Realms of the Raven

Today I’m inspired by the Appaloosa.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Heart of the Appaloosa
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson

Sharon forced herself to stillness, barely breathing as she adjusting camera settings and captured the image in her viewscreen. The mirror-like stillness of the lake reflected the almost full moon and stars so perfectly it seemed magical.

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Join myself and the rest of the Fiction with Friction authors the week of the Fourth of July as we take turns posting a scene that will throw sparks for you to enjoy. Some are old, some new, some are parts of larger works but all feature hot manlove!

Jet Mykles will kick off the week with a bang!

Sorry for the delay - it’s been a heck of a week. Keep your fingers crossed for my kitty to recover.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Leather, Lace and Leaves
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson

There had to be one hell of a joke playing out and Sabine not only didn’t get it, she seemed to be the butt of it.

It was almost too much to take in. The shop’s windows were swathed in what appeared to be a cross between a late Victorian bordello, a funeral parlor and a BDSM club. Heavy burgundy swags, complete with pom-poms dangling every inch, were offset by black lace sheers with studded leather tie-backs. The entire backdrop seemed to come from another universe than the delicate tea cups and saucers arranged on the leather-lined window display shelf.

Leather, Lace and Leaves.

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(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Giving Thanks
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

Troy was sprawled face down across Derek’s side of the bed. The chocolate brown sheets were wrapped around his hips, just high enough to ruin Derek’s view of his gorgeous, tight ass. As Derek stood there, Troy mumbled something then turned onto his side. A long arm reached out and drug Derek’s pillow to his chest, only to wrap his arms around it with a muttered “Love you”.

A huge lump filled his throat. He loved Troy so much. Hell, he’d fallen for the black-haired, blue-eyed devil on their second date. Head-over-heels irrevocably in love. How had he let his family’s feelings take precedence over Troy’s for so long?

Deep-rooted anger flared in his chest again. How dare his father demean Troy? Even if he’d thought Troy was just his long-term roommate. Then to just write him off because he didn’t approve of his sexual orientation? What the hell part of “love” did his father not understand? Could his father have just walked away from his mother?

Being “out” to his family was something he’d have to get used to. A small sense of relief was replacing what had been an ever-present fear of discovery. But now he was afraid that he’d lost the rest his family. He had no control over their reactions and whether they could accept the fact he was gay or not. No control over whether his father’s reaction would be echoed by his siblings and mother.

At least he no longer had to pretend. No more hiding. No more trying to remember to not touch Troy with his family around. That was a little piece of freedom he would savor. And no more hurting Troy with his cowardice. Troy had always respected his wishes and hidden their relationship but Derek knew it had seemed like he’d chosen his family over his lover. That would no longer be an issue.

Whether he had a job anymore was another matter entirely. Derek pushed that thought away. Plenty of time to worry about that later.

He focused his attention back on the sexy man taking up most of their king-size bed. The man he wanted to touch, to taste, to savor.

Just imagining the smell of Troy’s skin, the taste of his cum, the sounds he made gave Derek a raging hard-on. With a quiet groan, he stripped off his work clothes and freed his aching cock from his suddenly far-too-restrictive boxer-briefs. By sheer force of will he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t want a self-administered hand job, he wanted Troy.

A quick shower got the lingering smells of onion and garlic off his skin. Soaping up his body only made him ache all the more.

Drying himself was worse; it felt like his skin was twice as sensitive as normal. The scrape of his razor across his late-night stubble sent chills down his spine and straight to his cock.

Finally ready, he eased into bed behind Troy and nudged him back over to his own side of the bed. With a moan and mumble he couldn’t understand, his lover released the pillow and rolled onto his back.

Ah, how convenient.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Mirror, Mirror
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

She blinked her eyes, reaching up to rub the grittiness of sleep from them. Finally able to see clearly, she stared into the old oval mirror, trying to force away the swirls of magic that flowed through the glass like tendrils of fog twirling in eddies and wakes. The unseen currents of power made visible.

Oh so slowly, shapes began to form in the chaos. Areas of darkness and light separated into vague forms.

She trailed her fingers along the gilded edge of the mirror’s frame and willed the image to appear. What secrets would the mirror show her this time? What faces would she see?

Color seeped into the miasma, first pale and pastel but then enriching and darkening until she realized she was looking at the back of a woman’s head with dark, curly chestnut hair pulled into an elaborate braid and entwined with sprigs of violets and baby’s breath. The mirror cleared until she could see the woman bend over, almost disappearing from view before she sat back up, shoulders hunched in a semblance of defeat. Suddenly, the woman threw what appeared to be a fancy white shoe toward the far wall.

She nearly flinched back herself with a hiss of shock. What the hell was going on? She’d never seen anything like this in the mirror before. “What’s happening?” The question was purely rhetorical, she’d long ago given up hope of any real answer. Staring as if transfixed, she smoothed her hair back from her face.

The woman in the image threw her shoulders back and stood. Now it was clear she was wearing a slender, simple white dress. She reached her arms awkwardly behind her back and fumbled for the tiny zipper. A few fumbles and she managed to get enough of a grip on it to pull it down, revealing lacy, delicate underthings.

But instead of treating what must be a wedding dress with the loving care she expected, the brown-haired woman let it drop down her body and stepped back a little before giving it what looked like a vicious kick. Just a flutter of what looked to be expensive material could be seen at the edge of the mirror before the woman turned and threw herself down onto a seat—facing the mirror at last.

The face was similar to her own – the same green eyes and slightly hooked nose—maybe she was another relative of some sort. The mirror tended to show blood relatives. The other woman’s full lips were pursed and made her look tense and unhappy and her lashes were clumped with tears, the remains of mascara staining her eyelids.

The other woman pushed her hair back with no regard for the flowers or careful pinning of her curls, dislodging some of the violets and baby’s breath. A tear traced down her cheek as she stared at her left hand, rotating the large star sapphire ring on her ring finger. Finally the sad woman worked the ring off her hand and tossed it onto the vanity, out of the mirror’s view.

“Oh, what happened?” She couldn’t stop her question. Sympathy flooded through her. “Been there, done that. You’ll be better off without him if he betrayed you!” So what if the woman in the mirror couldn’t actually hear her.

The other woman looked up and seemed to meet her eyes directly. As if they had a connection. What was going on?

The woman in the mirror looked puzzled, then shrugged and reached her hand out, flipping the mirror over to face the wall. Its focus gone, the mirror clouded over with fog again, until the surface was an even grey and she was trapped within it again, sightless and alone.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Eyes of Jade
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

Gearóid’s eyes flew open as his body convulsed, sucking in a panicked breath. The blue sky directly above him seemed painfully bright in contrast to the dense border of tree branches at the edge of his vision. He panted, disoriented and strangely out of breath. Where was he? What was going on?

He sat up abruptly and nearly fell back again when dizziness made his head swim. Heart racing with the possibility of danger, Gearóid struggled to gain control of his body. Eyes closed again, he took a few more deep breaths of air that was strangely devoid of the copper scent of the blood spilled during the battle before his dizziness subsided. The only sounds he heard were chirping birds and a few deep-voiced frogs.

He cracked his eyes open again, slowly. Thankfully the world seemed much more stable than just a few moments ago. He looked around in amazement. The clearing, surrounded by thick, old trees, had a lush layer of fallen leaves and needles on the ground. Ferns grew in abundance, mixed with other plants he didn’t recognize. Despite the light breeze that intermittently brushed over his skin, the air felt heavy with the smells of damp earth and musty, decomposing vegetation.
His bare skin.

On his feet in a leap, he was only more puzzled. His body seemed somehow heavier, alien, almost as if it were not his body at all. The difference made him unsteady for a moment, a rare occurrence since he’d begun his warrior training.

A glance down proved he was indeed naked and, though the body he saw was similar to his in shape and size, it was not what it should be. Metallic copper glimmered where his pale Sidhe skin had once been. His nipples were a dark bronze color and what little body hair he’d had was now gone as if it never existed.

In disbelief, he ran a hand over his abdomen. He could feel his fingers sliding over his skin but his belly and chest were smoother than he remembered and the scars left from the many battles he’d survived were gone as if they’d never been. Even his hand was smooth, the calluses from years of weapons practice had disappeared.

Battle? The memories flooded back in a rush. The horror of seeing Ailin fall. The vain attempt to save his best friend. Then the pain of the Milesian lance piercing through his back and emerging from his chest. He remembered dropping slowly to the ground, the sounds of battle and clashing weapons dimming as his spirit faded from the world.

Maybe this was merely a dream, a momentary awareness in the Cauldron of Rebirth? Even a foreshadowing of a possible future? He’d never heard of such a thing but he was a warrior, not a priest.

Gearóid turned, examining every part of the clearing he found himself in. No danger was apparent but it nothing was at all familiar to him. The trees, the bushes, even the small animal he glimpsed were nothing he’d seen before. It certainly wasn’t the battleground he’d died on.

The chilly breeze kicked up again and a dark shadow appeared at the edge of his vision. He jerked away and spun unsteadily, only to find he’d been startled by his own hair. Now a shiny onyx black instead of its previous pale blonde, it was still so long as to brush his ass when unbound – as it now was. His one vanity, as Ailin was always quick to point out.

His hands flew to his face and traced the features there. The scar down one cheek from his brash challenge to one of his trainers was gone. Like his body, the skin of his face seemed a bit smoother but his features were familiar at least. His ears were still gracefully pointed but the left one was now pierced through the lobe with what felt to be a metal ring. Something dangled from it but he couldn’t tell what, only that it felt long and tapered.

The sudden sound of wings beating directly overhead gave him scant warning before a large raven landed gracefully on a thick tree stump before him. The ebon bird stared steadily at him for a moment, head cocked slightly to one side. Just as he began to worry about the intelligence he saw behind the bird’s black eyes, it shimmered and grew until another form emerged.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Patterns
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

The lightning struck and flowed over her skin in intricate patterns of blue and white, leaving behind the smell of singed flesh and the marks of its passing. Pain struck, a fierce, sudden agony that stole her breath. The fire of torment crawled back up her body and she found the breath to scream only when the inferno consumed her.

Sandra’s eyes snapped open as she jerked bolt upright. Heart thundering in her chest, she glanced around the darkened room. Her own bedroom. Her own bed.

What the hell was going on? She’d not had this many nightmares since she was a teenager and now it kept being the same damned dream. Why was that? It wasn’t from any movie or book she remembered. She didn’t feel stressed or upset. If anything, her life was terrific – a challenging new job with a new home in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. She’d worked for years to get to this point, dammit.

Sandra fingers ached and she forced herself to release her death grip on the satiny cotton sheets. Hands shaking slightly, she rubbed her face and gritty eyes. Now she was awake—too damned awake for the middle of the night.

It seemed to take a monumental effort to climb out of bed and grab her robe off the back of the bedroom door. Snuggled in the warm, soft fabric, she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly despite the unseasonable warmth of the rainy night. “Feels more like Florida than Oregon.”

She laughed. Now she was talking to herself. Maybe there was more of her eccentric grandmother in her than she’d admit to.

Sandra flinched when a sudden flash of lightning lit the room like full daylight. The rain picked up, sounding like a monsoon outside the little a-frame house, pounding on the roof and windows unceasingly. Kaboom! The thunder rattled the entire house.

At least it seemed several miles away, if the old wives’ tale her grandmother had taught her was correct. One mile per second of delay, wasn’t it? That lighting had to be at least five miles away.

Another bright flash and her eyes ached from the sudden light, afterimages glowing before her. Focusing on counting the seconds, she counted only four seconds this time.

Sandra reached a hand up to rub away the lingering effects of the bright lightning and caught sight of her hand.

What the hell was on her hand?

Swirls and lines, interspersed with symbols of some sort, covered the palm of her right hand in a shimmering, opalescent blue. They slowly faded away as her eyes re-adjusted to the light spilling dimly from the open door of her bedroom.

It had to be her imagination. She looked closely and couldn’t see anything on her skin. “Man, I’m so tired I’m hallucinating.” She forced out a quiet chuckle but her stomach clenched in fear anyway.

Staring at her hand, Sandra waited for another bolt of lightning to strike. She was just too tried, nothing was there.

The sky lit up and she stared at her arm. Holy shit. Not just her hand but her entire arm was covered in the glowing, intricate patterns.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Mating Rite
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

Aislynn knelt before the low stone altar, the surface smooth and polished from generations of use. Her ritual tools were laid out upon it, familiar and ready for her use. The rising full moon glinted off the steel and bone of her athame. The hematite eyes of the raven head hilt seemed alive in the night.

She looked beyond the altar and saw the circle of standing stones around her. The familiarity of their regal presence helped calm the butterflies flitting through her stomach.

A cool breeze flowed over her in waves and teased her bare skin with its chill caress. Her nipples hardened to stiff nubs at the kiss of the night’s breath. Her long hair hung loose and the wind gently ruffled its length and the raven feathers woven into it.

Aislynn waited eagerly. Her circle already cast, she bowed her head and focused on the energy of the Goddess rising within her. It gathered in her abdomen then pulsed through her body until all of her seemed to throb in rhythm to the Goddess’ own heart.

The heat built within her and even her clit now throbbed in anticipation of Cian’s attentions and the ritual’s climax.

Her heart leapt at the sound of feet crunching on the gravel pathway around the standing stones. The sound moved around the perimeter of the circle until she heard it directly behind her. She lifted her head and smiled.

“Beloved, I have come.” Cian’s smoky bass sent jangles of electricity up her spine.

She gracefully rose to her feet, her athame held lightly in her hand. “How have you come?”

“In perfect love and perfect trust.” His response was clear and sure. Just the sound of his rich, deep voice with its sexy accent made her grow damp with need.

Aislynn turned and stepped toward the muscular figure at the entrance to the standing stones, awash in the moonlight and shadows. Her hair caressed her back and ass, the raven feathers a sharper note within the silky curtain. Her arousal grew more urgent by the moment until she felt her own cream run down her thighs.

She took a few steps closer still, admiring her mate. She could just see the faint tracery of the myriad of scars on his heavily muscled body. The band across his bicep came into focus as the vibrant pattern of intricately knotted thistles.

His long dark hair hung loose about his wide shoulders and small stag antlers jutted from his forehead, held in place by a gleaming metal band. He smiled and his rugged, strong face softened with a glint of humor.

His eyes appeared to glow with lust and need, an impressive erection jutting before him. This evidence of his need and desire for her made her breath catch in her throat. I do that to him. He wants me the same way I want him.

He chuckled slightly.

She realized she had been gaping at his cock and raised her athame to cut a passage through her circle’s energy to allow him entry.

He stepped through the passageway and she closed the circle again behind him.

He reached out and grabbed her waist in his huge hands. His impatience showed in the way he quickly pulled her body up against his own.

His cock bumped up against her belly and seemed to sear her with it’s heat. The drops of pre-cum dripping from the tip let it slide across her skin until it was nestled between their bodies.

Cian groaned and moved his hips to rub his cock against her again. He moaned again and his eyes closed briefly.

Aislynn reached up with her left arm and drew his head down to meet his lips with her own. Her hunger and passion made her aggressive. She captured his lips with her own and challenged him to yield and allow her in.

Her tongue darted along the seam of his lips until they opened and she could tease his tongue with her own. She slowly withdrew her own tongue, tempting and coaxing him to follow her.

He ran his tongue along the sensitive inner skin of her lips and caught her whimper in his mouth. He eased back gradually until he was only feathering small kisses on her lips and face.

“The ritual, ciat. We must complete the Mating Rite before I can have you.” Cian’s voice was almost a growl. “Goddess but I want to throw you on the ground right now.”

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

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Death Whispers
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

Kate wrenched open the bottom drawer of the ancient dirty-beige filing cabinet and tossed her purse in before shutting it. As usual, it refused to close completely until she gave it a solid kick.

“Ah the glamorous career of journalism.”

A heavy sigh and she reminded herself she was still just the intern. Pretty much the lowest of the low on the food chain at the Seattle Sentinel. Only three weeks to go on her three month internship and it was back to school to finish her degree, but with some experience at a newspaper on her resume.

Of course this job had been a learning experience in an area she’d never expected nor wanted. Maintaining obituaries and fetching coffee had never hinted that Kate would find herself embroiled in a situation that both terrified and fascinated her.

Her stomach churned as she pulled the wobbly desk chair out from under the dented metal desk. A vain attempt to brush the little bits of shed foam off the seat and she took a deep breath before sitting in the chair. Careful to not tip it over, she tugged herself up to the desk and the many-times-handed-down PC.

Her hands shook slightly. Kate gave herself a mental shake; she still had a job to do, weird coincidences or not. Weird visions or not. At least she could do the people in her visions a favor and make sure their obituaries were well crafted and complete. Their last hurrah would be a caring one.

At first it was just a feeling. An urge to work on the obituary for a person not on her list. Once she’d completed the assigned list, she’d given in to the urge and updated the obit for Shelley Siren. Kate had filed it away and managed to put it out of her mind until, two days later, Shelley had died suddenly in a traffic accident.

No one questioned the fact her obit was so up to date, they’d merely run it as quickly as possible on the paper’s website and been happy to have beaten most others.

But it hadn’t stopped there. Three days later, the same situation had repeated itself with a reclusive ex-athlete. Then another. And another.

By the third week of her internship, Kate knew she’d had to go along with whatever name came to mind and stopped resisting or pushing away the thoughts. Instead she tried to open herself, to see if anything made itself known.

But last week things had changed again. Instead of just a name, she actually saw something when she’d closed her eyes to concentrate. Along with the name of a famous musician, she saw just a flash of a metal and plastic.

A day later the body of rock star Darryl Davenport had been found, dead of an overdose with a syringe on the floor next to him.

Kate’s previous resigned acceptance became gut-wrenching fear. Since that day she’d tried to push away any intuition, any thoughts of a name. She couldn’t do this. Somehow it was more than her fatalistic nature could take, to see something along with the name.

You can’t ignore it forever. You only have a little while left before you’re back in school.

Not that she actually knew if leaving the paper would mean her strange intuition would stop as well. She could only hope. There was no way she could live with this long term.

Come on Kate, get it over with.

She’d chosen to come in really early, before the other intern that shared the office cum broom closet with her would be in. Maybe she could find a way to warn the person about to die?

“Yah, and have them think you’re a crazed stalker.” She muttered to herself, even as she realized she was stalling. Maybe she wouldn’t see anything, think of anyone. It didn’t always happen.

Kate laid her cold hands flat on the desk and took another deep breath. Then another. Slowly breathe in, slowly breathe out. At last she felt relatively calm and shut her eyes, mentally ‘listening’ for anything.

For a moment, nothing happened. Maybe it was an empty day. Just as a sense of relief began to sink it, she clearly saw a shiny chrome automatic pistol swing around and point toward her. Then she heard a name as the gun steadied and panic set in.

Katherine Ann Succaro

Her name.

(It’s still Friday until I go to bed, right? Sorry I’m late - my hand’s been bugging me and typing is a struggle. But I haven’t missed a week yet, and I don’t intend to start today.)

Another bonus point to the people who can recognize the inspiration for this one.

(Archives are on the website, if you want to read the offerings of past weeks)

Raven
(c) 2008 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

There he was!

The tall, muscular man followed the hostess through the sparsely occupied restaurant, striding fluidly to the rearmost table. He’d done the same thing every Thursday night for at least the last two months, since Aaron had started working this shift. Until now he’d been forced to admire him from afar, but this week Aaron had finally persuaded Rachel to switch sections with him so he could serve the man who now fueled his dreams and fantasies.

This week his familiar black jeans and worn harness boots were accented by a dark green tee shirt. The soft fabric of the obviously well worn shirt clung to his generous muscles. Aaron wanted to drool at the mere hint of the scupted body beneath the cotton. Aaron realized the bold black pattern wrapped around the man’s arm was a raven tattoo. Exotic, dangerous and very sexy.

The man sat with his back to the wall, as always, alternating between watching the restaurant’s front door and glancing through the dinner menu. He must be waiting for the stockier blonde man that usually joined him for dinner.

“Aren’t you going to greet him, Aaron?”

The other waiter’s amused voice broke his paralysis. With a start, he took a deep breath and trying to ease the nervous flutters in his stomach.

The man glanced up as Aaron neared the table. The man turned out to have surprisingly pale skin but his hair was an intense blue-black and was drawn back into a tight, long braid. Lush lashes framed equally intense eyes so light they seemed silver. His slightly hooked nose and sharp cheekbones gave him an almost predatory appearance.

Aaron had to swallow twice before he could force out a description of today’s specials. Those silver eyes seemed to see into his soul - he could only hope that he didn’t glance down at the erection straining his black slacks.

Instead the man nodded and smiled slightly. Hell, even a casual smile made Aaron’s cock jerk in excitement. He’d dreamed about this man for weeks, stroked his cock and pretended it was this man’s hands. Ached to be filled by him.

“I’d like some water, please. And some for my guest. He should be here shortly.” Raspy and deep, even the man’s voice was a turn on.

Aaron struggled to form a coherent answer. “Certainly, sir. I’ll get that for you now.”

“Raven, sorry I’m late.” The blonde man had arrived and now Aaron had a name to put to the man’s face. A name to cry out when he came.

Aaron’s face grew hot. “I’ll get the water,” he muttered as he turned and fled. He could almost feel Raven’s eyes following him.

Only partially successful in calming himself down, Aaron set the glasses of ice water on the small server tray and braced himself to approach the two men and take their order. The blonde man was chattering away at Raven, who sat leaned back in his chair and looked amused and perhaps a bit bored.

Rather than sliding the water glass across the table, Aaron stepped behind the table to serve Raven from the side. As if in slow motion, he felt his foot catch the edge of the chair leg and his body lurched forward, tray and drinks sliding from his hands directly onto Raven’s lap.

Raven’s mouth and eyes opened wide in shock at the sudden coldness of the ice water. He gasped wordlessly and almost tipped his chair open in an attempt to escape.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Aaron babbled apologies as he snatched up the glasses and tray. He gathered up the big ice cubes and tossed them onto the tray to dispose of. Once he’d picked up the worst of it, Raven pushed back from the table even further and tried to brush off what water he could and wring out his shirt.

His pants were a different matter.

Aaron dropped to his knees beside Raven’s chair and began to blot up the water soaked into Raven’s jeans with his bar towel. His mortification at his slip was mixing with his longing to be doing more than sopping up water from this man’s pants. He wanted to be in Raven’s pants.

“I think our little blue-eyed waiter likes you, Raven.” The other man’s voice was obviously amused.

When he looked up and met Raven’s searching gaze, all he could do was nod.