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#Shifter Romance
kassoshire · 7 months
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Your bed is extremely uncomfortable. In fact, it keeps moving. Cracking an eye, you realize you are laying on top of a very broad, very green chest and while you can feel that your orc is wearing pants, you are very, very naked. You must have shifted out of your rabbit form in your sleep, after he carried you in his coat all day to keep you from the rain.
He opens his eyes wide, mouth moving in panicked silence. You're terrified of what he might say, so you slam your lips into his fiercely, taking what you've dreamed of for years.
Your rabbit instincts agree, fucking is the solution to so many problems. He kisses his way down your neck until he reaches your chest.
“Oh Precious,” he rumbles, “you're a fucking feast. I’ve been imagining you naked since the moment I saw you again.” He presses your breasts together and nestles his face between them. “But these beauties make my mouth water.”
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thebibliosphere · 5 months
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Okay, well, I was planning to build up some hype, but
🦇🎃HAPPY HALLOWEEN🎃🦇
Lorehaven Bound: A Hunger Pangs Short is now available on Amazon.
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A train ride through the Nevrondian countryside should be a calming proposition, but for Ursula, it isn't. Her thoughts swirl, fixated on one thing... make that two things. Specifically Nathan Northland and Vlad Blutstein. It's not just because they are both breath-stealingly attractive—although to be fair, that doesn't hurt. It's because they surprised her, and Ursula is very rarely surprised.
Even more confounding is her reaction to them, particularly the vampire, Vlad. Just what is she supposed to do about these... feelings?
All Ursula knows is that she doesn't have time for emotions right now. Not when the fate of the world is at stake. She can deal with this later. First, she's got to figure out what story she's going to tell the sure-to-be-furious Alfbern. Then, she needs to catch up on all the sleep she missed before hitting the road again. Surely, she can do those things while being Lorehaven Bound.
*
This story is a 10,000-word character study/missing moment that takes place immediately after Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites. You will want to read that first if you don't want to be spoiled for the events in that book!
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💖 Available now on Amazon
💖 Apple, Kobo, Smashwords, and more... (links still populating.)
💖Payhip - my personal storefront 💖
Happy reading!
Okay, thanks, love you all, bye.
ID: A red book cover showing a feminine figure standing in front of a steam strain. The title reads Lorehaven Bound, A Hunger Pangs short by International Bestselling Author Joy Demorra. There is a glittery crystal next to the text, and gold decorative swirls adorn the corners.
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monstersandmaw · 8 months
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Laces for a Lady - 18th century poly shifter romance (Part one, sfw)
Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me. 
Well folks, here it is. You said you were interested, so I hope it meets expectations! Here's part one for you, of a multi part story. If you want to kno wmore about it, you can find some more info here, as well as a little 'mood board'.
Content: sfw, the daughter of a country gentleman from Sussex relocates to a sleepy fishing village in Cornwall in order to become the paid companion of a young widow, and meets some of the locals on her arrival. Wordcount: 3972
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Five and twenty ponies, Trotting through the dark - Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk. Laces for a lady; letters for a spy, Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by! ~ from ‘A Smugglers’ Song’, Rudyard Kipling (1906)
In the cool, lavender light of a late spring dawn, a gaff-rigged cutter drew into the sheltering arms of a small bay at high tide, and quietly dropped anchor. As if the soft splash had awoken him, a cockerel spluttered to life in a farmyard somewhere inland, but most of the villagers were already up and awake and steering their small, secret fleet of boats out from the golden crescent of sand beneath the cliffs to meet the waiting ship fresh from Roscoff.
Beneath the waves, where churning kelp moored itself in unyielding handfuls to the ancient granite of the sea floor, a long, serpentine shadow snaked between the stalks, and the currents of the coastline subtly shifted. Any revenue men trying to sail along the coast from Fowey to catch the smugglers would have found the wind and tide set dead against them, and in the subtle wake that wafted from the mottled, eel-like tail as it passed unseen, the waters of the secluded inlet calmed beneath the keels of the scurrying fishing boats. The drag of the oars through the waves lessened, and muscles already tired from heaving and hefting goods up the cliff moved a fraction easier for the unexpected boon.
Between them over the next hour, the gathered men and women shifted their haul of half anker barrels and dozens of crates and boxes of goods ashore. The small kegs of rich, French cognac would fetch a pretty price all across Cornwall, and along with the liquor came smaller luxuries like lace and silk, and bundles of tobacco and spiced tea, all meticulously wrapped in oil cloth to keep the sea and the salt and the water out.
And when the speedy, slender ship was riding noticeably higher in the water, the locals simply melted away into the countryside like so many mice from a late summer granary before the excise men even knew the ship from Guernsey had visited the cove at all.
Fifteen miles away, as the sun breached the horizon and cast its first rays of warmth along bellies of fleecy clouds and the flanks of blossoming hedgerows below, a stagecoach lurched and rumbled westwards along potholed roads, and a young woman stared out of the grimy window as the horses carried her into a new chapter of her life.
After leapfrogging some two hundred miles or so along the staging stations that dotted the South Coast, with nothing but a small trunk of her belongings and a thrice-read, dog-eared novel for company, Eleanor Bywater was more than ready to see the back of that infernal stagecoach. Had it not been for the small but inconveniently bulky travelling case sitting at her feet, she might have hired a horse and ridden from the last staging inn at Plymouth to reach the secluded fishing village of Polgarrack, but given that the trunk held all her worldly belongings, she had not been quite desperate enough to escape the discomfort of hard seats and poor suspension to abandon it.
Bouncing along in the nearly-empty stagecoach, she studiously tried to ignore the older woman sitting opposite her. She’d stared intently at Nel since they'd left Plymouth behind that morning, and her scrutiny had begun to make that last twenty mile stretch feel much, much longer.
Finally, after jouncing over a pothole deep enough to start prospecting for copper ore at the bottom, Nel gasped and then raised her eyes to meet the woman’s openly curious stare. She found sympathy for her own discomfort, and a small degree of kindly amusement too. 
“Where are you headed, miss?” the stranger asked after Nel raised the hint of an eyebrow at her as the silence stretched.
“Polgarrack.”
At that, the woman’s grey eyes narrowed in confusion. “Now what takes a young miss like you to an old fishing village like Polgarrack?”
She looked to be in her fifties, though a life beside the harsh sea had weathered her features somewhat, and her wiry grey hair was covered by a simple linen cap. Her dress was dark and plain, though there was a hint of tired lace around the neck and cuffs. Her hands had the tough, reddened look of someone who scrubbed pots and salted fish, while Nel’s own hands were smooth and soft, if a little ink stained from sending a letter to her friend before leaving the inn that morning.
Nel laughed quietly and shrugged. “There’s no mystery to it,” she said. “I am to be employed as a companion to the widowed Lady Penrose at Heath Top House. I am expected there this afternoon.”
Given that only ladies of relatively high social standing themselves tended to become a ‘lady’s companion’, the older woman made a hasty re-evaluation of her fellow traveller, and her already ruddy cheeks flushed a darker shade as she cleared her throat and looked away.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” she said. “We don’t get many new faces in Polgarrack, is all. I didn’t mean to pry or cause offence with my questions.”
“No harm in a little curiosity,” Nel said, trying to put the stranger at ease to avoid any further awkwardness between them on the remainder of their journey. “I take it you’re from Polgarrack yourself then?”
“Oh, born and raised, miss,” she chortled. She eyed the forest green redingote Nel wore, with its rather masculine high collar, wide lapels and small, gold pocket watch dangling on a chain, and the contrasting sage green skirts beneath, and no doubt made one or two judgements of her own about the young lady. “And yourself? You don’t sound as though you’re from these parts at all, if I may be so bold.”
Nel smiled. “I’ve come from Sussex.”
The woman’s watery, grey-blue eyes widened almost comically and she gasped. “’at's a bloody long way, miss! And all on your own?” She shook her head but remembered herself and mumbled, “Begging your pardon.”
“You’re right,” Nel sighed, letting her gaze slide to the window to watch the countryside roll past in a blur of salt-bleached grass and vibrant yellow gorse flowers. “It is a bloody long way.” And her spine and backside felt every lump and bump and lurch of the stagecoaches from Sussex to Cornwall. With a warmer smile, she turned back to the woman. “My name is Eleanor, but most people call me Nel.”
“Agatha,” she replied with a grandmotherly smile of her own for the young woman. “But everyone calls me Aggie. My husband, Martin, is the village carter and smith, and we’ve got four boys, all of them either fishermen or miners. They all married too, so I’ve got nine grandchildren, if you can believe it!”
Nel offered Aggie her congratulations and another little smile, and then ventured to ask, “Will you tell me a bit about the place? I should like to know more about it, since it is to be my home for the foreseeable future.”
Aggie brightened even more and shuffled her plain, dark skirts, giving a wince and a grunt as the coach lurched over a pothole and the driver cursed audibly above them. Settled, if not entirely comfortable, she began.
“Well, see now. Folks has been fishing these waters for time out of mind. Pilchards is our mainstay, o’course, but the folks over St. Austell way mine clay, and obviously there’s copper and tin mines all over in the north of Cornwall. Mining here is as old as fishing, but it’s starting to dry up here and there now, o’course.”
She barely paused to draw breath before barrelling on, and Nel sat and listened while the older woman talked.
“Now, your Lady Penrose married into the Penrose family — see, she’s from Bath herself originally, though I can’t rightly remember what her family name was, but…” Nel let Agatha's potted history of the fishing and mining community wash over her, paying just enough attention to make polite sounds at the right pauses, but the discomfort of the journey and a decided lack of sleep was beginning to wear her attention span down to a single, fraying thread.
After two hours in the swaying, rolling coach, she felt woozy and weak-stomached, but with Aggie’s near-constant chatter, she at least had a better understanding of the politics of the little village than she’d ever have gained in six months on her own. She’d also learned why Aggie had been in Plymouth, since most folks never had any reason to travel further than the bounds of their own parish. Agatha’s sister’s husband had apparently been killed in the American Revolutionary War some ten years earlier, and since the widow’s health wasn’t the best these days, Aggie made the trip along the coast when she could to see her and take care of her.
Nel’s ticket took her as far as Whitcross, a desolate intersection of paler roads on a clifftop overlooking the tightly-nestled fishing port below, and away across the heather and tufted grass of the heath, she could just see an old manor house in the distance, flanked by tall copper beeches and ash trees. It looked slightly further away than she had anticipated, and she glanced apprehensively down at the travelling trunk at her feet.
Still, she was aching for fresh air and to be free of the sickening motion of the carriage, so she took the driver’s hand and allowed him to guide her safely down onto the hard-packed surface of the road before he lifted her case down for her as well.
From inside, Aggie peered out and scowled disapprovingly. “Now just you wait a moment,” she barked at the driver, who cocked an eyebrow but did pause. “Did they not send someone for you, dearie?” she asked Nel, still leaning out of the doorway and peering about like a disgruntled badger, and using the endearment freely. Apparently, two hours of talking non-stop at Nel had removed any pretence of formality or sense of social distance. Nel might as well have been adopted into Aggie Carter’s family as a niece by that point, and she couldn’t help but smile at the warmth it conjured in her chest.
“I… I never thought that far through,” she admitted, with her hand atop her bonnet as the wind gusted up from the sea below, soaring delightedly over the edge of the cliff and racing on inland as if to continue the momentum of the great rolling breakers that foamed and thundered against the shore. The coachman glanced at his pocket watch and groused something about a schedule that was almost immediately lost to the next inward gust.
“No, no, dearie,” the old woman scoffed. “No, you must come into the village. It’s far too far to go all by yourself, and with that case as well. Here, let me —”
“I can manage the case, I assure you,” Nel said with a gentle smile as Aggie half-toppled, half-leaned out of the coach to pick up the case. “How far is it to the house?”
“Two miles up that hill yonder,” Agatha said, pointing with one gnarled and arthritic finger towards the house on the rise to the north. “Come to the Lantern, and we’ll have one of the lads take you up once you’ve caught your breath.” The Lantern, as Nel now knew thanks to Aggie’s detailed prattling, was the inn at the centre of the village, right on the water near the harbour.
She had been about to protest, but with a sigh, she simply nodded. The constant journeying and jolting had worn her down more than she cared to admit, and while she wasn’t the kind of wallflower she’d met any number of times in London during the Season, a life led mostly indoors with few opportunities for physical activity had not prepared her for a two mile walk in heavy, too-fine clothes, carrying an unwieldy case in gusty conditions. Her family had been invited a number of times to Goodwood House to walk the large park there, and she had frequently ridden a rather spirited mare through the parkland of Lavington Hall with her dear friend William, so she was not entirely unused to the great outdoors, but she did have to admit that her experiences had been rather more curated and sanitised than the wild expanse of heathland visible on all sides of the stagecoach from Whitcross.
“You’re kind, Agatha,” she said, and let the woman heft her case into the otherwise empty coach.
The thing about a tiny village was that an outsider stood out a mile, and a young lady in her mid twenties and dressed in impractical, rich green clothes, stood out like a beacon in a dark night. Everyone turned to watch her as she disembarked from the coach. At home, she had barely garnered a look from anyone. Being the centre of everyone’s curiosity there was novel and, in a word, horrifying.
She almost blurted aloud that one would think she was a revenue man come inspecting for smuggled goods, but she bit it back just in time. Cornwall’s so-called ‘free trade’ and smuggling rackets were absolutely none of her concern as an outsider, infamous though they may be, and it would do her no good to start sticking her nose where it did not belong.
The Lantern was a half-timbered, two-storey building that faced the walled harbour. Its painted sign was peeling and sun-bleached, and it squawked something dreadful as it swung back and forth in the squalling wind. Mullioned windows glinted and shimmered, though the small, diamond panes were caked with a haze of salt spray, and alongside the inn, a hand-cart rumbled down from a narrow side alley towards the harbour beyond, where fishing boats bobbed on their mooring lines at the lapping high tide.
Agatha pushed open the black-painted door but came to an abrupt halt as someone appeared to be leaving the inn at the exact same moment, and nearly barrelled into her and Nel.
“Oh, excuse me,” came a young man’s hoarse tenor, and he stepped aside within the inn’s small porch to allow the two women to enter before he left.
Nel noted briefly that he wore well-made but plain clothes, and carried a hefty looking cane in his left hand, upon which he leaned while he waited for them to pass. He was pale and thin, his undyed linen shirt hanging loosely off his shoulders, and his light brown hair was tied back at the nape of his neck into a horsetail. The moment he met her eye, he inhaled in surprise and almost immediately looked away, his large, dark brown eyes turning shy and uncertain. “M’lady,” he mumbled without looking up.
She didn’t have time to correct him and tell him she had no such title, because the moment she had stepped inside, he was off out into the day beyond, limping markedly on his right leg as he went.
Nel turned back to find Agatha waiting for her, watching. “That there was young Edmund Nancarrow,” she supplied as Nel caught up with her. “Local lad. Lots of Nancarrows in this area,” she chuckled. “Can’t move for tripping over a Nancarrow. He was a shy, skittish thing even before he went off to war in the Colonies and came back with a bad leg,” she added. “But he’s a sweetheart if ever I saw one. Tailor’s ’prentice he is now.”
At that, Nel just nodded. Something in her ached when she realised she probably wouldn’t have much to do with the folk from the village once she was ensconced up at Heath Top House, and she half wised she could. They already sounded far more interesting than the Lady Winnifred Penrose, with whom Nel had only exchanged a short flurry of letters before becoming formally engaged as her ‘companion’. 
Still, an unmarried woman of Nel’s age and social standing was considered almost past her prime, and given that the few marriage proposals she had received had faded into the mists of her very early adulthood, she had had to find another respectable way to support herself. Hence, Heath Top House.
Aggie bustled her into the main room of the pub, and their arrival caused a flurry of activity that drew the eyes of a good few patrons. 
Seated at the wooden bar inside, hunched over a pewter tankard, sat a tall, bulky man in his late-thirties or early forties, with long, thick, dark grey hair shot through with a shimmer of silver white. He had it tied back off his face in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck and as he turned to regard Nel’s arrival, she met unusually deep green eyes surrounded by a web of crows’ feet lines in a tanned, weathered face. His scowl was dark and full of suspicion, but even the storm clouds in his expression couldn’t mask the fact that he was handsome, in a rugged, rough-hewn kind of way.
When she saw where Nel’s attention had snagged, Aggie let out a little gasp and snatched her by the upper arm to steer her towards an empty table in a bay window, about as far from the wooden bar where the man still sat and glared at them as it was possible to be. 
“And that’s Locryn Trevethan,” Aggie hissed as she saw Nel settled into a seat. “Can’t say as I’ve seen him in here more than a handful of times this year though. He’s usually out on the water. Lives alone in an old stone cottage round the bay from here, up at Pilchard Sands. You’d probably best be giving him a wide berth, miss. Not that he should give you any trouble, mind,” she amended carefully, “But he’s not for the likes of you to go mingling with.”
Nel smiled at the protective tone in the older woman’s voice, and nodded once.
With her warning given, Aggie raised her voice and called over to the old man behind the bar. “’ere, Tom! This young lady needs a ride up to Heath Top. You think you can arrange that for her?”
The stoop-shouldered, white-haired man nodded and knuckled his forehead at Nel across the space. “Not the finest, but we got a cart.”
“If you have a horse, I could ride,” she said, trying to be helpful.
“Ain’t got a saddle for a lady,” he said regretfully.
Memories of galloping through the leafy trees of Lavington Hall’s parkland with William flashed across her mind and she suppressed a smile. She certainly hadn’t ridden the grey mare side-saddle while keeping up with her childhood friend, and although it had been a year or so since she’d sat astride a horse instead of side-saddle, she thought she could manage well enough. “I know how to ride a man’s saddle,” she said, “But I do have a travel case I’d need to send someone back for.”
“I could get one of the lads to bring that up for you after,” said Tom, “But it’s almost as much effort to hitch up a cart as it is to tack up a horse for riding, ma’am.”
“Whatever is the least trouble for you will do fine,” she said, and the stoic, weather-beaten old man’s red cheeks darkened and he ducked his head.
While Tom left to sort out transportation to the house, Aggie flapped about getting some refreshments for Nel, leaving her to wait at the table alone.
In the wake of the hubbub and pother Agatha left behind her, Nel took a long, deep breath looked around to find Locryn Trevethan still staring across the room at her. Taken aback by his directness and the intensity of his glare, she tried to smile, but his expression remained thunderous beneath strong, dark brows, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed.
In a face turned to leather by the sun and sea-wind, wide cheekbones and a heavy brow framed his piercingly green eyes. Never mind that marked crow’s feet around his eyes that made him look like he would rather have been laughing; the contrast between the dark, hostile glower and the soft laughter lines unnerved her and made her feel off-balance, as though her stranger’s presence in their local pub had unknowingly raised the ire of a usually gentle man. 
He had a short, neatly-trimmed, salt-and-pepper beard around full lips that were currently turned down at the corners and which bore a silver-pink scar across the middle. Despite the warm day, he wore a fisherman’s dense, woollen sweater, and when she risked another look back at him, she found him still frowning openly across the bar at her.
Nel didn’t relax until Aggie returned, at which point the man snapped abruptly out of his trance, slammed a coin down on the bar, and strode from the pub on long legs that were thick as tree trucks at the thigh. The door bounced back off the plasterwork in his wake and his boots rang on the flagstones outside.
“Not one to welcome strangers, I take it,” Nel muttered, and downed half of the cheap, watered-down wine that Agatha had set on the table for her.
“Oh don’t you pay him no mind, miss,” Aggie scoffed, settling herself down into the seat opposite her like a brooding hen and glaring at the pub door. “He don’t seem to like no one in Polgarrack save for sweet Ned Nancarrow, strangely enough. Then again, I ain’t met no one who’s taken a disliking to sweet Ned. Now, Tom will have the horse and cart ready for you in just a moment, but you just take your time and recover after your journey.”
Nel, who had felt ten times better the moment she’d taken her first proper lungful of sea air on stepping out of the swaying stagecoach, looked across the table into the older woman’s face and found a mother’s kindness and compassion in her wrinkled face, and something twisted in her gut. “You’re very kind,” she whispered, unable to muster anything more. “Thank you.”
She chuckled. “You know, and don’t you take this amiss, but you remind me of my niece a little, though she’s a little younger than you.”
Nel’s eyebrows twitched in wry amusement, and Agatha blushed at the impropriety of her words. Nel didn’t get the chance to reassure her because Tom shuffled back in and told her the cart was ready for her.
She laid a coin on the table for the wine and stood, following the innkeep out into the yard and clambering up with her case into the back of the cart. It was hardly a very dignified mode of transport for someone of her station, and when Tom said as much while they rumbled out of the inn’s yard, Nel just laughed and said she didn’t mind.
“Anything is better than that awful rolling stagecoach,” she beamed, and swung her legs back and forth like a child off the back of the cart bed while Tom clucked his tongue at the horse to hurry up.
As they trundled up the narrow, cobbled street from the harbour, they passed Edmund Nancarrow standing outside a tailor’s shop, talking with the beast of a man from the bar. Both men looked up and watched her pass like she was some kind of rare spectacle.
In a way, she supposed she was. 
Still, she smiled at them despite her nerves, and Edmund knuckled a non-existent cap at her with a shy smile, while Locryn just glared.
She sighed and wondered what this next chapter in her life would bring.
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Next chapter ->
Well, what did you think of it so far? I can't wait to hear your thoughts on it, as always!
I hope you’ll consider reblogging as well as leaving a like if you enjoyed it. Take care, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.
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I was angry when I wrote this book. I poured my trans rage and frustration and grief into this book. But of the many conflicts inside these pages, being trans isn't one of them.
I created a main character that was strong. Relentless. Generous. Clever. Kind. Flawed. Disabled. Trans. I wanted a world where being trans isn't a problem, and the characters could worry about big things, like taking down society instead.
Its unlike anything I've ever written, and defies genres. For that, and the time in my life it got me through, I will always love it.
It's free for the trans rights readathon this week, everywhere but Amazon.
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blam-marie · 1 year
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One Selkie. Two strangers. Three murders.
The small town of St. Adalbert Sur Mer is hiding a dark secret.
Three times during the summer, the lifeless body of a Selkie was dumped into the river. Naked, and with a missing pelt.
Louison is sent by her clan to investigate these murders and catch the killer, but her mission derails when she meets two charming strangers whom everyone in town seems to be falling in love with - including herself. Torn between her rising attraction towards Gabrielle and Adrien and keeping the secret of her origins, Louison must dodge tourists, deadly poachers and wildlife protection agents in a wild quest to find her sibling’s murderer - before he kills again.
Skin Deep is a queer polyamorous story where everyone is hiding something and nothing is as simple as it seems. 
Now available for pre-orders in both ENGLISH and FRENCH
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ejunkiet · 8 months
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“Eve.” A soft, low voice calls, before a man rises from a nearby booth, making his way across the room to greet her, a smile curling up the corners of his full mouth. “You came.” His eyes are a pale blue and striking in the low light, as if all the colour has been washed out of them. He’s taller than he’d appeared in his photo, broader, with high cheekbones and a prominent jaw, the strength of him evident in the shift of muscle in his arms as he extends his hand to her. His grip is firm but gentle when she takes it, the crease of his eyes warm.  “Georgi,” he introduces himself, before inclining his head towards the man watching them on the other side of the booth, his dark eyes glittering in the golden lamplight. “And this is my mate, Ilya.” Mate. She steps closer and takes the hand Ilya offers her, the dark waves of his hair framing his face falling back to reveal angled features, the dark stubble that lines his jaw, a canine flashing as he offers her a smile that is as much of an invitation as it is a threat. “Pleasure,” he murmurs, his voice soft in the hushed quiet of the bar. His eyes are sharp as he takes her in, perceptive, and she can feel the weight of his aura against hers, testing. Her magic rises to meet it, a flicker in comparison, and his smile grows. “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” -- unnamed novella, Georgi & Ilya @ejunkiet
did i commission the incredible @andr0leda again?
HELL YEAH I DID (link to commissions tag here!)
this is from an original project i'm working on; Ilya (left) and Georgi (right) are mated/married/the works and I love them, and I love this, and you should shower andy with all the love because this has given me so much serotonin over the last few weeks, you have no idea.
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theladyofbloodshed · 7 months
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Read The Witch and The Monster on Kindle Unlimited, all you werewolf lovers
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wingsyouburn · 1 month
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Cover reveal next week!! Who's excited? I am!
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dominimoonbeam · 1 year
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Bite to Bruise - Prologue
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tags: modern-fantasy mashup, werewolves, witches, monsters, romance, learning to trust, hurt/comfort, violence
BITE TO BRUISE - PROLOGUE
Their territory had been prized by other packs before the modern age, before the treaties and the borders, before the highways and the cities. Their pack had claimed it and held that stretch of valley and river along the edge of the deep woods when it was a constant battle to keep it. And they held it when the world forgot about it, suddenly just a patch at the edge of fenrir territory with that ancient wood as a barrier between their piece of Dog Land and the beginning of Blood Country.
It wasn’t like any of the blood suckers in their sprawling stone cities could venture through the merciless green, but long ago, when the wolves still feared the gods of biters, that line on the map had frightened off weaker packs from trying to take what was theirs.
But Arlo’s pack had never been one to be frightened off. They had made their life in that valley and in the edge of those old woods. They had fought plenty of strange things that came out of them, things most wouldn’t believe still existed.
But the witch was the strangest.
One day they sensed her inside the forest. She was just within their territory but had not stepped foot beyond the trees. The pack waited to see what she would do—if she would make them hunt her and push her back into the deep of the forest where hungry ancient things still lived, or if she would leave on her own. And then they saw her. The fenrir of the forest edge had not expected her to be a child, let alone a broken, thin slip of a creature. Surely the winter would finish her if nothing else did before then.
No wolf wanted to be the one to kill a witch, not even a small one abandoned by her own kind.
Bad luck was not enough to describe the consequences for snuffing out magic like that unprovoked. The blood drinkers and the gods might be willing to take on those consequences, but no pack wanted to deal with them.
Arlo made the decision to leave her alone—to leave her to the woods and let nature have her.
They avoided the forest where she was, but Arlo watched that line of trees from his house. Day and night, his gaze was drawn toward that unknowable danger. What did she want and what was better for his pack? Her death or her life?
Witches were dangerous things.
Let the sunlight creatures and the midnight biters make their deals with witches. Wolves would not.
But it was a hell of a chore keeping his youngest boy from leaving food and blankets for the witch.
They made it through summer and into autumn.
The witch was still there in the woods on his territory.
The pack had almost gotten used to her being there, her scent and her magic becoming a fixture in that part of the woods. They avoided it and almost never laid eyes on her, but there was no mistaking her presence or the way she stained the land. They might have to abandon that area even after she left…or after she died.
His stomach twisted every time he let his thoughts stray to that fate. She was only a child, even if she was a witch.
Maybe it wasn’t his stomach twisting.
Arlo wasn’t the sort of man used to feeling his resolve weaken.
So, every morning and every night he watched those trees, grappling with what was best for his pack and what he could live with.
There was no returning her to her own. Witches were rare and few were free.
There was no chasing a child into the deep woods to die.
And maybe there could be no leaving her to the winter either.
Whatever choice he might have made on his own was altered, the way fate is always altered, by the unpredictable happenings of the world.
That autumn, just when the chill began to crawl into the valley, people in the town started to fall sick. A blood fever, one that had started in a city miles away with the spoil of some blood sucking shade. The perfect disaster of illness and power that burned a line across the territories. The human doctor in their town was overwhelmed and some of the residents of Maeve drove their sick to the nearest city, only to find the hospitals swamped and more illness there than in the valley.
Someone in Arlo’s pack let slip mention of the witch and a mob, driven mad with fear, rolled onto his land with an aim for those trees.
It didn’t take much to turn them back.
Humans lived peacefully in Dog Land so long as they lived by the laws of the packs and the laws in that valley were Arlo’s words. He said to turn back, and they did, after some whining and some pleading, but they did.
Lands had been cursed for lesser offenses than killing an innocent witch. Turning a blind eye to her was one thing, but allowing a mob to drag her from the woods? No. He would not let his pack be cursed nor would he allow anything like that to happen in his territory.
Perhaps the illness would take her before he had to decide what to do about the coming winter.
She was so frail…
As if to punish him for his wicked thoughts, Arlo’s youngest got the blood fever and he had to realize how frail his boy was too.
They kept the other little ones away and the rest were too strong to catch it. They tried everything they could to save the boy. They called on every favor, every healer, every pack in the territories.
No one could help them and soon he could smell death in his boy’s hair.
He had forgotten all about the little witch until she walked into his house one night.
She was barefoot and dirty, crusted in blood and dirt, wearing one of his son’s old hoodies. One of the items Sunny had put out for her before Arlo made him stop.
She shivered like it was her permanent state, like she had been shivering for months now and forgotten about it.
He suddenly wanted to hold her too—hold both the children he had failed to protect.
But she was not a child like any other.
Wolves howled, the alarm going out when one of his other kids realized she was there. He felt them shifting before claws clicked across the floors and teeth snapped. His eldest son, Ever, stepped into that space between them, ready to protect.
She waited, staring not at Arlo but at the boy in his arms.
“Let her by,” Arlo said, so tired from those long nights up listening to struggling breaths. He was ready to pay whatever this creature wanted for his crimes against her.
The growling never stopped but the witch crossed the floor, leaving filthy tracks in her wake. Her hair was tangled with bits of moss and twigs, and her eyes seemed huge in her thin face. She reached for the boy and Arlo’s heart jerked in his chest. He growled and reached out to stop her. He had been prepared for her to play the tiny reaper but not to come for the kid.
Her eyes flashed to his and the air in the room thinned.
He could taste her fear.
But then her gaze flicked back to his boy and one of her hands twisted in the front of her hoodie. Sunny’s hoodie.
Arlo lowered his arm and ignored all the growling and whining of the wolves filling his home.
She hesitated, not like the reaper he’d imagined, but like something skittish.
He had scared her.
Arlo had scared many people and monsters in his life, but never a witch. He slowly slid back across the bed, laying his son out between them, and dropping to his knees on the other side with his arms still out—still touching his boy. He couldn’t let him go. That wasn’t in him to do.
She sighed and it was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it.
She came another step closer, to the other side of the bed, and looked at the sick boy. She unclenched her hand from her hoodie, the very tips of her tiny fingers black as though she had touched a freshly painted wall. All of her fingers but the smallest that was missing. She put her hand on the boy’s chest and Arlo held his breath, terrified that his son would draw his last.
She closed her eyes and for long seconds neither the girl nor the boy breathed.
No one in the house breathed.
No one surrounding the house breathed.
And then she lifted her hand and a wind burst through the room. Doors rattled, chairs overturned, a window cracked, but when the wind had gone, it had taken the stink of death with it.
Sunny coughed a few times before whining and rolling toward Arlo. He pouted, still asleep but breathing strong, and reached for him.
When Arlo looked up, the witch was already leaving.
“Wait,” he called, but she didn’t.
No one stopped her and no one growled, they just watched their tiny invader return to the woods.
The blood fever cleared out of their territory overnight, not just from his boy but from the infected in the towns as well.
The next day, they picked up supplies and set out into the woods. Into her woods.
She did not want to come out, Arlo knew that now. She did not mean them any harm, but she was there to stay.
So, they built her a little house with a wood stove and a chimney while she watched from the trees, always out of reach and scowling like they were up to no good.
They brought her pieces of their own furniture and dishware. Arlo’s mate sent him with quilts, bedding, and boxes of food. His eldest son chopped wood and stocked it for the winter.
Arlo would come back a couple times a year to see to the woodpile, but he never saw the witch again.
She was there and when the children left presents just inside that stretch of woods, the offerings always disappeared.
Rumors spread about the pack with a witch, but no one believed it.
Wolves and witches did not coexist.
If they were in the same place for too long, one of them would have to die.
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Guys.
Guys.
GUYS!!
THE AUTHOR COPY OF MY BOOK ARRIVED TODAY!!
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It’s REAL. My book is REAL - I CAN HOLD MY BOOK!!
😭
As soon as physical copies become available for the public, I’ll let you know!!!
Now I’m gonna go hug a pillow and cry ♥️
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checkoutmybookshelf · 2 months
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1,500-odd words on the Polin shifter fic, and Pen is having some COMPLICATED feelings...
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kassoshire · 7 months
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As often happens, you wake to the hard bar of your monster's cock at your back, his hand groping for your breast. You're never sure who started it, but you grind back against him regardless. He groans, deep in your ear as his other hand glides under your nightgown. His fingers slip easily over your clit, pressing and circling as growls in your ear. You wiggle against him wishing he was filling you instead. He chuckles darkly, his tusks grazing your neck as the hand from your breast shifts to pin to you him.
"please, I need your cock," you beg, only for his arm to grip harder.
"ah, ah, ah, precious. I like you like this, caught and squirming against me, such good, sweet little prey. I want you to come for me, previous, and then I want you to run."
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thebibliosphere · 8 months
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Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites
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In a world of dwindling hope, love has never mattered more...
Captain Nathan J. Northland had no idea what to expect when he returned home to Lorehaven injured from war, but it certainly wasn’t to find himself posted on an island full of vampires. An island whose local vampire dandy lord causes Nathan to feel strange things he’d never felt before. Particularly about fangs.
When Vlad Blutstein agreed to hire Nathan as Captain of the Eyrie Guard, he hadn’t been sure what to expect either, but it certainly hadn’t been to fall in love with a disabled werewolf. However Vlad has fallen and fallen hard, and that’s the problem.
Torn by their allegiances–to family, to duty, and the age-old enmity between vampires and werewolves–the pair find themselves in a difficult situation: to love where the heart wants or to follow where expectation demands.
The situation is complicated further when a mysterious and beguiling figure known only as Lady Ursula crashes into their lives, bringing with her dark omens of death, doom, and destruction in her wake.
And a desperate plea for help neither of them can ignore.
Hunger Pangs: True Love Bites by Joy Demorra is a queer, paranormal, gaslamp fantasy romance novel featuring enchanted forests, gothic castles, and just a smidge of industrial coal dust, and is the first book of the Hunger Pangs slow-burn polyamorous romance series. Join Vlad, Nathan, and Ursula as they navigate a magical world torn asunder war and politics as they work to restore balance to the world and find love along the way. Book one is available now in ebook, paperback, and audio.
Buy the (high heat) Flirting With Fangs Edition Here. 
Buy the (medium heat) Fluff and Fangs Edition Here.
Why are there two versions, and what's the difference between them? Glad you asked! You can also check out individual content tags and heat ratings on my website at www.joydemorra.com
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taelonsamada · 1 year
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Silvered Scars - Now Available
SO I’M SORRY ABOUT GOING MIA ON EVERYONE BUT I HAVE A GOOD REASON FOR IT
👀 I finished my book X3
Rowan and Argent are finally available to the public!! If you would like to read a wlw paranormal romance about a wolf lady and a magical healer lady falling in love with each other while dealing with past traumas….. *gestures wildly* it’s only on smashwords for now, but it WILL become available on other sites soon!! I’ll update when that happens!!
I’m gonna go nap now XD
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blam-marie · 11 months
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Summer is almost upon us! Looking for your next beach read?
How about picking up SKIN DEEP, a queer polyamory romance / supernatural murder mystery that will charm even the most reticent of readers!
Three times over the summer, the lifeless body of a Selkie was found dumped in the river. Naked, and with a missing pelt.
Louison is sent by her clan to investigate those murders and visit the Selkie’s brand of justice upon the one responsible. But soon enough she meets two charming strangers who everyone in town seems to be falling in love with… including herself.
Paperback available on Amazon and Ebook available everywhere that sells them! Check out blanchetmarie.com/en for full blurb and details
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