Anyways, I’m posting the submission up here – it’s called ‘The Godchild’, is about 4500 words, and has both erotica and an HEA. Enjoy!

The dancers stamped and chanted, raising their arms in reverence; the people in the square threw flowers and coins. The big voice boomed in his head, the god raised his arms…

Brin’s eyes shot open. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when he saw the warm wooden walls of the cabin, and the sun streaming through the window.

Yawning and stretching, Brin rolled out of the pile of furs and wool blankets that served as a bed, trying to shake off the dream. He was not at all surprised to find Caer’s warm, heavy body absent beside him; nor was he worried even in the slightest.

If there was one thing Caer could do, it was look after himself.

Instead, Brin focused on what needed to be done for the day. At the very least, he needed to sweep, scrape off the hides strung up in the back yard, and prepare something for dinner, though he really ought to tend to the garden as well. There were carrots out there in need of pulling.

Brin tugged on his breeches but left his boots, propping open the cabin’s door for some airing as he wandered barefoot out into the yard. Though it was early autumn, the day was surprisingly warm. He curled his toes into the pleasantly damp moss carpeting the floor of the forest’s edge, and stretched again before hitching up his breeches with one hand. Maybe Caer was right, he really was too slender.

To begin, the goats would need milking. Sometimes, Brin mused, he got a bit wistful for town life – the hustle and bustle of the marketplace, always a neighbor to trade with, and no damned goats to milk.

An hour or so later, Caer found him in the goats’ yard, trying to hold and milk one of the ridiculous animals at the same time. A deep chuckle announced the man’s reappearance, but Brin chose to ignore him. He didn’t even look up when slim, strong hands effortlessly grabbed and held the goat’s forequarters, keeping it still.

When the bucket was fuller and the kicking animal released, Brin finally chose to meet his lover’s guarded eyes. He knew far better than to ask where Caer had been, so he simply drank the man in – wiry muscle, supple tanned skin, liquid amber eyes. The set of his shoulders was gentle but strong, and he wore nothing but breeches cropped to the knee and a few pieces of simple jewelry. Most of those were teeth or claws or little wood carvings tied on to thin strips of leather. His breeches were filthy, his deep brown hair falling in his face.

“You’ll have to let me cut this for you again soon,” Brin said quietly, tugging at an unwashed lock of that dark hair. As usual, Caer didn’t respond, only reaching into the pouch at his waist and silently giving Brin two pairs of rabbits’ feet, expertly removed from their hosts.

Used to such gifts, Brin smiled and stood to go back to the cabin. Caer caught him around the waist, and hot breath fanned over his cheek as the older man moved in for a kiss. Brin gently extricated himself. “Bathe first, if you please. You reek of sweat and old blood and bird,” he said with a soft laugh. “Bathe and then I’ll have you, I promise.”

Caer furrowed his brow, looking a little frustrated, but still didn’t say anything. Brin couldn’t help but watch as he strode away, his shortened doeskin breeches showing off his toned ass to tremendous advantage. Sighing, Brin returned inside, hanging up the small cluster of rabbit feet by the hearth. He would fix them to keep later. Looking out the window, he saw Mev, the massive bird Caer rode to hunt, ferreting around by the garden. Brin pulled a few strips of jerky off of a bundle hanging from the ceiling, and clucked his tongue, holding the meat out the window. Mev made a curious sound, quickly strutting over when he saw the offering was for him.

Rocs were quite rare, and Mev was a beautiful specimen. Brin hadn’t been able to help being afraid of him at first, with that great cruel beak almost as long as his own forearm, but he’d soon realized that Mev was largely harmless, at least to those Caer approved of. Brin himself had ridden on the big bird exactly twice, both times with Caer and neither even close to enjoyable. To this day, he hadn’t the slightest idea how Caer managed to stay on without assistance, never mind shoot his bow with such accuracy from that feathery back.

Mev snapped up the strips of meat with a practiced care, and Brin stroked the huge brown head. He groomed back a few ruffled feathers, before the bird chittered his thanks and withdrew to bed down for a rest.

Brin occupied his time with sweeping, unable to stop glancing up at the door. The promise of Caer’s gentle hands on his body was too much to resist, a treat he’d been denied for several days now. When the man did appear, it was with a hunter’s silent footsteps, and he was clad only in water droplets.

Loins stirring already, Brin put aside the broom. Caer was a study in rugged perfection, even the scars on the canvas of his golden skin adding to the image of him. His cock was already half-hard, laying against his strong thigh, and his amber eyes were full of a lusty hunger.

Brin felt his hand straying to the ties of his breeches before he even knew what he was doing. He needed to match his lover in nakedness, needed to feel him skin to skin. Caer’s hair, almost to his shoulders now, was over his eyes and dripping wet.

They were on each other with a quick and fevered abandon, Brin’s breeches stripped off and nearly tripped over in a mutual haste to reach the bed. They tumbled onto the furs. Caer was as silent as ever, but a fierce fire burned in his eyes. His calloused hands roamed over Brin’s body, worshiping him, and the younger man bit back a moan of anticipation. Despite the fact that he’d just bathed, Caer smelled not unpleasantly of the earth; a deep, dark scent that was as much a part of him as his various scars.

Caer’s full lips kissed his belly, and he shuddered and arched up into the sensation. When the older man decided to be a giving lover, there was no dissuading him. Brin hadn’t the slightest idea how his lover’s mind worked, and after a while had stopped trying to find out and just loved him. Caer reached the golden curls around the base of Brin’s cock, and inhaled deeply, smelling him like an animal. Then, with an odd look of carnal interest, he drew the flat of his tongue up the younger man’s cock.

Trying to squirm, Brin realized his hips were pinned. Though he was no weakling, he knew Caer was a fair bit stronger than he was. His frustration came out as a soft growl that turned into a moan as Caer’s lips closed over the head of him, and he reached down to fist a hand in thick dark hair, his hips straining but failing to move.

Looking up and smiling, Caer gave another long lick before moving up Brin’s body to claim his mouth. The younger man pressed into him, embarrassingly wanton, needy. No one had affected him like this before Caer, no one had claimed him so thoroughly and enchanted him so completely. He reached down, his hands skimming his lover’s firm sides and coming to rest on his ass. He tried to move to grip Caer’s thick cock, but his hand was gently moved away.

“What’s made you like this today?” Brin asked breathlessly, trying again to touch and once more being corrected.

Caer merely grunted at him, nipping affectionately at his neck. Brin could feel the heat of his lover’s cock against his hip, the implications making him ache. There was no need for much foreplay today, not when they wanted each other so badly. Brin fumbled for the oil with a shaking hand. He did not know what had Caer so worked up but right now he wasn’t particularly bothered to find out. The man was down between his legs again, running his tongue along the connection between thigh and groin.

When Caer’s tongue flicked over his entrance, Brin clenched his hand desperately in the furs. “Damn you, now!” he hissed, pushing the bottle of oil down towards his lover.

Rubbing his cheek against Brin’s inner thigh like a cat, Caer took the bottle and uncorked it with his teeth. The younger man had to close his eyes, overwhelmed when Caer pressed two fingers against him, gently, as if asking permission. Brin pressed back in an undebatable yes, fumbling to get his legs hooked over his lover’s shoulders without opening his eyes.

He gave an undignified grunt when those fingers thrust up into his body, squirming, trying to win more sensation than Caer seemed yet willing to give. He knew that those fingers were just shy of the center of his pleasure, and if they were only to straighten, to beckon inside of him…

When he opened his eyes he saw that Caer was smirking at him, delighting in withholding the best of the pleasure. “You have to wait for me for that, love,” he said, the first words Brin had heard him speak all day. Caer rarely saw reason for speech, so his deep, rough voice was music to Brin’s ears.

“Then hurry up with it,” Brin grumbled. A thin sheen of sweat coated his body, made his hair hang lank and stick to his face. His early salt was beginning to drip onto his stomach.

He drank up the sight of Caer slicking himself, of the herbal oil glistening on his dark, unaltered cock. Brin arched back at the blunt push of it against him. This was what he needed.

The initial burn faded quickly, Brin well used to the familiar invasion. He urged on by pressing his heels into Caer’s shoulders, crossing his ankles behind the man’s neck when he leaned close enough. The slide in was exquisite, the look of rapture on Caer’s face erotic all on its own. A groan wormed its way out from behind Brin’s clenched teeth, and he reveled in the feeling of fullness, of oneness that was now his.

Caer stayed seated deep, his slim chest heaving with his breath. His amber eyes locked Brin’s, and the younger man nodded almost imperceptibly, his own eyes pleading.

The rhythm was quick but not desperate, and Brin met him thrust-for-thrust. Caer’s hands slid under his ass, lifting him, and that sent each thrust straight to his very core.

Brin felt the hot coil start to build in his belly, but Caer beat him to it and growled, one hand clutching the furs and the other finding the younger man’s and nearly crushing it. Brin clenched his body around his lover, milking him, and reached down to stoke his own fire. His hand met Caer’s, and both wrapped around his cock, Brin stroking himself and Caer thumbing his tip, before moving down to gently cup and rub his sac.

Biting his lip, Brin let out a long moan as he spilled. Caer slipped out of him in the midst of his passion, laying down beside him to hold him close a moment as he rode it out.

“Thank you,” Brin muttered as Caer wordlessly stroked his hair. The man was nothing if not attentive, and produced a cloth from who knew where to clean them. Brin nuzzled into Caer’s warm neck, kissing his sweat-damp throat as he fumbled behind himself for a wool blanket to pull over them both.

Caer’s breathing soon slowed. Though it was only mid-morning, it was likely he’d been up half the night. He would wake again in an hour or so. Brin could not resist the temptation to lay with him a while – Caer was so rarely still. He was always hunting, always wandering, always in the midst of something or something else. Brin’s own chores could be done later.

It was these moments that he truly did not miss town life. Never mind town life; it was his life at the temple he’d run away from. Yet, as always in these moments, a nameless dread reared up in him.

They would not let him go so easily. It may have been three years, but that did not mean they had given up. It did not mean they would not find him.

They would.

He lived in a constant fear, existed in a constant litany of when? He did not delude himself into thinking that Caer, whatever charms and skills he might possess, could stop them. His only hope was that he could lead them away from the man when it happened, somehow spare his life.

Caer, bless him, had never asked Brin about his strange coloring; had in a few rare words praised the ruddy gold of his hair but had never wondered where he came from that produced it, had never asked more about his past then he’d willingly tell.

Brin was very thankful for that. It made keeping his origins a secret far easier.

He was sure that if Caer had ever asked him, he wouldn’t have been able to resist. He would have told all, and that would do nothing but put his lover in incredible danger. Even as they’d built this life together, this wonderful simple life with gardens and stupid unruly goats, Brin had never said anything.

He’d never told Caer about –

Sakthebrin, the manform of the sungod, arms raised high to the people in the temple courtyard…

He’d never dared to mention –

Sakthebrin in the guise of a golden-haired child, draped in jewels and silks, a frightened child manipulated by the temple priests, raised for this purpose…

He’d never said –

Not a word about the chanting of the dancers and the smell of the ritual incense, the offerings that were not for him or the stone room or the waiting women or the god’s big voice in his mind or…

and he never would.

…

Brin sighed, tiredly pushing away Mev’s questing beak. “I have no food, you foolish bird, I promise you.”

Mev simply gave him an indignant squawk, talons clawing up earth as the roc followed him. Brin growled. His head had hurt something magnificent since the middle of last night, and if anything it was getting worse, not better. He was not in the mood for Caer’s bird to be ridiculous. “Leave me alone, Mev,” he shooed the roc again, waving his hand at it. Mev being no gull or crow, the action looked a bit silly, but Brin far from cared.

Mev took a step closer, his hooked beak nibbling at the back of Brin’s tunic, pulling him back a little. “Leave me alone!” the young man shouted, his temper finally boiling over. He swatted hard at the offending beak, and Mev finally got the hint and took to the air, beating massive wings.

Sighing again, Brin massaged his temples, hoping for some relief. He did not find it.

What he found instead was that niggling presence in his mind, the presence that could indicate only that the relic was near.

They’d found him.

Brin bounded through the trees, not knowing how this would help him get away but hardly caring. He was beyond reason, consumed by the sickening fear that he’d always felt when the god was in his head.

… and maybe if he ran fast enough ran hard enough long enough…

He would, he had gone anywhere to get away from it. He’d prayed that maybe if he could just run far enough, the god couldn’t touch him any more, the temple’s long arm couldn’t retrieve him, he could live in peace.

…never escape…

For a while he had. He’d run and run until his feet bled, run until his mind was blessedly empty. He’d found Caer and things had been perfect, if only for a while. Now, he wasn’t running to escape; in his heart he knew it. They were too close, he would never get away in time. If he could only keep them away from Caer, that would be enough. If he couldn’t, they’d kill the man or gentle him, and Brin wasn’t sure which would be worse.

If he could just run –

… faster harder the hounds are out never escape…

VESSEL.

Brin skidded to a stop, losing his footing and rolling painfully down a slight incline of the forest floor. He didn’t care. Small pains dimmed, now.

It was over.

He tried almost instinctively to rise, to keep going, but fell immediately to his knees. This was the end.

They had found him.

VESSEL.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stomach the big voice filling his head, trying one last time to push it away. His attempts were as weak as an infants’.

VESSEL. YOU ARE MINE TO COMMAND.

He gave a final small push, and his entire body was gripped with unimaginable pain. Screaming, his world went white, his every nerve aflame.

The pain seeped away. He found himself lying on the ground, dead leaves brushing his skin. He was cowed; he let the god guide him to his feet, and let those feet lead him where they would. The god would not allow him to weep, but inside himself he sobbed, once more the trapped and frightened child. He was not going back to the acolytes, not yet, not until he was anointed. The god led him to a small, cold pool deep within the forest, and stripped off his clothes. Though he was physically alone, Brin was ashamed of his nudity in the god’s scrutinizing presence.

He sat by the edge of the pool, peeling up a chunk of the ice-cold clay at its edge. With precise motions, Brin’s own hand began to draw swirls and curves on his body, ringing them with dots, giving him the exact ceremonial markings that were weekly stained into his skin at the temple.

I HAVE MISSED YOU, VESSEL.

Brin could not respond, could only curl up and cry deep within the chamber of his own mind, a chamber that the god made foreign and forbidden. The symbols were traced over his cheeks, his arms, down his chest. The god’s control made his own touch disgust him, and he had to fight the urge to push at that presence in his mind again.

YOU WILL NOT LEAVE ME AGAIN, VESSEL. I WILL MAKE YOU SORRY FOR YOUR TRANGRESSION. YOU SHALL BE PUNISHED.

Yes, punished. Brin crawled even deeper into his own mind, miserable but beyond caring. Three years had been better than he’d ever hoped for. It had all been worth it. Now, he had to face the temple again, had to pay for the only years of his life he’d ever enjoy.

There was a sudden crashing approach through the bushes, accompanied by a near-animal growling. Brin’s head rose of its own accord, and the tiny piece of his mind that was his cried out in anguish when he watched the acolytes drag Caer into the clearing. Brin quickly took everything in; a gaggle of priests dressed in the crimson robes of Sakthebrin, two temple slaves carrying the relic – an ornate urn on a litter. He shuddered internally even to see the thing.

“We found this searching for your vessel,” the First Priest said, gesturing to the snarling Caer. “What would you like us to do with it, Sakthebrin?”

The god pulled Brin’s lips into a disdainful sneer. “It pleases the vessel,” the god said in his voice, “so it should be killed, seeing as how the vessel has disobeyed me. Yet… perhaps, yes. We will gentle it and keep it for the vessel. If he disobeys me once again, it will be killed before his eyes.”

Brin gazed at Caer, full of sorrow, willing for him to understand this it was not he that gave these orders, that Brin himself would never wish these things on his beloved.

Brin could not think of a fate worse for the wild Caer than that of a castrated temple slave. His heart ached to know what the man would become – nothing more than a tool to make Brin behave, something he could be threatened with when he did not listen.

It would make Caer hate him, and Brin could not stand that.

SEE HOW KIND I AM, VESSEL? I WILL LET YOU KEEP THIS MAN. ALL YOU MUST DO IS WHAT I ASK, AND YOU CAN KEEP HIM.

Anything but this. Anything.

Why did Caer have to come after him? Why couldn’t he just run away?

Where was Mev? Was he dead? Brin hoped that the bird, at least, had escaped.

Brin watched in despair as temple slaves pinned Caer down. They were going to gentle him then and there, while Brin watched, while he was under the god’s sway and could do nothing.

The thought gave rise to an utterly foreign emotion.

Brin was angry.

He’d been melancholy and afraid and grief-stricken and everything in between, but he’d never actually angry. Now, his blood began to boil. In the small corner of the stone room that was his mind, he stood up and look the god’s presence dead in the eye, shoulders squared and head held high.

No, he wasn’t angry.

He was furious.

With one vast heave, he threw the god off of him. Dipping his hand in the crystalline water of the pool, he splashed it over his torso, and the still-wet clay ran off in rivulets. He stood and glared at the acolytes for all he was worth.

“Let. Him. Go,” Brin snarled, managing one step forwards. Already, the pain was overcoming him, the god was gaining ground. He was about to be pushed back under.

Frightened and confused, the acolytes listened. Caer sprang to his feet, but the foolish man did not run. He simply looked at Brin with an unreadable emotion in his eyes.

The pain brought Brin back to his knees, and with the last of his hard-won control he choked, “Caer, the urn!”

Caer did not question him, did not pause. He ripped the staff from the First Priest’s hand and brought it down hard on the beautiful urn in the litter. For one terrifying moment, there was only the dull thunk of contact, but then the heavy ceramic cracked down the middle and split with a sound far too great for such a small object.

The priests, flabbergasted by such a blasphemy, began hysterics. The first priest and another were babbling and trying to push the pieces back together, collecting the spilled ashes.

Brin knew it was a useless task. The moment the urn had split, the vicelike grip the god had on his mind had been released. Now, he stood on shaky limbs. He wanted to dance, to laugh, suddenly feeling more free than he ever could have imagined.

Yet, his happiness was held at bay. Caer stood before him, still unreadable. Worst was that he kept his distance, not embracing Brin or checking him for injury.

However, he hadn’t run yet.

Foolish man.

“It wasn’t me,” Brin said, his voice as shaky as his hands. “Caer, I wasn’t…”

Caer silently strode forwards and put a hand over his mouth. “You would not,” he said, with absolute certainty, and placed a protective hand on Brin’s waist. Then he glanced towards the floundering acolytes, and the temple slaves who looked unsure whether they could run. Glancing back to Brin, his question was only too obvious.

Stepping forwards again, Brin cleared his throat. The acolytes looked up, terrified.

“Saktheb-” the First Priest started to say, cowering.

“No,” Brin said firmly. “Your god, if that’s what he was, is now dead. Leave this place, or you may meet the same fate.”

The cowardly priests whimpered and uttered little shrieks, abandoning the urn in their haste to depart. Brin had no idea if they considered him some sort of new god, nor did he really care. He was finally done with the temple. He turned to the slaves. “Bury this filthy thing, and then you are free to go.”

No longer even remotely concerned about his nakedness or even the smeared symbols on his skin, Brin strode through their midst. He felt the restrained tears of his two decades of life threatening, but he continued blindly in the direction of his and Caer’s cabin.

Home.

Caer caught him up, and it wasn’t until Brin truly couldn’t see that he realized he’d begun crying. The older man held him close, and let loose a piercing whistle. Within moments, great wings palpably beat the air, and there was a heavy thud as the bird landed.

It wasn’t until Caer had helped him on Mev’s back, until they had flown back to their little cabin; until the man had washed the symbols off his pliant body and tucked him up in the furs that the full of it hit him. It was a thought even stranger to him than the emotion of anger had been, a thought so impossible that he could hardly believe it. Yet the more he repeated it, the truer it rang.

He would never have to worry again.

Unable to help himself, Brin started to laugh.

… Considering what I write, he’s probably rolling in his grave.

EDIT: I used a longer sample, and got a much more believable analysis:

And the world makes sense again, my friends.

Hopefully this bloghop code works…

Okay, it isn’t working. Link to the original! http://tessasblurb.blogspot.com/2010/07/hello-there-nice-to-meet-you-tuesday.html

Prince Azazel and his beloved general, Tynen, just returned to the tent from a battle. No sex, exactly, but definitely some sexy blood-sucking happening…

Tipping his head to the side to expose his throat, Tynen said, “drink from me.”

The unyielding trust made Azazel’s stomach tighten even further, but he made no move to bite. “I will not take from you. You need your strength.”

Tynen shook his head with a small smile. “I gorged myself so you could have from me. I know it makes you uncomfortable to feed from the humans; do not pretend. It is why you keep no consorts.”

Azazel’s fingers brushed almost reverently over the cream white column of Tynen’s throat, even marred as it was with the filth of days. His fangs extended at even the thought of sinking into that beloved flesh, but still he hesitated. Tynen’s strong hands came up his back to cradle his head, pushing it gently but inexorably down. Azazel did not fight, but turned his head to rest his cheek on his lover’s shoulder.

Sighing, Tynen ran his fingers through Azazel’s dirty hair. “Please, drink. I cannot see you so weak and underfed; you are already far too thin and you have not eaten for days.”

Azazel gave a deep chuckle. “You only insist because of how hard it makes you.” He punctuated his point by cupping Tynen’s groin through his breeches.

Responding with a little pleasure growl and clack of his teeth, Tynen’s hands returned to Azazel’s lower back. It made the prince burn with shame – he knew his lover could feel his strength fading and was trying to make him lean for support. “Feed before you drop,” Tynen muttered, his voice full of a steadfast and protective caring.

In a rare moment of defferent docility, Azazel nuzzled Tynen’s shoulder. “All right. Take off all of your clothes. I will want you and I will not want to wait.”

Tynen’s gave smouldered as he pulled away and shucked his tunic. He was covered in nicks and scratches and bruises banded his ribs and spotted his arms, but he was still moutherwatering – tall and statuesque, muscles sharply defined, broad shoulders tapering into a slender, lithe core. When he stepped out of his breeches his cock was already half-proud. Stepping over to the water basin, he took a dipperful and poured it where his shoulder met his neck, cleaning the spot Azazel’s lips would touch.

The prince actually felt faint as what blood he had in him left his head immediately. It had been too long since he’d touched Tynen, had Tynen. His lover was so trusting, so loyal, so willing. He stripped himself of his own tunic and let his breeches fall, unable to take his eyes off of the rivulets of water caressing their way down Tynen’s torso. He placed one hand on his lover’s hip, pulling him near again, pressing them flush chest-to-back. Arousal pounded through him as his body realized that his cock was in the position to claim, and his vision went tunnel as Tynen Presented to him. He could see the pulse point under the skin and was overwhelmed by that familiar spicy smell.

He had the overwhelming urge to drop his jaw and bite with his bottom fangs also, but he knew only too well he could not bite Tynen this way; only a marked consort. Nonetheless, his lover’s neck begged for it. He kept himself carefully in check as he lowered his head, drawing his tongue across the nape of Tynen’s neck in a sharp swathe, his saliva numbing the surface. His lover relaxed completely against him, trusting, giving himself.

Slowly, Azazel pressed his fangs into the muscle connecting neck and shoulder. Tynen let out a soft hiss, his body tensing momentarily from the pain. Then, the pleasant poison kicked in and he let out a long, aroused sigh.

Azazel was lost from the first hint of copper that leaked from the neat wound. He began to suck gently, giving a groan of satisfaction as the heady flavour of it rushed into his mouth. His first swallow was cautious, and it burned its way down through his gut, sending a powerful burst of vitality through him. After that, he could not stop. His starving body cried out for more, and he gulped it down almost greedily. Tynen moaned, bowing his back. His hands, which had somehow ended up reaching backwards to rest on Azazel’s ass, clenched.

As soon as Azazel felt the first pang of fullness, he released Tynen’s neck with sorrow, immediately swiping his tongue across the punctures to clean away the blood and ease the pain. He hated to lose such an intimate connection with his lover, a connection he knew he could keep, at least in part, if only they could Mark each other.

If only.

I’ll start out with the most recent book I’ve read, seeing as I only finished it two days ago. ‘Slave Boy’ by Evangeline Anderson is a gay scifi erotica novel published by Loose Id, and it’s about 250 pages. I’ll start with some content hints/warnings.

Warnings: May/December, Master/slave, some ‘discipline’, some bondage, teacher/student, aphrodisiacs, deflowering, toys, voyerism/exhibitionism, very very very light dubcon (the viewpoint character precieves it as dubcon, but it’s extremely obvious to the reader at all times that both parties are perfectly willing). I wanted to put a lot of warnings for this because though nothing extreme or horrible happens, there are quite a few possible squicks if you’re opposed to something specific.  The fact that the characters are being manipulated by an outside power (alien customs that they must abide by or there will be dire consequences) may make some people uncomfortable.

The cover: Is really nice. The composition of the photo is good, and the guy they chose for Wren (the only one whose face we see) is actually attractive, and though he’s not necessarily exactly what I pictured, he still makes sense – has the right hair, etc. The cover has way more emotion than that of any other romance novel I own, I usually find that the models just look vacant and it’s weird. I give  this cover 10/10, no hesitation.

Quick summary: Haven is a member of ‘The Order of Light’, a peaceful religiousish organization that has great intergalatic power and often acts as mediators in interplanetary disputes. Ten years ago, he saved a then twelve Wren from sexual slavery on another planet, and brought him into the order. Wren, now twenty-two, is his novice. As part of the Master/novice link, they can communicate telepathically. They are both deeply in love with each other, but neither would ever admit it because relationships between Masters and their novices are strictly forbidden. They go off on a mission to keep one alien race, the Tiberions, from obliterating the entire planet of the peaceable Gowans. However, the Tiberions have a very strict culture, and if Haven and Wren don’t follow it to the letter it may mean the Gowan planet gets destroyed then and there. The most important part of Tiberion culture is the keeping of a slave or multiple slaves. Therefore, Haven has to pretend Wren is his slave – which is of course the very life he saved the boy from. Amid the many things they have to do – parading Wren around naked, performing sexual acts in front of others, etc. – they are forced to admit their feelings. That’s the easy part, because now said feelings are just much harder to deal with.

Characters: The main characters, Haven and Wren, are both pretty likeable. Haven is extremely moral, and is terrified to ‘taint’ Wren in any way. He’s also a very strong and ‘in control’ man, and is definetely a perfect fit for the sexual role of ‘Master’. He has a nice reserve about him, and is just the right amount of flawed to make him interesting. Wren I also liked – he manages to angst a bit while not being a whiny twat, and he’s very submissive by nature but doesn’t act totally immasculated. In fact, he’s really quite brave. These two didn’t grab hold of my brain and shake it, but nonetheless I felt for them and didn’t want to stab them both in the face. That’s good.

Plot: The plot was definetely very much an erotica plot. The main plot – the Gowan/Tiberion peace treaty – is pretty predictable, and most of it is just the catalyst for all the sexual things Haven and Wren have to do. I think the real main plot is the development of their sexual relationship, through resisting and denying and manipulation and trying to get out of things and then more resisting. There’s nothing wrong with the plot, it’s just definitely not the focus of the story. It’s definitely servicable, and I’d say in this case that’s mostly what matters. However, if you like really plotty and intriguing erotica, this book might not be right for you.

Writing: A few typos as in every book that isn’t in multiple editions. Otherwise, grammar and syntax seemed fine (I didn’t notice them, which is how I feel it should be). Anderson’s writing style is decent. Sometimes the dialogue gets a bit cheesy, but nothing too bad, and there are some definite funny moments and sad moments. I would read another book by Anderson.

Smut: As plentiful as you could ask for (without sacrificing other aspects of the story). The smut scenes had a pretty good level of emotion, and they were pretty much always nice and long; you can really savor them. The one thing that drove me nuts was the word ‘rosebud’. I’m not a fan of that word in the context anyways, but Anderson really needs to be banned from it or something, because there’s a few times that she just goes nuts with it.

LOLWTF: For me, there were two real eyerolling moments. One is right at the end so I won’t spoil it, but I can elaborate on the other; and actually the one at the end is bad in the same way. Haven is given two oils to mix and ‘oil up’ Wren with, because male slaves can’t be in public without lubed junk, and he has to wear a tail buttplug. Haven accidently switches the proportions of the oils, and adds too much ‘passionseed’. This ends up, as I’m sure you won’t be surprised, with Wren massively high and completely consumed by lust. That wasn’t so bad, but wait for it… the only way to get the oil off is with semen – a little silly but I’ll buy it – but then we find out it has to be the semen of the person who applied the oil. *groan*

Ending: Well, it’s an HEA. All is right in the universe, love surmounts all obstacles, etc. My only complaint (other than the aforementioned eyeroll in the resolution) is that it’s just a little too perfect and neat, but hey, it’s an HEA. The last exchange between the two characters really made me smile.

Overall: I enjoyed it. It’s not my favorite book of all time by far, but it’s a sweet and satisfying erotic novel for light reading. I’m glad I own it, and I’m sure I’ll pick it up again some rainy saturday. It also played on a lot of my personal kinks, which easily made it worth the read for me.

Rating: Seven big manly ‘swords’ out of ten. It was good, but nothing special. It hasn’t been on my mind since I read it, but it’s definetely a nice little distraction. Definetely buy it if you want some nice solid kinky gay erotica.
(five swords is a decent/average book, ten is an incredible one)

Also, glad to say I’ve got 2500/8000ish done on Death in the Hood. Must get done by June 15th… -_-

Green Light a Miracle, January 2010, 1265 words, PG-13, probably NHEA but not really applicable.

Candy sat on the edge of the motel room bed. His shoulders were hunched inwards and he was slouching badly; it made him look like he was ready to curl into the fetal position.

Which he was.

Candy wasn’t his real name, of course. His parents would’ve had to be even more sadistic sons of bitches if it was. His real name was Joshua, a nice bible name it was. A dress-up-in-a-collared-shirt-go-to-church-every-Sunday kind of name. Well, fuck that. He was wearing a collared shirt, a big white button up that swallowed his emaciated body, but he hadn’t been to church since he was sixteen. Not since he’d left home.

He’d picked Candy because… he didn’t know why, actually. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe he’d just been overcompensating, getting as far away from his bible thumping homophobic parents in every possible way. He was regretting it, now. If he got one more joke or failed line about how delicious he was, he was going to lose his mind. Go all Charles Manson on someone’s ass.

Wait a minute, hadn’t that guy only killed women? Maybe not Charles Manson then. Candy had nothing against women.

Candy hugged his knees. He should change his name to something else. Three others that turned tricks on the same block called themselves Candy as well. Granted, they were all women.

He glanced around the dingy hotel room. Fuck. Fuck. There’d been a point when this had been almost fun, when the thrill of rebellion was still fresh in him. During that first year he’d never felt threatened. He’d thought he was invincible.

Now he was world-weary, and he knew. He knew exactly how much danger he was in every time he went out on his corner in a fishnet top with snags on the elbows from rug burn. He knew he had no real choice about what clients he ended up with. He knew he could turn up dead and no one would care, except for the police – and only because some hooker’s corpse had ruined their night.

Once upon a time, Candy had been young and naieve. He could hardly remember the little choirboy who’d hopped on a greyhound in a small town and ended up in a big city for the first time in his life. He couldn’t remember that feeling of wonder at the people and the tall buildings. He did remember the loneliness, that irrevocable feeling of lost he’d felt as he’d sunk to the curb, realizing he had no idea what he was going to do now.

He felt like that every goddamn day.

That was how he’d ended up with Harley.

Candy had always thought Harley was young for a pimp, but he’d never known his exact age more than ‘older than you, Candyass’. He’d always said that affectionately, and he’d never called Candy anything else.

Candy liked it. He liked Harley. Actually, he’d liked Harley a lot.

Candy fell backwards onto the bed, his brow furrowed into a slight scowl. He reminded himself that no matter what he thought of the man now, without Harley he would be dead. That was without question.

He’d been so damn naieve, so innocent, that it sickened him. He wanted to pop back in time and warn himself, tell himself to stop trusting, tell himself that yes, Candyass, people do lie.

Some people lie more than others. Some people lie a whole hell of a lot.

Back then he’d done everything Harley asked of him, without question and with stars in his eyes. Harley ‘looked after’ two other boys at the time, both of which were older than Candy and had looked then much like he did now. Permanent bags under eyes that were all sunken in, ribs showing even under his tight little shirts, a desensitizing scar where one of his nipple rings had rejected.

Candy, being the sweet young thing he’d been, was Harley’s favourite. They’d fucked every night before Candy went to turn tricks. Harley always told him if he didn’t like a person he wouldn’t have to go with them.

The first time Candy had been beaten up and come back crying, Harley was angry as hell, and said the next time he saw the guy he’d fucking castrate him. Though he still had sex with Candy himself, he didn’t send him out to the corner for two days. When the guy who’d hurt him did come back, Harley broke his nose. That was the kind of thing that made sweet innocent little Candyass think someone actually did love him.

He’d always seen the pitying looks the other two boys gave him, but only later did he understand them. Before, he’d just stuck his nose in the air and told himself that they were just jealous, so fuck them.

The illusion lasted longer than it should have. Harley always picked his customers, who were usually pretty nice guys, for johns anyways. Finally, one day, there’d been a guy, a rich business man that made Candy’s skin crawl. He’d hidden behind Harley and looked at him pleadingly, shaking his head and mouthing no. Harley had looked back at him with cold eyes and shoved him out with a, ‘move it, whore’.

That time when he came back crying, it was him Harley was mad at; and for the first time, it was not a john that beat him.

He tried to make it up, he did everything Harley said and fell into a shocked little silence that lasted for days. Harley didn’t have sex with him for a week, despite his pleading.

Candy hadn’t really wanted the sex. He got enough of that. He wanted someone to love him again.

Then Harley was nice again. Still, things were never the same.

Candy was starting to get worn around the edges, sporting the run-down look that prostitutes always seemed to get. There were bags under his eyes no matter how much he slept. His new piercings swelled and wept pus and Harley wouldn’t look at him again. He took the infected rings out. He made less money until they healed, and Harley beat him for that.

He began to hate himself. As he lay back on the bed, arms wrapped around himself, the ridiculous red lace thong he was wearing peeking out from under the big white shirt, he reflected that he’d never stopped hating himself. Never, not one moment since that day.

He bit his lip. Fuck Harley. Fuck him, fuck him.

He felt a scream welling up in him, like it always had every time Harley had infuriated him. He’d never screamed then for fear of being beaten, and wouldn’t scream now because he would feel like an idiot.

Funnily enough, he didn’t really remember the day that he’d left; the day he’d walked out on Harley like he’d walked out on his parents. It seemed like something he should remember, kind of a hallmark.

Fuck Hallmark. He’d always hated those cards. He smiled sardonically to himself; he was pretty damn sure they wouldn’t have ‘Congratulations for leaving your abusive pimp’.

He rolled and pressed his cheek against the comforter. Then he remembered how dirty it was and rolled onto his back again.

Harley was years in the past now. This shouldn’t still affect him the way it did.

Candy remembered sitting on that curb praying for a miracle right before Harley had come along.

Dammit, he should have known.

There were no miracles in the red light district.

]]> http://tessrobertson.wordpress.com/2010/06/02/green-light-a-miracle-written-for-in-class-exam/feed/ 0 tessrobertson http://tessrobertson.wordpress.com/2010/06/02/graveyard-of-the-lost-yet-more-speedwriting/ http://tessrobertson.wordpress.com/2010/06/02/graveyard-of-the-lost-yet-more-speedwriting/#comments Wed, 02 Jun 2010 00:30:21 +0000 tessrobertson http://tessrobertson.wordpress.com/?p=19 ]]> Written in 80 minutes for my writing class. Funnily enough, even I wasn’t sure I was going anywhere until I got there.

Graveyard of the Lost, November 2009, 1500 words, G-rated, HEA

It was quiet. Dusk came, grey and melancholy and brought with it a soft warm breeze that smelled of the sea.

Years of salt water had corroded the old tombstones and yellowed the grass, though that was owed partially to the time of year. It never snowed on the island, but in winter it got rather brisk. Jason wrapped his jacket more closely around him and pushed himself up to sit on one of the stones.

“Why are we here?” he said, his voice a little whinier than he would have liked it. He knew how much Eventide hated his griping, but dammit, he wanted to know.

“It’s all-hallows,” Eventide replied, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. His voice was even and toneless, but it always was. His long hair was gathered in a ponytail that was as glossy black as a raven’s tail feathers, and he wasn’t wearing a coat. It would be left on the floor in his room for a few more weeks. Jason had no idea how he could do that – it was cold up here. He pulled his own tan wool peacoat more tightly around himself again. It was no good. Usually the wool could block the wind fairly well, even as windy as the island was. Now it seemed to cut right through. He felt naked.

There was a storm coming. Gray clouds rolled on the horizon, distinguishable from the sky only because they were a shade darker and moved with the wind. The sea was also gray. It crashed against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff in that constant heartbeat, ever heard on the island. There were no gulls; even they seemed to know that they shouldn’t be out tonight.

Jason watched Eventide, wanting to speak again but deciding against it. His lover was staring out at the sea, empty-eyed. The fine hairs on his arms stood on end under his fishnets. Jason could see every goose bump.

Weather like this made Jason nervous. He hardly minded a storm; if he did, he’d go insane living on the island. However, when everything paused on the brink, when the world went all gray and held its breath, when the wind pulled at the trees with an insistent breeze that never delivered the promised rain, it made his skin crawl. Jason’s dog wasn’t afraid of thunder but, in weather like this, it crawled under his bed and whined. Jason had always thought of this as a bad omen.

It was disconcerting.

He knew Eventide would raise a slightly mocking eyebrow if he even voiced that thought. So he didn’t. He wished he knew what Eventide was thinking but, after two years of being together, he knew better. He knew he wouldn’t get a damn thing, even if he asked – especially if he asked.

Night started to fall. There had been no sunset, except a slight yellow poisoning of the clouds at about six o’ clock. Eventide did not speak; so Jason didn’t either.

Never mind the weather; this old graveyard gave him the creeps.

Jason’s ass was starting to go numb from the pale and pitted stone on which he was seated. The coldness of it sucked out his body heat instead of warming to it, had long since seeped through his pants. It felt as though it was sucking out his very life.

Night had fallen completely. There was no moon, and it was only due to his eyes’ long adjustment to the dark that Jason could see anything at all. He could still pick out Eventide’s profile and slid off of the stone as he saw his lover move. God, did he even still have an ass? He put his hands behind himself to check. Yes, it was frozen but still there.

There was a sulphurous hiss, and suddenly the world was lighted by a glowing match that Eventide held in the neck of a bottle. His movements were careful and deliberate, as they always were. He poked the match to the wick of a cheap candle melted to the bottom of the bottle, setting it on a flat stone in front of them. It tilted haphazardly to the side, caught in the rock’s pitting. The wind howled eerily across the mouth of the bottle, and the flame still guttered from the little air that got in. It was only then that Jason noticed the wind had been steadily picking up.

Eventide sank gracefully down to his knees, and Jason followed, edging closer to put an arm around his lover’s back. It was only then that he felt the tiny, resolute shivers. Eventide was cold. Hah! He’d known it. “You should start wearing your coat,” he muttered.

He received no reply.

Jason still wanted to know why they were there but did not ask again. It must be important to Eventide somehow. The other boy was very secretive, and Jason couldn’t say he blamed him. Even after two years, he wasn’t entirely sure what Eventide’s story was. It had bothered him at first, but now he no longer minded. He knew that, when his lover was ready to tell, he would. He’d had the feeling lately that they were on the brink of some revelation and wondered if this was it.

Now that he thought about it, the last two Halloween nights Eventide had not come out with him. Eventide, with his odd appearance and black clothes, had always seemed, to Jason, the kind of person who would really love Halloween. Both years, he’d suggested things they could do, and always Eventide had refused with no explanation.

Even then, Jason had known better than to be hurt.

He felt fingers entwine slowly with his own and couldn’t help but smile. He clasped Eventide’s hand firmly. Public displays of affection were rarely on the agenda with his lover. Eventide never initiated such things. The only time he was headstrong and affectionate was in the bedroom. The rest of the time, he seemed perfectly content to hold hands at Jason’s prerogative, or accept an arm around his shoulders or waist – not like any of that stuff was a good idea at school, not in a small community like this.

Eventide was watching him now, their faces a bare inch apart. Jason turned and touched his cheek, feeling the thin layer of white powder and the warmth underneath. Then Eventide leaned forwards a hair, and Jason tasted hot, black-greased lips. Eventide’s lipstick tasted bad, but he’d never really cared. He pulled his lover a little closer, held him a little tighter. The violently flickering candle flame did nothing to cast even an illusion of heat, but it made the shadows of the tombstones dance across the two teenagers and the grass. Jason pulled away, catching his breath and rested his forehead against Eventide’s, feeling that their embrace kept them safe from the night, no longer afraid despite the fact that the shadows looked like circling spirits.

His hand was still on Eventide’s cheek, and he became aware of a sudden wetness. For a moment, he thought it had begun to rain. Then he realized that the liquid on his fingertips was too hot to be rain. He looked into Eventide’s dark eyes and got a shock.

His lover was crying.

In two years, Jason had never seen Eventide cry. He had been quite sure that, with such repressed emotions, Eventide had not cried at all in a much longer time than that.

Yet here he was. Here they were.

“What’s wrong?” Jason hardly more than mouthed the words. As he expected, Eventide did not answer him. Instead, he curled up close as his body started to shake, resting his head on Jason’s shoulder.

Jason did only what was instinctive; he wrapped protective arms around Eventide’s form and held him. He asked no more but silently offered all he was.

There was no way to know how much time had passed. Jason could only guess that it was roughly midnight. Eventide had long stopped crying but had remained limply – almost helplessly – in Jason’s arms. Jason had the feeling something momentous had just been shared and was ashamed that he had no idea what it was.

Eventide stood, shaking from emotion or the cold – Jason did not know. Self-consciously, he removed his pea coat and draped it around Eventide’s shoulders.

His lover began to walk away, and he followed. They left the candle there, burned almost to its stump. Suddenly, Eventide half-turned and pointed at the stone they had been seated in front of. It was newer than the others but still wore the weather of years.

“My mother,” he said, his voice more unguarded than Jason had ever heard it.

Jason said nothing. He did not think he was supposed to. Instead, he simply caught up with Eventide properly, taking a slender, cold hand.

]]> http://tessrobertson.wordpress.com/2010/06/02/graveyard-of-the-lost-yet-more-speedwriting/feed/ 0 tessrobertson http://tessrobertson.wordpress.com/2010/06/02/dirty-love-yay-more-speedwriting/ http://tessrobertson.wordpress.com/2010/06/02/dirty-love-yay-more-speedwriting/#comments Wed, 02 Jun 2010 00:11:25 +0000 tessrobertson http://tessrobertson.wordpress.com/?p=17 ]]> Another one that was an in-class piece, I tend to always be really proud of these… this one is sort of disturbing, I’d hesitate to call it ‘romance’. Probably ‘dark fantasy’ fits it best. Written in 70 minutes.

Dirty Love, December 2009, 720 words, R-rated, NOT HEA

In the small room, he sat straight-backed in a hard chair. His hands were tied behind him. The rope chafed his wrists.

There was a tiny window up near the ceiling. He didn’t even try to look out of it. He had at first, sure. Now, he didn’t even raise his head. His outgrown hair fell over his face, and he stared at a blue-lit patch of nothing between his slightly parted knees. Outside, it was past the gray of dusk and falling into the ebon of night. Would it be time to eat soon?

The door creaked open, and he came in. The Master was tall, broad-shouldered, and his hands were heavy. The young man in the chair did not look up. He knew better now. However, he felt the Master’s breath on his hair, and something wet touched his lips. He drank, taking only what he needed. If he behaved, there would be more later.

The ropes were slowly untied, and he fell forwards, unable to catch himself with his numb arms. The Master caught him and lowered him to the dirty floor. “You’ll have a treat today, Love.” There was hot breath on his head again, the slight pressure of a kiss. The young man smiled widely, lighting up his dirt-smeared face, reaching even his eyes – eyes that were hidden by hair that once shone white-blonde but was now dull and lifeless, colorless with grime.

A collar was snapped on his neck, a length of the rough rope looped through it, down under his arms on each side and around, forming a rudimentary harness. Of course, he’d been trained with this, though he hardly needed it any more. He managed to stand on his own, his legs shaking violently. There were red scars around his wrists from being bound long. It was only when he stood that it became clear how tall he was – he’d once been slender and statuesque, but that had long ago given way to emaciation.

The Master led him from the dark room, and the comparative brightness outside it made his eyes sting, blinded him though it was only candlelight. He kept his head bowed, following the Master’s every step with utmost trust. “Sit down.”

He did. He would have even if there hadn’t been a chair under him.

“Since you’ve been so very good, I won’t put you in irons. You won’t try to escape.” It was a statement, not a question, but the young man shook his head anxiously anyway. Of course not! He would never try to leave the Master. The Master was so kind and good to him. The Master loved him.

“In another week – if you keep this behavior up – I’ll see to it that you get a bath.”

The young man beamed. Oh, a bath? How wonderful!

One of the Master’s servants entered. The young man did not look up at her, even when a plate of food was placed under his nose. There was boiled meat, fresh bread and even some plain cooked carrots. Truly, the Master was wonderful. The young man was so happy he’d behaved well enough to earn such a feast. He could smell the Master’s food, and imagining how delicious it must be made him salivate, but he hardly thought about it more than a moment. He was so lucky to be rewarded with this meal, so very lucky. He ate it all, every bite.

The young man sat in silence as the Master finished, waiting to be brought back to his room. Yet, when the Master instructed him to rise and follow, he found himself being led in the opposite direction. Oh! Was he really going to be taken to the Master’s bed? He must have so pleased him last time!

The corridor was warm. The young man’s flesh rejoiced, softening as it warmed. He stood still, waiting for the Master to open the door.

Once inside the room, the Master turned and pushed back his prisoner’s hair. The young man’s blue eyes were wide with adoration, his dirty white wings fluttering weakly where they were tied to his back. They were balding by now, even as he watched; one oily feather fell to the ground.

Lucifer took Michael into his arms.