500 words of your last love scene
This thread is for love scenes that aren't erotic or pre-publication. The ones that are should be posted at The Secret Workshop at ERWF (according to our fine forum moderators).

A love scene. A dark one. The conversation takes place between two torturers whose armies are at war with one another. Randal is the younger of the two men. The story is "Bard of Pain"; it's about m/m platonic feelings and is from my Three Lands series. http://duskpeterson.com/threelands/stories/bardofpain1.htm (Now, why is it, please, that my leather stories are light and fluffy, while my platonic-feelings stories are very dark? Society expects the opposite of me.) * * * As a soldier unbound his arms and wrists, Quentin-Andrew looked over at Randal, who was pulling off his cloak and hanging it on one of the hooks that was intended for other purposes. Without surprise, Quentin-Andrew saw that the young man's gaze was already fixed on him. Randal smiled as the borderlander looked his way, and he said, in a voice that sounded serious, "I hope that you approve." Without meaning to - and the fact that he had not meant to told Quentin-Andrew immediately what level of man he was dealing with - Quentin-Andrew shifted his gaze back to the objects of the room: the rings, the chains, the pulleys, the irons glowing on the fire. Beside him, Randal said in a matter-of-fact voice, "When I was hired last year, our subcommander gave me permission to stock this place in any way I wished. I made up my list based on the reports we'd received of the methods you use. I didn't think that I could improve upon perfection." Quentin-Andrew's mouth felt dry; he wondered why it was taking so long to recover from the effects of the gag. He turned his attention back to the soldiers. Only two of Randal's men had remained in the room. The older one was checking the heat of the fire, while the younger one was carefully inspecting the tools to see that they were ready. Quentin-Andrew noted this with professional approval. Randal snapped his fingers at the first man and nodded toward a shadow-smothered corner. Then, having delegated the early duties, he pulled himself onto the table, stained with black blood, and sat there, swinging his legs like a schoolboy. "I had mixed feelings about taking this assignment," reported Randal in the same light voice. "You're the hero of my childhood. I used to lie awake at night, dreaming that you would come and ask me to be your apprentice. I knew, of course, that I couldn't hope to reach your heights, but what man could? Since you never came, I learned everything I could about you: I studied your techniques, I recorded your questions in the few cases where the prisoner was released alive - I even received permission from the subcommander to examine the bodies of the men you had questioned, whenever those bodies were returned to our army. "It was like gazing on the work of an artist. What you did here--" He reached up with his hand and briefly indicated a spot on his body. "It never would have occurred to me, even if I'd lived as long as the Jackal did. Yet you knew . . . How in the names of all the world's gods did you know? You knew what it would do to a prisoner. The first time I used that technique I felt like a bard stealing another man's song, yet the results were too beautiful to throw away. Neither I, nor any man living, will ever be able to match you in what you do. "It seems such a shame to destroy you."

From my ruler/liegeman gen story, "Night Shadow." http://www.duskdarkling.org/plain/nightshadow.htm * * * He was still too close, but Farsight could at least see now the man's features: a heavy jaw, lips too asymmetrical to attract lovers, a broken nose, a scarred temple, and blue-lit eyes bearing nothing except uncertainty. As Farsight watched, the man licked his lips anxiously. His hand, though, was resting with practiced ease on his dagger hilt, and his cheeks were shaven – he was not a field commoner, then. "You're a soldier?" Farsight guessed aloud. "A guard, my prince." The young man hesitated, then added, "My name is Amyas. I've been with Lord Grimbold's household until recently." With delicate timing, he allowed his hand to drop from his dagger. Farsight felt the blood thrumming through his throat and resisted the impulse to call for his guard's protection. "You're far from home," he said. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have left Duskedge at time of war. And why call me your prince?" "My prince, I—" Amyas faltered, staring at his mud-wrapped boots. "Because you are my prince. I was born in Dawnlight, near the border. I would have stayed here, but I couldn't find work in this land. So I went over the border and took service with Lord Grimbold, but part of our agreement was that if war broke out between our two lands, I'd be released from his service to return home." "War broke out four months ago," Farsight observed. "That's when Royston turned his hungry eyes toward our gold-mountain near his border." "Yes, my prince, and I left Lord Grimbold's service at that time. It occurred to me, though, that you might be in need of information, so I went to King Royston's castle and listened to the gossip there. I'd been there in the past, so no one took notice of me." Amyas spoke with a pure simplicity, as though risking his life as a spy were the most natural activity in the world. He had a habit, Farsight noticed, of shuffling his feet on the ground, as though he were a boy who might be noticed at any moment and would need to flee the room to escape his elders' wrath. Farsight suddenly felt very old. He smiled at Amyas and said, "So you have come to me with that information. Thank you." Amyas looked up at him. For a moment, on the edge of his expression, something seemed on the point of breaking through. Then his eyes grew sober, and he said, "Yes, my prince. I came to warn you to guard yourself. King Royston has sent his Night Shadow to seek you." A wind, chill from the north, travelled through the crenel behind Farsight and played like a cold blade against his back. . . .

I lucked into reading this post. Very interesting reading. If I may... in the first secton of your posting, you describe \"stained with black blood\" ... I read it to indicate that the blood was from a black, did you mean something that was stained black from the blood... ? I could be wrong... just a clarity issue. Forgive me if I have overstepped my bounds. KL

Wish I'd had you as my editor. :) Yes, I slipped. It should be "stained black with blood." Thanks for pointing that out, and sorry about my late response.

Well, the good news is Dusk... now you do have me as an editor. :lol: It is one of the things I do, sometimes for pay. I'd love to say... most of the time for pay, but life is not always that lucky. :? Just let me know and I will see ithat my schedule allows for editing a piece for you now and again, before you submit it to a con-*test*-('"), a publication or a publisher. I figure if we don't help each other out then... well, what the heck... there are too many stories to be written and too many readers to reach... I can't write it all, nor do I try. I just try to help my fellow word -junky out. You know... giving a little back no matter if I am playing with words or fabric, as in my quilting. So just write me down and contact me when you need something looked over. It will be my pleasure to assist yah. :D

Thank you very much indeed. I'm *always* in need of beta readers. This particular story did get betaed - twice, by excellent beta readers - but as you can see, multiple beta readings are usually necessary, because even the beta readers for this story missed the black blood bit. (Either that, or I ignored their advice on this, which could have happened, alas.) I tend to write novella and novel length <hopes you don't scurry away at this point>, so finding beta readers who have the time and energy to plow through that much can be difficult. Do you have particular genres you like? I write mainstream fantasy stories, usually focussing on male friendship, but occasionally with a heterosexual subplot; gay historical fantasy love stories (I avoid calling them romances, because they usually break the romance genre conventions); and contemporary gay leather erotica (focussing on male friendship, once again). My stories tend to be dark, as you can see from the above excerpts, and sometimes it's the erotic aspects of the story that are dark, so if there are any genres or literary areas where you prefer not to venture, just let me know.

Yes, having a multitude of eyes on something is soooo helpful. Espeically if one bata is has an anal proclivity to catch things like the \"black blood\" bit. :lol: And no, the length of your usaull pieces/manuscripts does not chase me away. I have edited/betaed from articles to novels. I know it has made me a better writer and a better assistant. :) So see this may well just be a selfish gift I give you... :oops: while benefiting me too. :oops: I get \"paid\" to play with words. I am a word whore. I am new to the erotic genre, hence I do not have a faviorate. It is not my job to only pick that which I like, thus slanting my view on what I am reading. It is not my job, when betaing, to only pick the stories I \"Want\" to read. It is my job to assist the writer, no matter what they put up. I judge a piece for: What is written. Is it a consistant piece. Are the discriptions clear. Is it clear who is whom and what is going on. Is it, although a fantasy, is it or does it become believable. Are the sensual parts, even if they are dark, still stimulating. ETC. When I, recently, betaed for someone else on here... it was the very first time I had ever read a f/f piece. It was not my place to put my personal feelings into the reading of the piece. I read it... disconnected from my personal preferences and was still able to give the author a review I was glad and, not quite proud of, proud not being the right word here, to provide. Likewise, I don't need to be black, and didn't need to be black, to edit a novel by a black author. \"So Much Joy\" by Linda Jewel spoke/speaks to a wide audience thus not limiting her sales potential. So, send me a piece and I will beta it. Send it in chapters... verses the entire novel/novella if you want feed back in the beginning of it. And do you plan on posting it up here or do you send something that large off-site to my e-mail?

"It is not my job to only pick that which I like" What a lovely attitude. I can do that with nonfiction (says the former news editor), but with fiction, I need to be engaged with the subject matter. Yours is a much more flexible approach. "Send it in chapters" When I have novels, they're in single files, but you're welcome to report on them chapter by chapter, if that's more convenient for you. Whichever method works best for you. "And do you plan on posting it up here or do you send something that large off-site to my e-mail?" I'd do it by e-mail. Thanks much! I'll send you my next novel - mainstream fantasy, no erotic content, though there's a minor heterosexual subplot - because that one will be published later this year. (Um, I hope it will, though I'm over deadline with my current novel.) Would you mind e-mailing me your e-mail address? Because I can't attach the file through the ERWF mail system. My e-mail address is here: http://duskpeterson.com/index.htm#contact

For some reason, I think this is sweet--it's from an (as yet) unpublished ms. called Helpless. Douglas revived over a cup of tea, looking around the kitchen as though he’d never seen it before. Well, the truth was, he never spent much time below stairs. “Perhaps the boys should paint down here,” he said. “Bit dingy, isn’t it?” Warren shook his pan of sausages, muttering under his breath as grease spat. “Let them finish your sitting room first.” “Which reminds me—I must owe you for the paint.” Warren filled a plate and thumped it down in front of Douglas before answering. “No. You bloody well do not owe me for the paint. Will you stop trying to even up all of the time?” “It’s just--” Douglas hesitated. How do you politely point out such an enormous difference in personal wealth? “What? Being a Shrove, you’re used to people trying do you favors to weasel into your life? I’d like to think we’re beyond that.” Douglas looked down. “Habit. I’m sorry. It goes the other way, too—we were all taught never to take advantage of other people. There are those who would beggar themselves to get close to us—oh, God. You know I’m not saying--” “No.” Warren sat down with his own plate. “Of course you’re not saying. But it simply isn’t possible to take advantage of me. As far as I’m concerned, everything I have is already yours. Will you pass the salt, please?” Wordless, Douglas held out the shaker. Warren smiled at him, his eyes warm. “Eat, Douglas.” Douglas ate, silent, eyes on his sausage and potatoes. Here it was, an opportunity to tell Warren that his feelings were returned, that he did care for him. Immensely. But of course, it wasn’t really possible that Warren didn’t know, after the way Douglas had been clinging to him lately. The moment to speak was passing, had passed. He opened his mouth. “Do we have any Worcestershire sauce?” he asked.

Paragraph 5 -- is that a question or should it be a statement? 4th P from the Bottom -- try an elipse <...> between the 1st and second sentence in the second part of your dialog. Good conversation. Good use of descriptions to let the reader know how Douglas is tongue tied, etc. It is a sweet moment between the lovers. Good job. :lol:

Dusk, I sent you a pm Please let me know if you don't get it by e-mail me, I see that option is available on my notes. K

Will fix that! :D