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Look, I'm good okay. I'm her..." he stopped dead. The woman at the desk looked up expectantly, "uncle." His voice faded. "Katie certainly has a lot of those, " the annoying person chirped before handing his ID back and pointing to a side door. SHe gave him a different sort of look. This one he recognized. He smiled at her. She was sort of good looking, actually. "You gay like her other uncles?" Jack laughed. "Nope. ↗
I prescribe a quick jerk off in the shower and a return to sanity. (Dr. Hugo Peralta) ↗
#f-m-f #interracial-romance #menage-romance #paranormal-romance #shapeshifter-romance
[As a screenwriter] I have a sense of exile from thought, a nostalgia of the quiet room and balanced mind. I am a writer, and there comes a time when that which I write has to belong to me, has to be written alone and in silence, with no one looking over my shoulder, no one telling me a better way to write it. It doesn't have to be great writing, it doesn't even have to be terribly good. It just has to be mine." (A Qualified Farewell) ↗
I know how you feel," I said. "You run into something you totally don't get, and it's scary as hell. But once you learn something about it, it gets easier to handle. Knowledge counters fear. It always has. ↗
...if you live with your conscience and follow your instincts, you can get through with inner peace. ↗
It's one thing to develop a nostalgia for home while you're boozing with Yankee writers in Martha's Vineyard or being chased by the bulls in Pamplona. It's something else to go home and visit with the folks in Reed's drugstore on the square and actually listen to them. The reason you can't go home again is not because the down-home folks are mad at you--they're not, don't flatter yourself, they couldn't care less--but because once you're in orbit and you return to Reed's drugstore on the square, you can stand no more than fifteen minutes of the conversation before you head for the woods, head for the liquor store, or head back to Martha's Vineyard, where at least you can put a tolerable and saving distance between you and home. Home may be where the heart is but it's no place to spend Wednesday afternoon. ↗
The Witcher had a knife to his throat. He was wallowing in a wooden tub, brimfull with soapsuds, his head thrown agains the slippery rim. The bitter taste of soap lingered in his mouth as the knife, blunt as a doorknob, scraped his Adam's apple painfully and moved towards his chin with a grating sound. ↗
