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?”