22 / 49
Feb 11

Title: The Paperbox Detective Club
Genres: Mystery/Romance/Politics/Goth
Rating: M

Cop cars had surrounded that apartment building that was recently painted green; that was where Mark lived. Along with a dozen or so middle schoolers, Son stood aground, watching as the formulaically brutish men in blue uniforms interviewed one concierge and residential student at a time. Whispers from the crowd suggested that they had indeed broken into and searched through Mark’s room; whatever they found in there was undisclosed but presumably unremarkable.
This particular dining hall that Son frequented was medium-sized, equipped with small round tables instead of those long rectangular canteen tables with benches that could host way too many diners; and the place’s lighting was soft and homely with an orange hue, unlike the others that used white incandescent bulbs that showered everything in pale glows.
A strange veil of soundless disquiet loomed over the population. Everyone suddenly talked at a volume a dozen decibels lower than usual as though they were fearing the prospect of uninvited ears listening into their conversation. Their fear was not unfounded: Son eavesdropped on every table she came across. A skill she acquired when she was still a toddler roaming around the house for candy, her keen sense of hearing and her unassuming look made her the perfect sentry.

Defo paints a picture, these words of yours.

"Formulaically brutish" was a highlight pour moi.

“Oh.” His lips part - eyes getting a little rounder than usual. “Oh, y-yeah. I think so. I’m supposed to be released Wednesday, and Utkaresh is gonna drive me home. It’ll be so nice to be in my own clothes again.” He adds with a cross between a laugh and a sigh.

“You must have been dying stuck in that white dress for all this time,” I can’t help teasing, “It’s not even stylish.”

He smiles roguishly, and I realize too late that I’ve walked right into the rebuttal-

“Yeah, it looks kinda like something you would have bought.”

“Ha ha,” I roll my eyes, but I guess I earned that, considering the amount of tee-shirt dresses adorning my hangers. The only advantage they have over the hospital gowns is that they close all the way. I shutter thinking about reliving another “wrap-dress-fiasco.” Then I hesitate, biting my lip.

“You know, your mom told me the pink dress looks like something you would have bought me.”

There’s a flicker in his face his expression, as he grows a little flusher.

“I hadn’t realized she paid that much attention,” he says a little saltily.

Title: Dance of Blood and Faith
Genres: Romantasy/Fantasy, LGBTQ with M/M as the main love pairing
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Nothing particularly in this excerpt, but the story itself deals with darker themes


“I am dead,” the knight whispered.

What a miserable confession.

It wasn’t about the truth of that statement because in no way was the man behind him part of the dead, not like the horse beneath him or the wolves still running through the darkness. It was the heartache nestled within those three words that cut into Eli so deeply he might as well have closed his hand around a fistful of glass shards and squeezed.

So quiet. So broken.

“I can still hear your heart, knight,” Eli murmured. “You don’t sound dead to me.”

Fia huffed, less a laugh and more of a sigh that could only soothe itself with bitter amusement. Disentangling his fingers from the horse’s mane, Fia lifted his left hand and moved it to Eli’s hip. His touch light. His words lighter still. “Did I not tell you, thief? Not all deaths happen in a moment’s breath.”

“You did,” Eli acknowledged. “And you do have quite the reputation as a world-ender yourself if the stories have any truth to them, but I don’t seem to recall anything about you being a coward in any of them.”

Elios …"

That was a warning.

Dropping another Crimson (queer vampire dark fantasy) excerpt since the story updated yesterday and I'm in a convivial mood...
Excerpt rating: PG-13 for foul language and implied inebriation


“I love your music,” spoke a sudden voice in slightly accented yet otherwise flawless English.

Startled, Raiden almost dropped his cigarette, but his sharp reflexes kicked in before it could happen. He squinted up at the voice's source and saw a tall man impeccably dressed in Chinese silk and leather. Aviator-style sunglasses obscured the upper part of his face. Alcoholic fumes fairly radiated from his flesh.

Raiden could not keep his nose from wrinkling just the slightest bit. Damn these vampiric senses.

The man put his hands on the table. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I recognize you. You’re Raiden-san, the lead singer of Scent.”

Raiden nodded, sipping his drink as he desperately wracked his brain for a way to end the dialogue before it went any further. All I wanted was some peace and quiet, and now I have to deal with this weirdo groupie.

“I’m Gabriel Colin,” the actor said in his deep voice. “I don’t expect you to know my work—”

“Of course I know your work. It’s nice to meet you,” Raiden interjected, extending his hand and forcing a smile.

Oh, right. He’s that French-Canadian TV actor who made it big. God only knows why.

And a lil chunk from my completed boy-band farce Bare Possibilities...
Excerpt rating: PG-13 for a wicked hangover, unquenchable lewdness, and potty language


I barely made it through the next day, alternately shivering and sweating; cursing the hour I was born (and my parents for giving me life). My bros drifted in and out, checking on me in shifts. When Clive brought me breakfast from the hotel buffet—rubbery instant eggs, gloopy hashbrowns, and meat-of-unknown-origin sausages, I chucked the full plate into the garbage can beside the bed.

“Soylent Green is people!” I whisper screamed. “People!”

Of course he didn’t get my Charlie Heston B-grade sci-fi flick ref—I’d have had better luck landing the joke if Lash had brought me my meal instead. Lash was my fellow classic-film lover and faithful watch-party buddy. If we didn’t find a movie appealing, we’d end up peeling off each other’s clothes, but if we were into it, our garments usually stayed on until the credits. I felt a pang, recognized it for what it was, and disregarded it. Getting over my hangover was much more pressing business than getting over my years-long situationship with a friend I liked to fuck. There would be a time to grieve in a post-tour bottle.

“No,” I moaned. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Give it another six hours” was Clive’s parting shot.

Ooh, I love me some taut M/M tension. Tightly wound indeed.

@Leyelle I'm now expecting to espy a haute-couture hospital gown making the rounds during Fashion Week.

It is out there in the universe. It cannot be unsaid. waits for it to manifest


Title: The Lion & The Owl
Genres: LGBTQ+/Historical/Action/Ero
Rating: R18 (MCs love their fight-sex)
**Warning: The following excerpt contains mild violence, heavy eroticism. **
Reader discretion is advised.

Scipio sits on the bench and stares at the druid’s manhood, hanging thick from the bush between his bony hips. Ribs crown a flat belly, where that strange naval begs for a man’s juice. He twists the cord around his hand and yanks the druid into his arms.

Bony fingers grip his thighs as the druid raises his face to the steamy expanse. His jugular pulses against Scipio’s lips and the citrusy brine on his captive’s skin tantalizes as wet curls drip aromatic water onto his knuckles. A lick and a kiss provoke nothing until Scipio’s teeth sink into the flesh beneath his jawbone.

Limp for no more than a blink, the druid’s dark eyes roll, and his fingers dig deeper into Scipio’s thighs.

“Have you admitted defeat, A-dawn?”

The druid’s head drops, and lusty eyes promise anything. He wavers on his feet. Pouty lips open just enough to let slip the tip of his tongue—CRACK—pain floods Scipio’s skull after their foreheads collide.

I want to laugh, but I can’t.

Bite my lip - my heart doing frantic somersaults as I try to figure out how to best break the news-

Andrew…

Shatter his pretty daydream, that we all ended up okay.

Andrew…about Kat…

I don’t hit send - backtrack and erase - rephrase.

Try to put it lightly - water it down - coat it in sprinkles.

There’s no way to make this pretty.

Andrew…before we meet up, I think you should know…

That sounds too awkward…

How am I supposed to just drop this on him out of the blue?

He’d be blindsided - devastated-

Why does it have to be like this?

I guess it’s what I get for trying to lie through sealed lips, but this is the whole reason I-

Never told him about the accident.

I’m still trying to figure out how I can make this reality hurt him less than it hurt us.

Not part of the excerpt but i find i interesting what we're willing to do for other's that we won't do for ourselves.

How Silas hated her. Even without a soul of his own to feel, he knew he hated her. Yona knew damn well he neither ate nor drank. And neither could Sky, at least not in the physical sense. The Collector didn't move from his spot next to Sky when Ms. Yona drew near. Only his eyes narrowed.

"Oh lighten up, Silas." Yona smiled, a slight shake of her head while rolling her eyes. Taking the cup from the cup holder, she lifted it to wave it in his face. "There's nothing in your cup. I just thought you'd appreciate the gesture."

Coffee or not, Silas still thought she was a bitch.

The secretary grinned at his dead silence before looking to Sky, a more gentle expression crossing her face. She plucked the second coffee cup from the holder and offered it to the ghost girl with a wink.

"This one's for you."

Since I just dropped the new chapter tonight:

“Impetuous and impertinent. As always.” The guardian’s voice surrounded him. Eli thought he detected a bit of humor in it, though assuming anything about the Atageà would be pure folly. They were the dogs who would wag a tail for you even as they sunk their teeth into your thigh. Still, he enjoyed the idea of it. Him amusing them. A certain fondness to it even. Bowing her head, she continued, “We have expected nothing less from you at this point. You have been warned, and that warning still stands, child of shadow.”

“Yes, yes. I’m well aware of all my faults and all your grievances. Consider your warning heard, and I promise to take care, watch my step, plan accordingly, and so on and so forth,” Eli said. He couldn’t help grinning at her.

10 days later

Title: Sun with a Paper Crown
Genres: Romance, Drama
Rating: PG-13?

With a sigh, I drop the brush, watching the paint spit from the bristles and fly through the air like lusterless fireworks before they rain back down onto the table in lavender splats.

I just want some tea.

Flicking the light on in the kitchen, despite the more than sufficient sunshine blazing in through the open windows, I put a kettle on and stand on tip-toe to grab the Thai tea from the top shelf, unsure why I ever put anything up there, considering that it’s practically impossible for me to reach.

I lean against the counter to wait as the tea boils, but keep my eyes on the tile, knowing good and well that it will nervously refuse to ever come to temperature if I’m staring it down.

The electric light hums with an eerie glow that reminds me of hospitals.

I could move three paces and turn it back off, but I stay where I am and tolerate the anxiety soaking slowly into my skin like a cold rain.

Title: Sun with a Paper Crown
Genres: Romance, Drama
Rating: PG-13?

Worst case scenario-

Don’t.

Despite what therapy says, that never helps if you’re an overthinker like me. I look at my hands and count up to three. Breathe. Three again.

I could think of a higher number.

I could think of something else.

So, shoes?

Melissa texted me a picture of a new dress she bought last week. The most adorable little red tartan thing I’ve ever seen, but she says her husband already threatened to burn it. She says she’ll gift it to me.

“That way my baby can live somewhere where she’ll be loved.”

But my b-

My not-boyfriend - not sweetheart - equally significant other - would hate it too.

Not that it matters considering the fact that we’re not dating. Considering the fact that he doesn’t even want anyone to know…that we’re going out.

Destiny, or Fate, bangs on that door again. I take another shot of burning ‘butterflies’ and they tear through my insides, setting everything aflame.

I say she should wear what she wants, even if her secret bf would hate it. Her body, her choice, no?

LOL my (expired) Thai tea is up on a shelf I can't reach, too.

I like this excerpt: the words paint a vivid picture.

oh she wears whatever she likes, he never tries to force her to do otherwise, though he's more than willing to let her know how awful her tee-shirt dresses are

This is inspired by my own vertically challenged nature. i can't see the top shelf in my own kitchen,

I'm glad you like the excerpt, considering the nature of the story, painting vivid pictures is essential

Then hopefully she feels just as free to tell him when he makes less-than-awesome fashion choices. :smiley: