf things. So, this,
“Why would I be mad?” He gestured at Tim’s seatbelt. Tim sighed and buckled up. A few hours without seeing him and Nathaniel was getting jumpy and protective too. “Here,” Nathaniel said as he started the car, and didn’t look over as he shoved a bag across the bench seat toward him.
It was a shiny, handled bag filled with shredded paper. It looks like a giftbag. The last thing Tim expected to find in it was a book. He frowned as he flipped the pages right up until he got a good look at the words. Then he shut it and looked over the front and back covers in more detail.
“You got me porn?” he asked in disbelief. It was a collection of short stories, about werewolves, by a werewolf. “Ramona Greenleaf?” he read the name in shock. “As in…”
“Albert’s aunt. Kind of a local celebrity.” Nathaniel took a hand from the wheel to rub at his neck and shoulder. “She writes about men and women, but I thought it might help. There are links in the back, if you want to look up other things.”
“You got me porn,” Tim repeated, not sure this was happening except that the sting in his cheeks was only too familiar.
“You asked for it.” Nathaniel said it as if that was any kind of explanation. “Just don’t… Don’t while I’m around.” He didn’t say don’t what, but Tim could guess. Tim looked up at him, barely aware that they were leaving town. It would probably be a good idea to not look at the book right now, but he couldn’t help glancing down at the cover again.
It didn’t seem right to apologize for doing what felt natural, but then it wasn’t right to make someone else uncomfortable because of what he wanted.
“Tim,” Nathaniel started, “about last night.”
“I didn’t mean to bother you,” Tim broke in quickly. “Did I break some were protocol? Houseful of us and I never know when I can, and then there’s you and what happened. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“What?” Nathaniel snorted and shook his head. “Didn’t mean for what to happen?”
“My scent.” Tim realized he was smoothing his hands over the book over and over again and held them still. “Does it bother you like that all the time?”
“You have no idea.” The noise that came out of Nathaniel was almost a sigh. It seemed stranger, but no stranger than when Nathaniel squared his shoulders and continued to stare straight ahead. “But I can control myself.”
That… was not anything like what Tim had expected him to say. “What? No ‘your hormones are out of control, Little Wolf’?” Tim wondered out loud. “No ‘You need to get laid, kid’?” He shoved the book back into the bag and studied Nathaniel’s profile. Nathaniel glanced at him and a muscle twitched in his jaw, but he didn’t say anything.
Tim angled his head up and sniffed as discreetly as he could. It got Nathaniel’s attention anyway. He looked over at Tim with wide eyes but then had to watch the road. Tim sniffed again, licking his bottom lip this time because it seemed to help him catch more.
Nathaniel’s explanations would only start making sense when Tim started thinking more like a were. He swallowed the scent-infused spit in his mouth and considered the flavor.
Nathaniel smelled like he always smelled, maybe a little warmer in a way that made Tim want to keep inhaling, only with his mouth somewhere on Nathaniel’s skin. Nathaniel smelled like he always smelled, Tim thought again, only Tim was suddenly conscious that his own scent was muted. His own want scent was always there, like background noise. Like the wind. Nathaniel’s scent was very much in the car with them, and it was warm and getting warmer, and Tim’s scent—at least until that moment—wasn’t any stronger.
“Oh my god.” Tim exhaled at last. Nathaniel glanced at him, looking concerned, and Tim realized the excited beat of his heart probably sounded a lot like panic. He shook his head, then said, “Oh my god,” again in a slightly louder voice.
“Little Wolf?” Nathaniel had to go and make it worse, asking in that voice. Tim thought about rolling down a window, but it was too late, the knowledge, the victory in understanding a scent and the instincts that went with it, were already making him hot. He tossed his head and slid closer to the door, which wasn’t what he meant to do.
“I haven’t been influencing you at all,” he realized. “You feel that way anyway. Fucking fuck. That is… that is… what is that? What does that mean?” His grin lasted all of three seconds.
They were coming up on the house. Tim took a deep breath, kind of fascinated with how he could keep track of the separate scents now, two intertwining, lusty smells. No wonder he’d had it so bad, that hadn’t been just his desires he’d been reacting to.
“You’re attracted to me,” he announced in shock as Nathaniel parked the truck. Nathaniel turned to look at him, radiating heat and want.
I might be more articulate later on this subject, but honestly, I am teary-eyed.
I am going to focus on that accidental alliteration right now, and not all these fuzzy, golden emotions in my belly. Also, I feel like I should share something to get me back in the mood to finish this story after writing a random sort of sports-themed story for Dreamspinner's upcoming sport Daily Dose thing. (It's not sport-related at all. I might call it, "This Is Not About Baseball" because it really isn't.) Then I thought I'd write Bertie trying not to be possessive when he sees Arthur surrounded by people who recognize how awesome he is, but I am too tired for concentrating right now. (Trying not grab onto him, trying to be good, but internally thinking "mineminemineminemine" and getting hotter every single second, and Arthur would know, of course he would, and eventually just walk up and stand near him so Bertie could reach out and just put one hand, just one hand, on his lower back, and curl his fingers into Arthur's belt loop and just *hold* and try not to cling.
But you know he wants to make grabby hands and touch Arthur's bare skin and rest his head on his shoulder while Arthur is working. minemineminemine
Anyway, I need to get back in the mindset required to finish this, and squee over a confused tiny werewolf (who is average-sized for a human but was not raised around other werewolves and so just doesn't know things he should know) and the big alpha wolf struggling manfully to not claim him until he has learned some werewolf things. So, this,
“Why would I be mad?” He gestured at Tim’s seatbelt. Tim sighed and buckled up. A few hours without seeing him and Nathaniel was getting jumpy and protective too. “Here,” Nathaniel said as he started the car, and didn’t look over as he shoved a bag across the bench seat toward him.
It was a shiny, handled bag filled with shredded paper. It looks like a giftbag. The last thing Tim expected to find in it was a book. He frowned as he flipped the pages right up until he got a good look at the words. Then he shut it and looked over the front and back covers in more detail.
“You got me porn?” he asked in disbelief. It was a collection of short stories, about werewolves, by a werewolf. “Ramona Greenleaf?” he read the name in shock. “As in…”
“Albert’s aunt. Kind of a local celebrity.” Nathaniel took a hand from the wheel to rub at his neck and shoulder. “She writes about men and women, but I thought it might help. There are links in the back, if you want to look up other things.”
“You got me porn,” Tim repeated, not sure this was happening except that the sting in his cheeks was only too familiar.
“You asked for it.” Nathaniel said it as if that was any kind of explanation. “Just don’t… Don’t while I’m around.” He didn’t say don’t what, but Tim could guess. Tim looked up at him, barely aware that they were leaving town. It would probably be a good idea to not look at the book right now, but he couldn’t help glancing down at the cover again.
It didn’t seem right to apologize for doing what felt natural, but then it wasn’t right to make someone else uncomfortable because of what he wanted.
“Tim,” Nathaniel started, “about last night.”
“I didn’t mean to bother you,” Tim broke in quickly. “Did I break some were protocol? Houseful of us and I never know when I can, and then there’s you and what happened. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“What?” Nathaniel snorted and shook his head. “Didn’t mean for what to happen?”
“My scent.” Tim realized he was smoothing his hands over the book over and over again and held them still. “Does it bother you like that all the time?”
“You have no idea.” The noise that came out of Nathaniel was almost a sigh. It seemed stranger, but no stranger than when Nathaniel squared his shoulders and continued to stare straight ahead. “But I can control myself.”
That… was not anything like what Tim had expected him to say. “What? No ‘your hormones are out of control, Little Wolf’?” Tim wondered out loud. “No ‘You need to get laid, kid’?” He shoved the book back into the bag and studied Nathaniel’s profile. Nathaniel glanced at him and a muscle twitched in his jaw, but he didn’t say anything.
Tim angled his head up and sniffed as discreetly as he could. It got Nathaniel’s attention anyway. He looked over at Tim with wide eyes but then had to watch the road. Tim sniffed again, licking his bottom lip this time because it seemed to help him catch more.
Nathaniel’s explanations would only start making sense when Tim started thinking more like a were. He swallowed the scent-infused spit in his mouth and considered the flavor.
Nathaniel smelled like he always smelled, maybe a little warmer in a way that made Tim want to keep inhaling, only with his mouth somewhere on Nathaniel’s skin. Nathaniel smelled like he always smelled, Tim thought again, only Tim was suddenly conscious that his own scent was muted. His own want scent was always there, like background noise. Like the wind. Nathaniel’s scent was very much in the car with them, and it was warm and getting warmer, and Tim’s scent—at least until that moment—wasn’t any stronger.
“Oh my god.” Tim exhaled at last. Nathaniel glanced at him, looking concerned, and Tim realized the excited beat of his heart probably sounded a lot like panic. He shook his head, then said, “Oh my god,” again in a slightly louder voice.
“Little Wolf?” Nathaniel had to go and make it worse, asking in that voice. Tim thought about rolling down a window, but it was too late, the knowledge, the victory in understanding a scent and the instincts that went with it, were already making him hot. He tossed his head and slid closer to the door, which wasn’t what he meant to do.
“I haven’t been influencing you at all,” he realized. “You feel that way anyway. Fucking fuck. That is… that is… what is that? What does that mean?” His grin lasted all of three seconds.
They were coming up on the house. Tim took a deep breath, kind of fascinated with how he could keep track of the separate scents now, two intertwining, lusty smells. No wonder he’d had it so bad, that hadn’t been just his desires he’d been reacting to.
“You’re attracted to me,” he announced in shock as Nathaniel parked the truck. Nathaniel turned to look at him, radiating heat and want.
I might be more articulate later on this subject, but honestly, I am teary-eyed.
January 13, 2013
there are no cowboys at the espresso bar
To those people who paid for a hard copy of "A Boy and His Dragon" and got the autographed version in which I tried to be cute, I am so sorry I am such a dork. What can you do? It's like genetic dorkiness or something, I can't seem to stop.
Also I am trying to do a sports story for Dreamspinner's Sports themed Daily Dose thing, but sports, ugh. What are they even about? :) Thank goodness that coffeebuddha is egging me on to ridiculous heights of failboat boys in love or nothing would be happening with it at all.
Also I am trying to do a sports story for Dreamspinner's Sports themed Daily Dose thing, but sports, ugh. What are they even about? :) Thank goodness that coffeebuddha is egging me on to ridiculous heights of failboat boys in love or nothing would be happening with it at all.
January 3, 2013
Tell the bar that we don't want no glass
Anyone down for a lonely-yet -not-alone-because-internet champagne extraaavagaaanza on Saturday? (And also oh, hey, I have a book coming out tomorrow/today depending on location, and I can't celebrate until Saturday but I have a bottle of Mumm and a bottle of Clicquot and a lot of nerves that will need calming. With bubbles. Tiny, tiny bubbles.)
I'll be Tumblr if you are. Busy with smut and snippets and questions and all those tiny bubbles. :)
I'll be Tumblr if you are. Busy with smut and snippets and questions and all those tiny bubbles. :)
December 30, 2012
lovely one, come sit down on my knee
I meant to clean up that old Christmas elf love story thing in time for the holidays, but as usual, time got away from me. (Still and always accepting applications for the post of my assistant/secretary/valet/factotum/Girl Friday/Watson. The position is unpaid and requires long hours. There is no college credit offered. Must have valid driver's license, no pet allergies, and a tolerance for moodiness, anxiety, and the inability of a grown ass person to feed herself regularly.)
HOWEVER, I did clean up the free story Different For Humans , so the edited version is now up on the Free Reads page. I will possibly put it up on AO3 as well. Different For Humans is set in the same universe of Being(s) in Love including Some Kind of Magic and A Boy and His Dragon (and the other werewolf thing I am trying to do, but which is going Charlie and Will levels of complicated on me. It is tentatively titled either The Alpha of Wolf's Paw or What Wolves Do. Maybe.) If you haven't read it, Different for Humans about a fairy DJ named Hyacinth and the human lawyer who shines for him like no other, and for a change of pace, it's set in 1961.
But speaking of Will and Charlie, Dreamspinner is doing a steampunk collection and in trying to think of something for it, a friend and I spun a Will and Charlie AU instead. It's barely even steampunk, and I doubt Dreamspinner would want an AU for their collection, but still, it was really pretty. I should try to do something with it anyway. Then do something actually more steampunk-ish, like with airships and pirates... Though I have also wanted to do something set in the same universe as Let There Be Light but with new characters.
*huff*
Too many ideas, not enough actual writing.
HOWEVER, I did clean up the free story Different For Humans , so the edited version is now up on the Free Reads page. I will possibly put it up on AO3 as well. Different For Humans is set in the same universe of Being(s) in Love including Some Kind of Magic and A Boy and His Dragon (and the other werewolf thing I am trying to do, but which is going Charlie and Will levels of complicated on me. It is tentatively titled either The Alpha of Wolf's Paw or What Wolves Do. Maybe.) If you haven't read it, Different for Humans about a fairy DJ named Hyacinth and the human lawyer who shines for him like no other, and for a change of pace, it's set in 1961.
But speaking of Will and Charlie, Dreamspinner is doing a steampunk collection and in trying to think of something for it, a friend and I spun a Will and Charlie AU instead. It's barely even steampunk, and I doubt Dreamspinner would want an AU for their collection, but still, it was really pretty. I should try to do something with it anyway. Then do something actually more steampunk-ish, like with airships and pirates... Though I have also wanted to do something set in the same universe as Let There Be Light but with new characters.
*huff*
Too many ideas, not enough actual writing.
