Patreon Announcement

Time and again, I have tried to start a Patreon for my writing. I have put a lot of pressure on myself for putting together these huge writing projects that are so far out of what I am able to produce that the idea of a Patreon crashes and burns before it can even begin to take flight.

This time I am determined things will be different.

Thanks to an outpouring of support via Instagram, I have decided to put together an affordable Patreon to share more stories about Gethin and Renoir (the protagonists of my recent short story). The majority of the stories will still be free to read both on my Patreon as well as here on my blog, but the paid tiers include early access, NSFW stories, and the opportunity to commission stories.

I want to do this for fun and for me rather than for the sake of marketing or profiting. I do hope you will consider joining.

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Move Me at Samothrace

He was a work of art, staring at the Winged Victory of Samothrace where she stood at the top of the stairs. His dark curls hanging in his face just enough to bring out the youth of it as large, grey eyes looked up, mesmerized by the softness of the stone, the movement in the carved fabric. In this space, Renoir was like an ancient patron of Nike, herself.

Gethin came behind him, hands snaking around Renoir’s sharp hips as they pulled the smaller man against him. Ren’s love of art, his fascination with the motion such stillness could create, made Gethin’s heart flutter. To see someone become so completely enraptured when faced with something they loved… It was a beautiful thing. As beautiful as Ren was in that moment. Gethin nuzzled his nose into lush curls and placed a kiss just behind Ren’s ear with a smile. The both of them each had a Bluetooth earbud in, classical music playing so they could feel like they were in their own little world as they walked through the gallery, steps paced with the violins in their ears.

Ren was leaning back against Gethin’s chest, humming softly along with the music and swaying slightly. It gave Gethin an idea, the perfect idea, and it consumed him instantly. Reaching into Ren’s pock to take out his phone, Gethin thumbed through the various playlists until he found what he was looking for. The gentle beat of the drums filled their ears and, as the lyrics began, Renoir turned in Gethin’s arms, a puzzled look on his fine-featured face.

“Dance with me,” Gethin whispered, taking Ren’s hand in one of his own, the other remaining on Ren’s hip.

Renoir’s lips twitched at the sides, a smile before he started the song over again and set his hand on Gethin’s shoulder. As the lyrics began once again, they moved slowly, side to side at first like high school students at prom, before their steps developed into something more akin to choreography. Gethin guided Ren into careful spins, arms extended to set him back before a controlled tensing of the muscles in his shoulder brought Ren safely back into his chest. Neither of them were dancers, just two people who found a guilty pleasure in talent competitions, but that was hardly relevant to two young men in love at the Louvre. They simply allowed the song, the flow of words and drums and the gentle passion of the music’s makeup, to dictate their steps, their hands, their look-but-don’t-touch grace as their faces came close enough to kiss, but neither leaned in to do so. It wasn’t time. Not yet.

If people were watching, neither noticed nor cared. As far as they were concerned, all that existed between Gethin and Renoir was each other and the Irish singer in their ears encouraging them to move.

A proper smile came to Renoir’s lips as the song built, their dance growing faster. A passion took over, a need that brought heat to every point of contact, each step hitting harder as the music came to a climax before growing quiet once again and coming to a tender end. As Renoir crashed into Gethin’s chest for the final time, breathing a little heavier and cheeks a little bit flushed, Gethin placed a kiss to his forehead just between his eyebrows. A small rough of applause pulled them from themselves and the young men smiled as they offered a polite wave to the tourists before continuing, hand-in-hand, through the gallery.

“I think I’m ready to leave,” Ren said, his usually quiet voice sounding smaller in the vast space.

“Okay,” Gethin replied. “Do you want to go home?”

Renoir squeezed Gethin’s hand slightly, leaning against him as they walked. “Not yet.”

“How does getting some lemonade and making out in the courtyard sound?”

“Perfect,” Ren answered, a smile on his lips as he placed a kiss to Gethin’s jawline. “That sounds perfect.”

This story is dedicated to the future Mr. Welsh who will tolerate my undying love of art galleries, and to Hozier, whose songĀ “Movement” was the main inspiration.

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