Idk if you're aware but I am the leader of a slow-growing bath c*ult. Here, have some bath fluff.
Tony thinks of himself as a rough and tumble kind of guy, behind the designer clothes and five-star dinners, he likes to get his freshly manicured hands dirty, roll himself under a car and fuck around with it, remodel his lab all on his own.
He's a baby boomer, raised into fragile masculinity that took decades to break down into anything worth salvaging. Peter is from a different time, really, one where a man is whatever a man wants to be. Tony likes that.
Still, he's used to cologns that smell like leather and oak, used to his deodorant being named something silly like "cool rush", used to his products coming in navy blue packaging. So when Peter moves in and brings a crate of brightly-colored, brightly-scented bath products, Tony found himself a bit out of his element.
That is, until he tried one. Tony had been the one to suggest they take a bath in the jacuzzi tub that night, but Peter had suggested they use a lavender bath bomb. Tony, former merchant of death, did not like the sound of this at first. Until he was soaking in swirling, bright purple water that smelled like rest.
After that, it was almost a daily thing for them to sink into colorful water, breathe in scents that were kind to their nostrils and hold each other while relaxing into steaming bliss.
"You've been sleeping better," Peter points out one night while they soak in a chamomile-honey bath. Peter is rarely wrong, Tony thinks. And this time is no different.
But the train of thought brings him to a conclusion, in the end, that would nip Peter's cocky grin in the bud. The baths are relaxing, Tony is taking care of himself, mentally, in ways he never has. He thinks that, through some lense, could be bettering his sleep.
But while Tony lets Peter think he has the satisfaction of introducing a self-care technique that forever-changed his sleep quality, Tony knows the truth.
The truth that the bath bombs are nothing but a silly, comforting way for the pair to spend time together. The truth that Peter implemented the baths on the day he moved in, the same evening that they started sleeping in the same bed.
Peter soaking in the tub with him, climbing into bed with him, laying his head on Tony's chest, curls tickling the underside of Tony's chin. Peter is the bath bomb, Peter is the shift, Peter is everything.
"Suppose I have," Tony murmurs, unable to keep a grin off his face.
Idk that you misread it my love, this was sweet and fluffy 🥺 “Peter is everything” is just the fluff I need
Also, what’s this about a cult? 🤔 😂
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ONCE STOLEN: out now!
When an autistic naga botches the robbery of a notorious cartel, a self-proclaimed hero is poisoned in his place. He strikes a deal with the dying hero: he’ll bring her to her cure in exchange for her hoard of coveted power-producing stones—stones which stop the pain caused by his sensory perception disorder. But to reach them, he’ll have to guide her through the desolate swampy homeland that banished him, with the cartel leader hot on his tail.
Once Stolen is a queer, fast-paced fantasy adventure taking place in the same universe as Our Bloody Pearl. It can be read as a standalone or as the start of a new series that explores the steampunk-inspired world and the fungal parasites that make their mysteriously renewable energy possible.
You may like this book if you enjoy...
Insults turning affectionate
Fan boat chases
Queer found family
Autistic and deaf rep
Purchase in ebook, paperback, or hardcover through Amazon or a variety of other distributors!
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Keep reading for a preview of the first chapter...
CHAPTER ONE: ALL THE SHADES OF GREED
Banishment isn’t a curse if it means escaping all of you.
THE THRUMMING POWER OF the ignits calls to me. Five small variants of the round stones lie in the gambler’s pot, their slight glow barely visible beneath the cartel boat’s canopy. From the shade of the nearby mangroves, I grip the blue ignit on my wire necklace of precious stones. Blue for thunder, like two of those in the pot. But the gamblers have a yellow and a pair of small reds as well.
The ignit beneath my fingers pulses into my scales, primed to soothe whatever skull-shattering nonsense my body decides to throw at me today. But one lonely stone can be easily lost, easily taken. With one stone, the pain still stalks just behind me, waiting to strike. Besides, I want the gamblers’ ignits.
Tightening my serpentine tail around the roots of the half-submerged tree, I lift my head a little farther out of the water. I flick out my tongue. The boat humans smell of oil and gunpowder, of arrogance and cowardice and anger, and a touch of fear.
Three of them sit on the boat’s main deck, huddled around a table. The vibrations of their voices tingle across the patterned ridges along my scaly scalp. I feel the tug the nearest gives to their beard as they anxiously put down their cards, the slight splash of the lizard dipping into the river down-stream, and the landing of the parrot in the tree branches far above.
But the fishers don’t know I crouch so still that the murky water blends with the brown and black patterns along my half-snake body. The boat humans won’t notice me like this—won’t try to kill me. But if I stay here, those ignits will never thrum in my hands or hang from my wire mesh necklace.
My banishers said this desire would latch inside me like claws through flesh, like my spiny retractable teeth digging into a freshly caught capybara, like a viper’s toxin eating me from the inside out. And it has. Oh, it fucking has.
It’s just so hard to care now that it’s caught me.
The tallest human slams their cards down and strolls to the boat’s railing. Their dark skin gleams with a layer of sweat as they wave to a little vessel across the river. The fan at the back of this smaller boat thrums to life, powered by an ignit buried somewhere in its engine. It pulls alongside the larger boat.
“You already out?” the driver asks with a series of hand motions stolen from the swamp natives. I assume the boat humans use them to talk over the vicious whirr of the fans and roar of their motors, though most also sign whenever they use spoken language, which I have no ability to hear.
“Lay off,” the disgruntled human signs. They climb onto the smaller boat and speed down the river.
My gaze jumps to the remaining gamblers. Even with one human gone, these two still look like a challenge. The bearded player sports muscles as thick as my own, and their slighter opponent crouches in the shadows like a jaguar, hidden beneath a wispy cowl and shawl.
I guess we’re all gambling today.
Unfurling my tail from the roots, I take a deep breath and slip into the water. I undulate as I swim, though my humanlike torso moves with far less precision than my flexible tail, its bulk twice as powerful and three times as long as two legs combined. The fish withdraw around me, the flex of their muscles tingling along my head ridges. I keep to the dimly lit river bottom.
As I pass over a scattering of stones in the clay-heavy soil, I skim the silt with my fingers. A round grey rock that could almost be a clingstone or maybe a perfectly worn hematite tempts me, but the blotch of red on its back proves it to be just a normal river pebble. I leave it be, the vision of those glorious ignits still burning in my mind.
The image of a fang embellishes the front of the boat’s flat hull, and a large cabin sits at its back, a stairway leading up to its cargo-filled rooftop deck. Two fans swoop out from either side, their blades currently dormant. I surface beneath one. With the cabin shielding me from the human’s view, I climb the fan blades like a ladder, twisting my tail into their ridges to brace myself. Unlike the massive central fan at the back of the boat, these will only bruise me if turned on. Bruises fade. The scars I received learning that lesson won’t.
I near the cabin’s roof, but the rumbling vibration of a shout halts me. I peek around the corner. At the gambling table, the bearded human’s face shifts, their mouth and brows moving. These expressions mean little to me, but eagerness wafts from the human as potent as the sweet burst of an overripe mango on the jungle floor.
I pull myself onto the cabin’s rooftop deck and slide between the crates, just out of sight. A burst of new scents hits me—leather and wine and the sun. I spot the owner through the cracks between two crates: Rubem, the newly established head of the Fang Ignit Cartel, who slipped in like a rat in the wake of the last leader’s sudden death. When the crew talk about him, they keep their signs small and their mistrust big.
He crouches near the back of the boat, his mass of dark braids tied in a high bun. Three claw-like rings sprout from his right earlobe. A pistol glimmers at his belt, the sheen of the dark copper hilt matching his skin. Its embedded emeralds contrast the shock of scarlet hemming his loose brown clothing.
I try not to look at his hands, at the fishnet gloves I know I’ll find there, but when he flicks a vial of glowing green liquid between them, my gaze goes to his fingers anyway. My scales itch, a creeping pain that only diminishes when I focus on my ignit’s gentle pulsing.
Despite the vial’s impeding presence, Rubem signs with a contained sharpness, the motions fluid but precise. “You know where they are, you were her daughter. But you clearly aren’t using the damn things. Let them not go to waste.”
The person he speaks with looks delicate, the soft curves of her tan face placing her somewhere well beyond childhood but not quite worthy of anyone’s respect yet. About my age, then. Her brown curls spill down her back, and grey and green fabrics hang off her in layers, a scarf wrapped like an ana-conda around her neck. A chain on her ankle rattles when she hugs her legs closer. “I don’t care.” Her hands tremble as she makes the motions, her lips remaining closed. “The cartel can’t have them.”
“You realize that whatever you choose, I will find them.” He makes his claw-handed grabbing motion for the word will far stronger than the rest. “There are stakes here more important than you realize.”
But the prisoner only stares toward the front of the boat, tapping a steady rhythm against her leg. She jerks at the vibration of a laugh from downstairs.
Rubem flinches as well, glancing over his shoulder. When he looks back at the prisoner, his expression makes her curl tighter into herself. “If—when—she finds out you’re here, she’ll flay you alive and string your guts from the canopy to get ahold of your mother’s hoard. So, I would be quiet for a while if I were you.” He pockets his glowing flask with a sharp snap, bursting to his feet. “And we’ll have a longer conversation about this later. Giving up that hoard is for the best, you’ll see.”
Threats, kidnappings, torture—all usual cartel methods. But this sounds different. Bigger.
I duck as Rubem marches by my hiding place and de-scends the stairs, his footsteps remarkably silent for such fury. His shouting vibrates off my head ridges a moment later. It fades as he and the shadowy gambler walk into the cabin beneath me. The bearded human continues to watch their cards—and the ignits. I rub the ignit on my necklace and clench my jaw, unhinging and rehinging it.
Motion behind me flickers along my head ridges. I turn to find the prisoner poking her head around the crates. Her eyes widen, long black lashes drawing back to reveal hauntingly blue irises. A shiver runs through me. I coil the extensive loops of my tail, preparing to lunge at her.
She lifts her hands. “Stop, please—I don’t know if you understand this, but please—help me.”
I can’t smell her emotions, can’t tell whether she’s truly panicking or only trying to lure me in, but her words still make me pause. I have absolutely, positively no desire to talk to this scentless boat human. But being banished to a place where most people want to kill and eat you does weird things to a person. Things like making them hesitate.
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