luninosity

I have been unrelentingly busy (grading! having the house painted! still being injured in a very ouch-y way!) and so have only just now had the time to make this post, but…

…”Tulips for Two” came out on Saturday from JMS Books, so it’s available everywhere now!

On sale at JMS Books here (still only $1.12 for this first week!) and at Amazon here!

It’s a fluffy springtime meet-cute, on the way to a horticultural conference – if you’ve ever wanted some fear of flying comfort, combined with detailed trivia about tulip growing, and immediate attraction that might blossom into more – well, this is the story for you! *laughs*

It’s also another story in which I happily pillage my father’s nurseryman knowledge for romance purposes…oh, well, I think he’s tickled!

And, in more cool news, upon release day it got the shiny number one banner on Amazon! in 30-minute LGBTQ short reads!

So that is very fun!

Next up…well, actually I’ve got a bunch of news! A birthday sale, a box set, a new story for next month…but that’s all probably another post, so in the meantime I shall just tease you with the opening of said new story…

~

Kyle Raines, glancing out an old-fashioned kitchen window at six minutes past three on a Friday afternoon, saw the musician coming up the lane, and felt his heart flutter.

The stranger had to be a musician, Kyle decided, entranced and spilling too much cinnamon over custard. The black motorcycle jacket, the stylish shaggy hair, the devil-may-care shoulders. The pause upon encountering the wealth of front steps and front door, followed by an incredulous whistle, audible through the kitchen’s open window. The note echoed like a robin’s twitter: perfect curious startled mimicry of spring.

The man most likely wasn’t a musician in reality, versus fantasy; he probably was instead another loud and self-important and arrogant friend of Chad’s; but Kyle, watching the man stroll up the cool grey flagstones to the double-wide front door, wrote him into a story: beautiful, autumn-haired and stormy-eyed, charismatic and weary, glittering with a thousand rock-show nights. Big hands. Talented hands. Artist’s hands.

The actual head caterer for the celebratory weekend, across the table, cleared her throat.

~

…yes, it’s a Cinderella retelling, of a sort! Sufficiently tantalized? 🙂 More soon!

This week’s Rainbow Snippet comes from my upcoming release, out Feb 15! It’s called “A Valentine for Violet,” an MM romance novella, and it’s one that I really love – brand-new characters, a sort of alt-Victorian English country village setting (no magic, but same-sex marriage is accepted), and paper-making and valentines! I hope you’ll all love it too – I had such fun writing this one!

It’s available for pre-order now here at JMS Books – and currently 50% off today (Feb 9) for the sale!

(In case you’re not familiar with #RainbowSnippets, each week, authors post six (or more, if you’re wordy like me!) lines from a story, wip, etc – sharing the delight! Come check out the Rainbow Snippets Facebook Group – new posts every weekend (depending on time zones). The weekly pinned post will collect comments from authors linking to their six-line Rainbow Snippet post for the week.)

Here’s Violet first meeting Captain Valentine Argent, newly returned to Hartswell…

~

Valentine winced again. “I really am sorry about the mud.”

“It’ll dry. Here—” Violet shook himself into motion. Found the parcel, neatly tied: Amelia Argent’s rose varietals were an award-winning legend, and she kept notes so meticulous that Oxford scholars came by, on occasion, to have hushed and serious discussions about cross-breeding and hybridization. “That ought to be enough for the next few months, unless she’s got royal botanists again.”

Valentine’s mouth quirked. “You make them sound like an infestation.”

“A disruption. They wander around looking at flowers in shop windows and end up blocking the lanes.” He decided this was unjust, added, “At least they also buy writing-paper.”

“Writing. Yes.” Valentine gazed at him, as Violet came around the counter. A pillar of tall sunshine, dressed up in unobtrusively expensive dark blue and grey, his eyes held a question, an interest. “I thought someone older owned the stationer’s. Or…I suppose I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t think about it.”

Violet tried not to feel too small, too plain, too ordinary, under that scrutiny. His own brown hair, brown eyes, not at all sun-kissed winter-pale skin. Shortness. Bits of green and pink pulp under his nails. “You can hardly be expected to know anything about Hartswell.”

“Because I’ve not been here, is that what you mean?”

It was, but Violet felt guilty in the wake of his own irritation. Captain Argent had answered without rancor, with simple understanding: yes, that indeed made sense, of course the village felt so.

He now felt irritated about feeling guilty, which was not at all a pleasant sensation. “You’ve been a bit busy. Commanding a ship in Her Majesty’s Navy and all. We do understand.”

When he held out the parcel, Valentine reached to take it. Their fingers, ungloved, brushed.

The touch was only a touch. Skin to skin. Straightforward. A startlement.

An intimacy. The light chill in Valentine’s hand, from the cold. The long callused strength of those fingers. The sensation skimming along Violet’s own fingers, sensitive after hours spent in water and pulp and vats, because of course that must be it, that must be why the shiver.

Valentine made an abrupt movement, fumbled journals to the other arm, caught Violet’s hand. Made a dismayed sound. “Are you injured? Your fingers—”

Violet, who had not had anyone fuss over him in at least a decade, much less the man he’d not-entirely-decided to dislike, blinked at those wide blue eyes, the sudden concern; and could say nothing.

“This red…” Valentine cradled Violet’s hand in his. “No, wait, that’s not…”

“Oh. It’s dye.” He could see why the captain might have thought otherwise; the line did look as if a slice had opened along the side of his index finger. He did not know why Valentine had seemed so worried. “I was working on some valentine-cards, and red is popular. It’ll come off with scrubbing.”

Valentine exhaled. Then seemed to recall that he was still holding Violet’s hand, and let go, hastily. “My apologies. That was…rather dramatic of me. I’m sorry—er—I don’t know your name. Mr Merriman, given the shop sign?”

“I suppose,” Violet said. His hand felt unaccountably abandoned. “The shop was my father’s, first. Though it’s only me, now. Violet Merriman, Hartswell’s stationer, paper-maker, book-binder if it isn’t anything antique or fancy.”

“Some of those journals look decidedly fancy.”

“And you’re Captain Valentine Argent.”

Valentine shifted weight, at that; hesitated. “Just Valentine. Val. To friends. If you’d like.”

“Why on earth do you think we’re—never mind.” Something about the rank? The name? Some flash of pain, or regret? Something that made Valentine Argent, darling of Hartswell and heir to the Manor, uncomfortable? “Was that parcel all you needed?”

“I thought it was,” Valentine said, “but I’m beginning to think I should need more. Does everyone in Hartswell feel as you do? That I’ve been—neglectful?”

“Oh. Oh, no—no, most of the village finds you an object of fascination, I promise!” And now he’d inadvertently laid a hand upon Valentine’s arm, amid the protest.

He had not meant to do so, but it’d been an instinct. A gesture. Because something in those sea-dawn eyes had been off-balance, and that’d tipped the world off-balance too, scattering Violet’s assumptions. “You’re beautifully mysterious and charming and rich in prize-money and some sort of national hero after the adventure with the pirates. Everyone’s hoping you’re here to stay, to settle down with a local eligible young lady or gentleman, and of course they’d all be thrilled to have you.”

Valentine’s mouth did the wry pretty sideways quirk again. “Would they?”

“Ask anyone. Well, nearly. Mrs Hunt would prefer you not interfere with her very hopeful plans for her daughter and Squire Randall’s niece, so please don’t flirt with Maria Hunt if you can help it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I have thought of something else I need, though.”

“Oh—anything for yourself, if you’re staying some time? Writing-journals, papers, cards?” Violet had no idea why his mouth added, “Valentine-cards, perhaps, for the flirtations?”

Valentine sighed. Adjusted the parcel. His hair was so blond, long enough to fall over his coat-collar, quicksilver and moonlight against the frame of the shop and the shelves. “Perhaps I should simply go.”

“No,” Violet managed to say. “My apologies. It was not a good joke. What did you need?”

The Love Is Free charity anthology is out now from JMS Books – over 50 short stories in various LGBTQ flavors, all under 5k words! All proceeds will be donated to the ACLU!

My contribution is a new little short for Gareth and Lorre from Magician, if you’d like a glimpse of them on an afternoon off, visiting a museum…and a piece of Lorre’s past…

Amazon link here!
JMS Books (25% off through Jan 31) link here!

“Sam,” Leo said, softly. It was more an experimental sound than anything else; he turned a wrist, twisted, tested the tightness of the tie around his arms. Their familiar bedroom hummed with anticipation, snug and close and wicked. The sheets—new and clover-green, indulgently smooth, eager to fit Sam’s old cozy bed—lay cool against his bare skin. The air tasted sweet, like his own honey-vanilla lip balm, when he breathed. His cock ached, standing up stiffly, untouched.

Sam ran a hand over his stomach, sitting beside him. Sam was also naked, and thoroughly aroused; Leo gazed at that dark thick cock, the weight of it, the heft, and inquired, “Would you like to forgo any other plans and just fuck me now?”

Sam laughed. “We wanted to play with you a little, didn’t we? You still up for that, or maybe changing your mind? I’m good with something else if you say you want that.” His voice held affection, a caress, sure as his eyes and the bedside lights. The sun was out—it was a nice afternoon—but in here they’d closed the shutters, made the room private, set out certain objects.

“No stopping.” Leo wriggled in place, appreciating the petting. Sam’s hand flattened over his stomach, soothing. “I like sensation, and you said you’d had an idea or two. Show me.”

“My Leo.” Sam’s thumb rubbed along the crease of his hip. “Okay. You tell me if it’s too much. Say stop, if you need a sec, or mango if we’re stopping everything.”

“I promise I will.” He’d almost picked kiwi as a safeword, but had guessed that might be too worrying, or potentially confusing, if it sounded like he’d had a random allergy attack. This would be close enough. “You, as well. If we need it.”

“Yep. Palm trees.”

Leo did know why; he’d asked when they’d had the first discussion. Your socks, Sam had said. The fuzzy ones Colby gave you, after the kiwi—after. For comfort.

He tried to lean more against Sam’s leg and hip, beside him. “I love you.”

Sam grinned at him. Gold and heat in those eyes. “I know.” He also traced one finger along Leo’s dick, deliberate: teasing.

It wasn’t really dominance and submission, or mostly not, between them. Leo had looked a few things up, out of curiosity, and had concluded that while he was probably a bit of a masochist, or whatever it was when one liked being ecstatically swept out of one’s head by overwhelming sensation and stimulation, he wasn’t personally particularly transported at the idea of being given orders or waiting patiently or giving himself unquestioningly over to someone else’s command. He also liked doing things to Sam—taking action, making things happen, having ideas—and seeing those responses and reactions, when they switched. Leo had committed several combinations of fingers and tongue to well-practiced memory.

But he had said mostly, there, when trying to explain; Sam had listened, and nodded.

The part that flirted with the edges of submission was the part of Leo that collapsed into shy molten yearning when Sam told him that he was worth loving, that he was wanted. When Sam told him that he, Leo, was important, and therefore Sam was going to make him feel like the center of the universe, every drop of pleasure and anguish, every last exquisite burst of intensity. Because he deserved that.

Sometimes he wanted to shut his eyes, or to hide, when Sam told him so. But then Sam always told him to believe it, even if he had to not look, for a moment. Sam told him to feel it all, and to know it was real.

Sam said now, “I’ll buy us some actual toys, I swear,” and tossed a clothespin up and caught it, thoughtfully, with the hand that wasn’t teasing Leo’s cock. “We can do better than this. We’ll work out what you like.”

“I’m not opposed to kinky uses for household items. We can think about this every time we look at a hairbrush. Though—speaking of, is that one new?”

“Not exactly. I bought it in Atlanta, a couple years back, when I had an assignment and I forgot to pack mine. Only used it on that trip.” Sam picked it up, ran a finger along the side. The brush had a flat oval back and a more rounded handle in pale wood, with stiff dark bristles.

The bristles rustled at Sam’s touch. The sound resonated through the afternoon and scraped along Leo’s skin, a foreshadowing.

He shivered. Sam, watching, informed him, “We’ll make you feel it,” and leaned in to kiss him. Sam’s mouth was confident and warm and lightly coffee-flavored because he’d been drinking some earlier; he hadn’t shaved, and the light scratch of stubble sent thrills along Leo’s skin.

Sam said, “Can you turn over, for me?” and Leo moved promptly. He knew what Sam wanted—himself face-down, wrists bound, hips lifted, arse presented, cock swaying between spread thighs. He knew what he looked like; he knew he wanted this. The knowledge of joy ran hot in his veins.

Sam touched him first, hand gentle, stroking his hip, his backside. And then, seamlessly, the quick glittering first impact.

Wood, polished and flat. Not cruel—Sam didn’t want to truly hurt him—but enough strength to snap stars into supernovae under Leo’s skin, behind his eyes. He gasped, because yes, yes, please; Sam did it again, the other side, matching.

Leo trembled. The brush wasn’t that large, but it felt huge; the hardness and flat smack was something he’d never done, all new, exploding through him. His cock seemed to stiffen more, if that were possible: dripping and needy.

Sam whispered, “Okay?” Obviously he knew Leo hadn’t done this before, though they’d both wanted to now. In fact neither of them had done precisely this before; Sam had, while being more experimental—in college, and some scattered one-night-stands while on assignment—both taken and given a spanking or two, but only with hands. Sam had tested the flat of the brush on his own leg, after this had first come up: studying the swing and consequences.

“Very okay,” Leo whispered back, once he could. “More.”

Sam traced a heart over his right hip, next to the burning spot. And then did precisely as asked.

More. Measured. Precise. Using those sturdy muscles. The sound, the heat, the ache, swirled and sang inside Leo’s head. He heard himself moaning, felt himself pushing back into the next swing, and the next. Rhythm. White and gold. Beat upon beat upon heartbeat. Rushing through his body, his skin, his thoughts.

His legs quivered. Sam clearly noticed. An impact or two landed across Leo’s thighs, the backs of them, and a bit more to his inner thighs. Leo could hear himself panting.

His wrists were tied, but his fingers curled into the flat green of the sheet. The sheet let him cling, a comfort. He felt the fabric over his skin, knew it, sank into the sensation the way he never had before. Every small feeling grew bigger, magnified, swelling, while he grew small and safe and surrounded by immensity.

Sam’s hand found his cock, where it bobbed above the bed. A tug, a stroke. Leo felt his own wetness, felt the strength of that grip. He moaned. He couldn’t talk.

The impacts paused. The thud and thunder echoed in Leo’s thoughts; he let Sam turn him, ease him down to the bed, touch him. Sam whispered, “Still with me?” and touched his shoulder, asking. Leo gasped as his skin, super-heated, met the sheets; and then squirmed against them.

“Leo.” Sam’s voice was calm but intent on him, on the answer. “Still good?”

“Mmm. Yes. Everything’s very…bright.” He tried to focus; the world had gone blurry, melting, soft as candy-floss in rain. “Lovely.”

“Okay. More?”

“Yes, we said, didn’t we?”

“Okay.” Sam stroked his stomach, avoiding the stiff rod of need that Leo’s cock had become. Sam’s cock was upright and eager as well, Leo observed hazily; but they’d had an idea or two to test out, and this would be the next one.

Sam found the clothespins. “We talked about you maybe getting some piercings…could be fun…for now, though…see how you like this.”

The bite of it clamped across his nipple. Left. Then right.

At first the feeling did not quite register. Reaction mired in the candy-floss and sugar.

And then it did.

Leo opened his mouth and couldn’t get words out. Sam had moved lower, doing more. The pins bit and flared: his inner thighs, nipping soft vulnerable skin. His backside and the backs of his thighs burned from the spanking, sweet and vicious.

It was—

So much. So unyielding, pinching, crushing sensitive nerve endings—Leo’s nipples felt like fire, and his thighs echoed the shriek of it, and it hurt, it hurt—but that wasn’t bad, it didn’t feel wrong, so much as just—too much, too hard, a wall of sensation slamming into him, when he’d never done this or felt this before—

He felt his muscles tense in anguish, hands jerking above his head in their tie. He couldn’t breathe. He finally gasped, “Stop—”

Sam froze.

“Please,” Leo begged. He was crying. Confusingly, his prick was also leaking, throbbing, spilling drops of need; his hips twitched helplessly, unbidden, out of his control. He thought he might be about to come, or to die, or to pass out. “Wait—just—take them off for a moment, off, please, I can’t—”

Sam’s hands were quick. Immediate. Taking the cruel delicious implements away. Sensation coruscated through Leo’s nipples and thighs and even cock, though Sam had not put a clothespin there.

“I’m sorry.” Sam’s hand was tender, caressing sore spots, soothing. “I’m so sorry. Too much?”

“I—I don’t know, I don’t know, Sam—Sam—”

“I’m here. I’m right here.” Sam’s fingers undid the wrist-ties, too: not panicked but swift. “Breathe for me? In, and out…look at me, Leo, come on.”

Leo shut his eyes, felt himself shaking, opened his eyes again. Found Sam to look at: made of rich earth and steadiness and worry, framed by bedroom walls. “I’m…okay. Excellent, actually.”

Sam’s expression said that no one including the clothespins believed that.

“I am,” Leo reinforced. Still breathless, still off-balance. But not in a bad way. Different. A discovery. “I didn’t say mango.”

“You said stop.”

“I did, but…just for now, I think.” He meant that; he reached a clumsy hand down, wobbling a bit, and found Sam’s. Then put it on his cock. “Feel that? I…think I liked it.” He knew Sam would feel the truth of that, the way he was practically on the brink; not quite the shocking overwhelming tipping-point, but it wouldn’t take much.

Sam’s fingers stroked him, consideringly. Sam’s eyes were dark gold, concerned but not frantic, studying his face. “You say what you mean.”

Leo nodded.

“You said stop for a minute. You need a break?”

Leo nodded again.

Sam kissed him, lightly. Not a demand, not dominance: full of wonder, and reassurance, a promise of love and steadiness. Sam’s hand petted Leo’s hip, and then—slowly—drifted up. Rested over Leo’s left nipple, while Sam’s tongue plundered his mouth.

Leo felt the heat of it, inside and out. He made a happy acquiescent sound; Sam pulled back, dove in to drop one more quick kiss on his mouth, threw him that beloved grin. “Got an idea.”

“I like you having ideas.”

“Yep. Stay still for a sec—no, not tying you up, put down your hands. Just stay put.”

Leo stuck out his tongue. Sam laughed.

And then Sam’s fingers slid between Leo’s spread legs. Slick with lube. Pressing into him, opening him, stretching him. The invasion was welcome and inarguable and splendid; Leo murmured, “Are we just going with the fuck Leo senseless option, then, I’m on board…” and pushed back hungrily, taking more, feeling himself yield and give way for Sam.

“I mean,” Sam said. “Yeah. But I’ve got plans.” His fingers crooked, curling, searching—finding that spot, making Leo moan and arch. The fingers paused. “Feeling good?”

Leo swore raggedly at him. “Don’t stop—”

“You wanted more. But I want you to feel good, too.” Sam moved the fingers, slid them out of him. Found something else. Held it up. “Good idea?”

“Oh fuck,” Leo said, “fuck yes, God yes, absolutely yes, go on—”

Sam was holding the hairbrush. The one that’d just pounded him and spanked him and left him dizzy and tremulous. Sam was looking at the smooth curved wooden handle, and at Leo’s body.

“Thought you’d like that,” Sam said, “knowing how this felt, on your skin…and now inside you, where I’m going to fuck you with it…”

“Oh God,” Leo breathed. “Yes, please. Fucking hell. Now.”

Sam laughed. And proceeded to do just that.

Thickness. Solid wood. Gliding into him. Slick with lube, of course; the point wasn’t to hurt him. The handle wasn’t as large as Sam’s cock, but it was hard and relentless and decently long. Leo felt it slide into him, back out a fraction, in again: Sam really truly fucking him with it, pushing the length deeper, in and out and in.

He heard himself make a sound; he wasn’t sure what. He felt it. He saw Sam watching it: watching him getting fucked by a brush, an object, the handle sliding into his stretched hole. The brush sticking out, visible, between his thighs. Filthy and obscene and decadent and so good, himself like this, on display for Sam, being used and getting fucked, however Sam wanted to fuck him, because Sam loved him and knew he needed to feel everything, all of it, to be on display and shameless and needy and coming apart on the steady pumping rhythm of a fucking hairbrush inside him—

He felt his body tighten, clenching. Sam made a pleased sort of sound—and stopped. Brush shoved into Leo’s body. Leo’s hole fluttering around slick messy wood.

Leo might’ve been begging. He was certainly whimpering.

Sam found the clothespins. And they fastened back onto Leo’s chest, pinching his nipples.

The hurt seemed less, this time. Or perhaps it was simply that he was expecting it; or it was the way his entire body felt good, aglow, radiant. Deep thick light like scorched honey, fire that turned the world to caramel.

Sam was watching him, intent. Leo nodded: yes, yes, please, so good, yes this.

Sam whispered, “You’re so beautiful,” and rested a finger on Leo’s chest, between the twin starry throbs. “So beautiful, doing this—taking this, for me, for us…everything you want, everything you deserve, because you do, and I get to give it to you.”

Leo whispered back, “Love you.” His thoughts were full of sparkles and caramel-dust and halos, the sort that ringed lights and stars and comets.

Sam murmured, “If I fuck you with this brush, will you come for me?” and nudged it, a push, a question on the edge of a demand.

Leo heard himself say the yes. Tiny, pleading, needing. His hips jerked, silent and desperate. Firework fuses simmered under his skin, across his chest, along his straining cock, inside his hole, where the hardness teased him.

“So good,” Sam told him, “you’re always so good for me, Leo, like this,” and fucked him tenderly with the brush and played with one of the clothespins, gazing down at him; and Leo’s eyes were hot and wet with tears, emotion, sensation, all of him collapsing and giving way and taking what Sam was doing to him, because Sam believed that Leo deserved to feel so good and so full and so loved…

He came without real conscious thought, simply shattering apart, breaking into incandescence. He felt his body arch and stiffen and spasm, felt the slick wet spurts of his own release against his skin. More heat. More sharp-edged white light. The tears along his eyelashes, also wet and hot. All of him pouring out.

Sam talked to him softly—Leo couldn’t understand words at first—and petted him, caressed him, did not remove the clothespins but ran a hand along his prick and rubbed a thumb over his dripping slit, and wrung another weak dribble out of helpless flesh. Leo felt his muscles tighten and ripple around the unflinching brush-handle inside him, and he sobbed in pleasure, because he felt so much and Sam had told him he deserved this, he was good, Sam wanted to give him this.

He was aware that he was feeling lightheaded, drowning in sensation. He cried a little more as Sam took away the clothespins, as too much feeling flooded back. He couldn’t imagine how reddened his nipples must look, how well-used. He imagined Sam looking at him, seeing that.

His cock twitched again, feebly. He trembled in something like an echo of climax, release, embarrassment, happiness.

Sam said something, gently. And then again, more forceful. Leo shut his eyes to feel even more, and moved aimlessly against the sheets.

Sam moved; weight shifted. The stiff unyielding length of the brush-handle slid out of Leo’s body; the bristles skimmed his thigh. He felt the wetness of lube trickling after; he felt too empty, abruptly. Stretched. Hollow. Not right.

He sobbed with need. Tried to move a hand, a plea. Sam did something with the brush, came back immediately, returned to petting him. Deliberate, gradual, grounding. Anchoring. One hand slid between Leo’s legs, found the opening of his body, caressed his rim: where he must be pink and soft and loose and wet, having just been fucked by a brush until he came all over himself.

Sam whispered, awe in his voice as if he’d just seen the first-ever sunrise, “You’re so wonderful. I always thought so—I think so, every day, every time you make things happen, you make the world light up. And this, you like this, you giving me this…knowing you trust me with this, and you’ll let me make you feel beautiful and loved and important, because you are, Leo, you are, you’re the whole world, all the stories and all the colors in it. I love you so much.” His fingers traced Leo’s hole, slipped inside, only partway: offering fullness.

Leo blinked again. Tried to focus. His mouth said Sam, without sound.

“Hey, hi, you’re here.” Sam was settled against him, a solid grounding weight. Sam’s arousal was blatant—thick, pressed into Leo’s leg—but unhurried. “You’re okay.”

Leo nodded again.

Sam paused. “Though—are you? You’re crying, a little. And kinda quiet. For you.”

Leo considered words, peacefulness, the high-flying weightless serenity of Sam’s fingers in his body and the euphoric throb throughout his muscles, bones, self. He could come again, or dissolve into contentment, or lie still and let Sam talk to him and kiss him; he would love all of that. “Only…happy. Warm. Safe.”

“Safe.” Sam turned that word over, lingered on it, examined it. His fingers moved, keeping Leo’s body pleasantly occupied. The light from the window, behind him, came in through closed shutters. It ringed him in gold, painted his shoulder in amber. Artwork. A vision.

“Safe,” Leo said. He could do words, from this gilded shining tower of clouds. “Protected. Yours. Where I should be. Are you going to fuck me?”

“Thought I was. Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“Yes, fine, agreed, but I mean you. You know. For…feeling good.”

“Yeah.” Sam leaned over to kiss Leo’s shoulder, a stretch given where his other hand was. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. And I like feeling used.”

Sam hesitated.

“Not the word.” Leo waved a hand weakly, let it flop back to the bed. “I can’t think. Your fault. I mean I like feeling…how much you like me.”

“I love you,” Sam said.

“So yes, fuck me. Now. When I’m feeling…like this. Do it however you want.”

“Giving me orders,” Sam said, amusement glinting in those treasure-box eyes, in the twist and shove of his fingers into Leo’s body. “Of course you are. My Leo. Can we make you come, again?”

“Honestly? Probably not. That was…a lot, just now. But I’ll feel you. And I want to feel you. And I’m feeling marvelous.”

“I can tell. Look at you…” Sam’s gaze traveled along him, all over him: reddened sore nipples, the pink mark on his collarbone from kisses, the spent sticky length of his cock, the splashes of a long drawn-out climax. Sam’s breathing shifted; his body shifted too, eager.

“Yes,” Leo begged. “Please.”

Sam played with his hole another moment or so, watching: exploring him, teasing him, adding more lube and studying the glide of fingers in and out, while Leo quivered with something between shyness and exposure and delight at being so thoroughly wanted. Sam touched his inner thigh, over a sensitive spot. “Pink, here…that was too much?”

“No, just get me used to it. We can do that one again. I like it.”

“My Leo,” Sam said again, quick and lucent with happy desire; and then slid the fingers out and moved between Leo’s lax and willing thighs.

Sam’s cock was big and hot and silken-hard, a contrast with the stiff brush-handle, another sensation and a familiar one. Sam fucked him fast and fierce, as if overcome, unable to hold back; Sam’s hands gathered Leo’s legs, pushed them up, over Sam’s broad shoulders; Sam was saying his name, gasping, pounding into him. Leo sighed softly, awash in rapture.

He wasn’t sure he could come again—that’d been so much, and he was tired—but he felt so good, too: so nice, so easy, being claimed and desired and filled up with Sam’s cock and Sam’s love of him and Sam’s undeniable want. The motion felt good. The thrust and drag and friction inside his body felt so good. He gazed up at Sam, drowsy with gold-limned contentment.

Sam’s hand found Leo’s half-hard cock, flopping on his stomach with each thrust. Sam closed that grip around him and pumped his length, roughly, and Leo cried out as the sensation peaked, snapping from lulling bliss to crystalline spikes.

Sam groaned, and thrust, and slammed in so deep—and his hand squeezed Leo’s cock, and his release flooded into Leo’s shuddering body, so thick and warm and good—

Leo moaned, helplessly, nothing left of his thoughts, mouth hanging open; and his body shook and spasmed, and a spatter of wetness jerked from his slit, across Sam’s hand and his own stomach. He felt Sam’s hips rock into him, felt the last pulses of that climax deep in him.

The world shimmered, dark and gold as storms, muffling as velvet. Leo lay absolutely limp, spent, tranquil, much loved. Sam’s weight covered him; Sam’s mouth pressed kisses along his jaw, his throat. Sam’s breath was real and tangible and glowing against his skin.

Sam said something else after a while, and tucked his face into the crook of Leo’s neck, breathing there; and then pushed himself up. “Leo. Can you look at me?”

Leo could, fuzzily. He wanted to.

Sam met his eyes for a minute, and seemed reassured by that; Leo wriggled under him just to feel him, but that made Sam say, “Oh, fuck, sorry—too heavy, too much, I know—” and move: sliding off him and out of him. “Don’t move, don’t—I’ve got you, stay still—”

Sam’s hands were splendid and skilled. They acquired a towel and handled cleanup and cleaning Leo’s exhausted body: lube, release, messy fluids, sore spots. Sam found the good salve, the one Jason’s stuntperson friends made, and treated those sore spots, carefully. His breathing was a bit uneven as he did that part.

Leo lifted his head to look. He couldn’t move much, having thoroughly dissolved into sugared oceans, but he discovered some surprise. “I thought they’d be…more red.”

Sam set a salve-shiny finger beside his right nipple. Which was pink, yes, visibly more so than usual, and tender; but not crushed or scalded or on fire. “Of course that’s the first thing you say when you wake up.”

“I’m not awake yet. Only pretending. Good dream. The way that felt…”

“Yeah, well. You recover quick, and they weren’t on that long, probably, compared to, like, people who do this a lot.” Sam tapped the finger in place. “You awake enough to talk, in this very good dream?”

“Oh, I think so. Come hold me?”

Sam promptly did: wrapping both arms around him, pulling him in close, heedless of salve and sticky places. Leo, head nestled onto Sam’s shoulder, said, “That was spectacular and we can do it again.”

“Yeah. But not, like, every time.”

“Agreed. It was…so much.” He poked Sam’s ankle with a toe. “And I like getting to fuck you, as well. That’s very spectacular also.”

“Agreed,” Sam answered, a comfortable echo. “I like you fucking me. But this…yeah. When you need it. When we need it. Or just when we want to.”

“I’ll order us more hairbrushes.”

Sam laughed, shaking them both.

“I do feel wonderful,” Leo said, into the heat of Sam’s skin, the line of his collarbone, the sureness of him. “That was…something I’d not known enough to know I could need. But I did. I do. Especially with you telling me I could have it, and I deserve it.”

“At your service.” Sam kissed the top of his head. “Any time. Ten times a day, I said once.”

“Ambitious of you.”

“Not sex! Or, sure, sex too. If you’re up for it. But—”

“I know.” Leo settled more against him. Felt his own heartbeat, his pleasure, his peace. Matching Sam’s. “You telling me that—what you tell me, when I need to hear—yes. Yes. I know.”

“More than ten times, then. Eleven. Twenty.” Sam kissed him again. “You did say stop, in there…” It was a question, though not an apprehensive one. Sam trusted him.

“I did.” Leo nestled into being petted, hair being played with, one of his hands on Sam’s chest, in the scattered delicious hair there. Not too many strands, but delightful for sensation. Sam lay there and indulged him. “It was just too much, all at once. I wasn’t ready. I’ve absolutely no problem telling you to stop, if something’s not working. I like feeling good, and I want us both to feel good, not the opposite.”

Sam made a small noise, agreement and something else; Leo inquired, “What?”

“You,” Sam said, tipping Leo’s chin up so their eyes met. “You make everything easy. We both should feel good, so of course you’ll say stop if we need to, and it’s not a big deal, and we’ll get back to having fun. Simple.”

“Well, it is. Or it should be.”

“I love you so much,” Sam said. “I didn’t know how much I could want something—someone. Or I forgot I could. With you I want everything. And it’s all new. And it’s all fun.”

Leo traced a heart on Sam’s chest, over Sam’s heart: matching. The hairbrush and clothespins had ended up on a tray on the dresser, he noticed: sitting there satisfied, having found their purpose, ordinary and mundane and magical and brand-new. “I love sex discovery adventures with you.”

Sam burst out laughing. Squished him tighter, an exuberance of joy. The sunbeam had traveled upward; it streaked their summer-green pillows and the old oak headboard with clear vivid gold. “All the adventures. With you. How do you feel about vibrating cock rings?”

Sam, working on a small amount of research for the Steadfast behind-the-scenes book—he was doing some of the writing, though it was mostly a photo archive—opened up Leo’s IMDB page. He’d meant to check an older movie title, because he wanted to mention previous historical roles.

And then he stopped, fingers on the laptop keyboard.

Surely that wasn’t true. Definitely not. He was pretty sure.

He stared at the entry. It refused to change.

He tried googling. Most of the internet seemed to be in agreement about Leo’s name being, well, Leo. But of course it was, professionally. And a couple of those sites did match the IMDB listing. So now Sam really wasn’t sure.

He knew Leo would be out late, or at least for dinner and drinks after that table read: bonding with castmates. Sam had told him to go ahead, having work to do in any case.

He drummed his fingers over the laptop. Silly question. Not actually important for his immediate project.

The afternoon lay plush and rainbow-hued across his shoulders. Leo’s house—their house, now, in so many ways—and the purple teacup that’d become Sam’s. The yellow kitchen wall, and the blue one, out in the living room space. Their snowglobe on a table. The rock collection, polished and shimmering in rich hues of earth and pearl and sand, framed by round glass curves.

Sam smiled to himself and to the teacup; and tucked a foot into the rung of the kitchen chair; and went back to poking at captions. But he kept the question around, hovering, just out of curiosity.

He forgot to eat, being caught up in art. Leo’s text buzzed against his arm, and he jumped. Did you find something for dinner? I’m bringing home food!

You are?

It was really only drinks and appetizers; everyone’s had a long day. So I’ve spent an indecent amount of time thinking about jerk chicken from that Jamaican place we found. Fried plantains?

Of course fried plantains, if you’re offering. I could order in, if you’re tired.

I’ve got it, Leo answered. Home in a few! That one came with a heart and a banana emoji, which was probably meant to be either a comment on the plantains or innuendo or both.

Love you and your banana, Sam sent back, and got up, stretching. He found the key lime sparkling water because that was Leo’s current favorite, and also the good scotch in case it’d been a very long day; he cleaned the table and moved his laptop.

He might need an office. A studio. Sometime. No hurry. This remained new. Easy, warm, moving together as if they’d always been made to; but still, only just begun.

Leo came in smiling, juggling takeaway and a shoulder bag, a swirl of long dark coat and fluffy blond hair and jerk spices. Sam kissed him, rescued various foods, kissed him again. Leo’s mouth was sweet and eager and lip-balm flavored, this one honey-vanilla and expensive; Sam tasted him and thought about sugar and spice and fitting together, melting together, home.

After food, tucked into the coziness of the colorful sofa, a bit too full for spectacular sex at the moment, he ran fingers through Leo’s hair. They’d already talked about their respective days, everything from book cover layouts to laughter at Leo’s reenactment of a dramatic moment during the table read, cast and directors doing their own sound effects for fun, for a spaceship crash. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“I haven’t ordered the tentacle dildo yet,” Leo said into his chest, with a kiss, “but I will. Purple, or green?”

“You look good in green. I also had some ideas about my spare hairbrush. The wooden one.” He felt Leo nod against his shoulder; sensation, bright and sharp, generally got a yes. “But later. This’s just kind of random, but I was wondering…I was looking up your IMDB page, just checking a title, and it said…your name’s not Leopold, is it?”

Leo groaned, laughed, stuck his face into Sam’s neck for a moment. “Oh, fuck, that’s not up there again, is it? Someone keeps doing that…”

“Is that really your name?”

“No.” Leo sat up more, eyes and mouth amused, exasperated, entertained. “That rumor’s been persistent, ever since some big-name publication got it wrong years ago, and that was supposedly a reliable source, so it keeps popping up… not that I don’t encourage it, mind. I do. Actively, with the fans. Leopold, Leonard, Leonidas, whatever else they’d come up with. Or I used to encourage that; it’s been a while. But no, it truly is just Leo. Mum liked it.”

“I like it, too.”

“Leo Sebastian Whyte. They get the middle name right, usually. It’s from Shakespeare. Twelfth Night. In retrospect, given that particular play, Mum and Dad might’ve guessed I’d end up bisexual.”

“Leo Sebastian,” Sam said. “Cats and Shakespeare.”

Leo laughed more. Relaxed, glorious, wearing a brazenly orange knit sweater, unselfconscious: fuck, Sam adored him. “If I were a girl I’d’ve been Leonie Viola, Mum said once.” He paused; the emotion washed through his face, a shift, a brief tidal pull. “I know they always wanted at least one more. More than just me. I know they tried for a while, they were hoping, I knew that when I was fairly young…they even asked whether I’d want to be a big brother…it just didn’t…I don’t really know why it didn’t work. But they’ve got our whole family, now.”

Our family, Sam thought. God, I love you. So much. With everything I am.

He’d also heard the unspoken words about not being enough, about parents who’d hoped for more children, about younger Leo being very aware that he wasn’t all they’d wanted to complete their family.

He said aloud, “They absolutely do. All of us. And your parents adore you. Sometimes with onion, apricot, and jalapeño tofu.”

“I love my father,” Leo said, draping himself back across Sam, finding a blue-and-white striped blanket with his toes, “and so do you. He was trying something new, for my diet. Which I cheat on, anyway.”

Sam could’ve pointed out that Leo did not need to lose weight, but they’d had that discussion; it wasn’t an unhealthy sort of problem, just that Leo wanted to shed a couple of pounds after the press tour and before a skin-tight space jumpsuit and, later, a shirtless scene. He let it go now, though he would take care of his Leo, without question. In every way. “I like Viola.”

“Mmm. Did you want to take me upstairs and do dreadful wonderful things to my naked body, yet?” Leo paused again. “Wait. You meant that.”

“Not, like, right this second,” Sam said. “But…y’know. We talked about kids.”

Leo stared at him, eyes like astonishment, sunrise, forests quivering under dawning light.

Sam reached out—couldn’t not reach out—and touched his cheek, that enchanting enchanted expression. “We can think about it. Viola Carmen, maybe. For—for my mom. If that’s, y’know. Where we end up. In a couple years.”

“Yes.” Leo’s whole face shone with it. “Yes. Exactly that.”

“We can make a list, when we get there. We don’t have to decide, like, right now. No rush.”

“Agreed.” Leo turned his head, kissed Sam’s palm. “We’ve got time. But…I do think we’ll like that one, even given a couple of years. I think it’s right.”

2 - family

The high-school swim meet was happening. Chlorine and water and sunshine in the air. Shouts and whistles and starting-noises. Splashes and flips.

Sam had done this before, being an excellently supportive older brother and guardian who went to all his sisters’ swim meets and journalism club awards ceremonies. He loved it, and said so: cheering for his family, being here for them, wanting them to know he always would be.

Leo had not done this before. Leo, unsurprisingly, loved every chlorinated drop of water and every blue-and-gold Chargers pennant to wave and every supportive t-shirt and sticker at the team’s fundraising table. Leo had happily bounced to both feet and cheered wildly at Thea’s first-place finish in the backstroke leg of the relay, a few minutes ago, and then again at the end when her team had, naturally, won.

Leo beamed at him now, eyes big and hazel, hair gold in the afternoon sun. They were sitting very close on very uncomfortable bleachers. Sam could almost taste the honey of Leo’s lip balm, the coconut in that hair, the tropical fruit of Leo’s favorite scent.

Leo’s sweater, over faded jeans, was new: one of his own early prototype designs, oversized, striped in blue and green with small gold-coral accents around the sleeves, neck, hem. He looked adorable and cuddly and colorful; Sam, also wearing a prototype design, a shirt in a calmer deep red and rose-pink, wanted to scoop him up and nibble all the lip balm away.

He said, “Sunblock?”

“Oh, thanks, yes.” Leo did have the sort of English fairness that did not tan well, and the sun wanted to cuddle him too. He ended up with a smudge of white on his nose; Sam helped.

The current crop of swimmers was doing an event involving butterfly. Thea would be back out momentarily for a proper backstroke event; Sam and Leo would cheer even more loudly. Diana was also around, chatting with the team: being a responsible journalist as well as twin sister support.

Leo offered, in the lull, “How many shirts would be an embarrassing number to buy, do you think? They’ve also got home-made chocolate-chip biscuits. Er. Cookies.”

“I know which mom makes those, and they’re super-dry. Don’t do it.”

“It’s in a good cause, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to suffer.” One of the other parents—also a veteran of the swim team fundraisers—stifled a laugh, behind them.

“I could volunteer some baked goods, next time,” Leo mused. “Or even a shift manning the stall. Not to step on anyone’s toes, of course; I’d figure out something interesting and different from any current offerings. I’m not terrible at baking, and I could ask about Colby’s ginger biscuit recipe.”

The parent behind them made an interested sound, at that.

Sam squeezed Leo’s hand, in his. “If you want, yeah. They’d love some help. But you don’t have to.”

A few people had already recognized Leo Whyte. Sam had caught the whispers, the turned heads. Hadn’t been immediate—lots of family and friends, lots of bodies here as support, and Leo drew attention by virtue of colorful charisma but not instant Colby Kent-level recognition—but the susurration had grown.

Sam had gotten to know a few of the other parents, guardians, responsible adults, over the last couple years, at least to the extent of a friendly nod and fundraiser support and shared commiseration about six am swim practice scheduling. He’d introduced Leo to the ones he’d thought would be the most calm about that fact, and it’d gone pretty well, other than Amber’s mom asking whether Leo had an opinion on local Las Vegas club teams versus Hollywood and Los Angeles and beach culture, with the gleam of a parent focused on Junior Nationals.

Sam had been prepared to deflect, but Leo had said, “Well, you see, until recently I’ve lived in London, so I’m afraid I don’t know much that might help, but please tell me about it, I’m sure you’ve done your research?” and Karyn had indeed told him about it, and in the process talked herself into making a decision about coaches.

Leo’s voice had been a giveaway, if the movie-star handsomeness hadn’t been enough. Theater-trained, Shakespeare-polished, Castlereigh-famous even though Leo said he wasn’t the star. Jane Austen and sailing ships. The Napoleonic Wars and dry space-villain Doctor Cosmos sarcasm. The second he’d said hello, a few more heads had turned.

Someone’s older sister, wearing a Star Wars shirt, had stared at Leo bashfully, with the expression of a science-fiction fan who’d committed to memory several of Leo’s most famous lines as that space-time devoted antagonist who just might be in love with the hero. Leo had waved. She’d inched closer and whispered, “Can I…if you’re not busy…?” and held up her phone, right there on a concrete-and-brick everyday high-school pool deck next to the bleachers.

Leo had taken the photo with her. Grinning ear to ear. Of course.

“I’m happy to,” Leo said now, answering Sam’s comment, “I honestly do love this—it’s a whole new adventure, isn’t it, all of our family in this together, and of course we’ll help out with the newspaper fundraiser too, and the National Honor Society leadership meeting, helping set everything up for that scholarship essay workshop, and also if any of them would like to earn volunteer hours through Colby’s literacy foundation, we could—”

Sam lifted Leo’s hand, in his; pressed a kiss to the back of it.

Leo stopped talking, startled by affection.

“I just want you to know,” Sam said, “you’re the best sparkly rock I could ever pick up and take home and keep.”

“You didn’t collect rocks.” Leo’s eyes danced. “Until me. Us. We do that, now.”

“Yep.”

“Annika next door asked whether we could watch her cat, two weeks from Tuesday, when she’s going to Napa for her daughter’s engagement party.”

“I didn’t even know her daughter was getting married.”

“To an absolutely genius vintner and wine exporter, or so Annika says. Caroline and Jessalyn will be brilliant and revolutionize the wine industry, apparently.”

“Of course they will.” Of course Leo knew all of that, already, within five minutes of chatting, even when Sam hadn’t known; of course Leo did. Because that was exactly what Leo did: loving the world, learning about the world, fascinated by the world.

Best Supporting Actor. Always. Supporting everyone, from high-school swim teams to neighbors who needed cat-watching. Sam wanted to tackle his other half back into the stands and shove Leo’s comfortable-but-trendy jeans down and show Leo exactly how much the world should damn well appreciate him right back.

“Oh!” Leo was looking at the schedule. “We’re next! The backstroke! Well, not next-next—there’s the first heat, first. But she’s in the second and last heat, in the center—that means she’s the favorite, right? Based on the times we saw up on the wall? So we’ve got the first, and then we’re up!”

“Yeah.” Sam squeezed that hand in his, again: Leo, here with him. Their family. It swept over him and through him like a cheerleader’s routine, a wave, a wild impulse to shout and jump and leap. Their family. Their wins, their victories. Their joy. “We’re up.”