Monday, October 23, 2017


There’s no good story without conflict. There’s no conflict without antagonists. The Truman twins are the crazy baddies of ARZANALE. Ghyls owns Lugal Industries, a powerful conglomerate with tentacles all around the world. His brother has embraced the soul within him and now uses the name Kadan Merone, the reincarnation of a High Priest of the Assyrian god Ashur.

Hell-bent on complete a sacred ceremony interrupted by a war before the Great Pyramids were built, they would do all in their power to thwart our heroes Hugo, Kovak, Snyder in their mission to acquire (or destroy, mind you) the key to unleash unfathomable power and dominate humanity.

From Pennsylvania to Venice, from the Black Sea to Iraq’s desert— this is a race against time and destiny.

#comingsoon #fiction #mmromance #gay #men #gayromance #threesome #triad #gayfiction #ebook #paranormal #ancienthistory #contemporary #weapons #humanity #twins #mercenaries #authorsofinstagram #menofgabbo #villains #antagonists #baddies #gabbodelaparra

Sunday, October 15, 2017


Fall 1870
Minerva Academy
Chapel Town, Province of Maryland.

The floor to ceiling windows were open, and the tired whirring of the upper fans could not compete with the incessant drone of Red Cloud Hesper, second son of the Marquis of Sheshewa. It didn’t matter that his hair was dark and glossy, his eyes exotic and cat-like. He and his twin sister, White Feather, had gone to London for the summer and upon their return were more insufferable than ever.

“And, thus, the similar technology of the local peoples deterred the invasion agenda of the original settlers.” Red Cloud finally shut his pretty mouth.

Bosco pulled his cravat. History was the most boring subject ever, and what could have been a two minutes exposition turned into a twenty minutes pre-battle discourse in Red Cloud’s hands.

“Thank you, lord Hesper.” Mrs. Wellington’s tone was one of unnecessary praise. “Who wants to continue?” Her chubby cheeks moved upward as she smiled at Bosco’s twenty-four classmates.

Several hands shot up, waving for Mrs. Wellington’s attention. Bosco didn’t even try; their teacher usually dotted on the pupils belonging to the peerage. Bosco’s family was probably wealthier than many with a title, and he was a prince among his people, but his status wasn’t matter of public knowledge along with his kind promoting clandestine endeavors throughout the land.

On second thought, History wasn’t that boring, it was their teacher’s preference for some students what made it a drag; she wouldn’t have allowed any commoner such a lengthy expansion of a simple topic.

“Lady Seer, please pick up where Lord Hesper left.”

Helena stood up. Bosco liked her; she wasn’t stuffy like some of the others, and the pretty blond ringlets around her face made her look like a beautiful porcelain doll. She started reading her homework. “For a hundred years there was peace between the European settlers and the locals, but what technology kept in check was pushed forward by religion. Many of the settlers had come to this area of the New World to be able to worship their god in their own way, but, in time, they forgot they had been prosecuted and turned against those who didn’t worship their solitary deity.” Helena made a pause as if this part of New Englalonde’s history affected her the most. “The Massachusetts Witch Trials (1692-93) triggered The Sacred Conflict, a seven-year war. The English Crown, even if Polytheist itself, decided to leave the resolution of the conflict in its New World dominions to the residents because they didn’t want to deal with another Monotheist uprising, which was what prompted the original immigration wave. Luckily for New Englalonde, the Polytheists won.”

Bosco knew luck didn’t have anything to do with that outcome. His own family’s mills and factories had greatly helped to ensure the Polytheists’ success. Religious prosecution would have jeopardize the existence of his people in the New World; therefore, his family and all others of his kind had helped with resources (and in many cases their own powers) to guarantee a favorable outcome for the followers of the ancient ways.

“Excellent, Lady Seer,” Mrs. Wellington chirped. Bosco was expecting another round of shooting hands when their teacher unexpectedly said, “Mr. Rogers.”

Startled, Bosco thought she was calling him out because she saw his index finger on its way to his right nostril. His whole body shot upward like the pesky hands of those eager to ingratiate themselves with their teacher. He entwined his fingers behind his back, unconsciously putting away the almost offending digit. “Yes, Mrs. Wellington?”

“Would you care to tell us what happened after The Sacred Conflict?”

A lock of white hair had fallen over Bosco’s eye. This white section of his abundant hair had always been a source of amusement and intrigue among his fellow classmates. After all, Bosco was only fourteen years old. In his still startled state, he blew it instead of fix it with his hand. Giggles wafted around him. “Well, the Polytheists won,” he said, trying to gather his thoughts and forgetting his homework was right before him on his desk.

“That detail has been established already.”

“Um, there was no persecution of the Monotheists at the end of the war. Pretty sure that wouldn’t have been the case if they had won,” Bosco said, voicing a though frequently observed by his grandfather. The giggles became riotous laughter.

“Please focus, Mr. Rogers.” Her disapproval was clear after he had altered the rhythm of her class with his commoner’s views of a long-ended war.

“Well, many Monotheists started to sell their properties, and an almost twenty-five year exodus toward the Catholic-centered Spain dominions ensued.” Bosco scrunched his nose, trying to remember more of his homework. “Oh, and as those left, two northern chunks of New Spain seceded and joined New Englalonde. That’s how we got the Duchy of Texas in 1730 and the Principality of California in 1735!”

Bosco stood there stoically as the classroom crumbled around him. The guys were doubled forward, holding their bellies and cackling, while the girls— keeping a little more restrain, laughed loudly behind their unfolded fans.

“Such a crude summarization of fifty-year expanse of history.” Mrs. Wellington’s face had acquired a very unbecoming shade of purple. “Please, bring your homework forward, Mr. Rogers.”

Bosco hadn’t read from his homework. Nevertheless, he knew she was going to destroy him because he saw the red ink coming out of the upper drawer of her desk.

Bosco Rogers Senior, Alpha of the Central Pride and Ruler of the Prides Syndicate, usually started reprimands with “Your ancestors didn’t come from Italy and changed the illustrious Rogeri surname to Rogers to fit in a new world just to have their descendants fail their education!”

Oh boy.

You may get your copy of CLOCKWORK VENDETTA here:

Saturday, September 30, 2017


Heir to the Central Alpha (current Ruler of the New Englalonde Prides Syndicate), Bosco Rogers is destined to forfeit his legacy as Alpha to keep the peace among the lion shifters because he must let his intended, Sean Bracco from the East Pride, become the next Ruler.

But Sean dies in an accident, and an ancient law is unearthed. The heirs of the other Prides must compete for Bosco’s hand, and the choice is his. The thing is— one is Duncan, brother of his dead fiancé; and the other Heer Pyfus, the man who holds Duncan’s heart.

So, whoever wins (whether Duncan or Heer) still loses because he will not end up with the man he truly loves. Bosco doesn’t know this from the get-go, and when he discovers it, things turn messier than they were before. Nevertheless, political marriages have nothing to do with love.

Bosco will only marry one but is meant to break two hearts with his decision.

The arrival of a new Alpha from the other end of the world seems like a solution to their ordeal, but perhaps it is the exact opposite.

This story is more “steamfun” than steampunk, but it still contains airships, automatons, a guide to undressing nineteenth century gentlemen, naughty jewelry— also California Royals, a cheeky Seer, crazy BFFs, Argentinian mercenaries, no-fly zones in Uruguay, and way more claws and fangs than a battle between vampires and werewolves, but the only shifters you will see here are lion shifters— very hunky lion shifters. You just need to look at the cover. All characters portrayed in this book are age 18 or older. For adults only

*Get your copy here:

#mmromance #steampunk #threesome #triads #alternativehistory #bothhemispheres #BFFs #airships

Sunday, September 17, 2017


Ancient Evil waiting to be summoned: check
Power Hungry Secret Society: check
Undercover Mercenaries: check
Three Men trying to figure out what to do with their love: check
Big Ass Weapons (worldly and otherworldly): check
Naughty Gay BAR: check
Escort Spies: check
Handing Bad Guys their asses: check
Explosions and Shenanigans: check

#fiction #mmromance #threesome #triad #gay #menofgabbo #weapons #mercenaries #paranormal #contemporary #europe #authorsofinstagram #venice #bookstagrammers #ebooks #2017 #yearofthetriads #iamwriting #gabbodelaparra

Saturday, August 26, 2017


Snyder was not supposed to become part of Hugo's life; nonetheless, he did.

“Uh-huh. Nobody climbs the rope higher, aims better, or finishes a set faster. Our only problem with him seems to be, he can’t do a single one of those things quietly.”

Hugo chuckled.

“It’s not funny. Besides, there’s an ongoing wager to see who’s gonna pop his mercenary cherry.”


“Well, you know. After forty-five days with us, someone should have claimed that fine body already. Even the Amazons are on the wager— as much as everybody is aware of his preferences. Such a tasty, unclaimed morsel is driving my soldiers nuts.”

“He’s no virgin.”

“That’s not the point.  I’ve broken fights of guys vying for his attention. The last one was over who’d pay for his beer. It was such a monumental brawl—none of my men will be able to set foot on that fucking bar for at least a century.”

“He needs to forget a man. Would you do me a favor?”

“Whatever you ask, baby.”

Snyder’s adoration was starting to suffocated Hugo. He also needed to forget a man. It was always easier to give advice than to actually follow it, and not all the rage in the world would have been enough to make him let go completely. That dull ache still reverberated in those nights when the moon was a sliver. His time to move to new pastures had come. “Tell your men you did it, so they back the Hell off.”

“You want me to have sex with Angel?”

“That would be his decision, not mine. Right now, he needs to be angry ‘til his love fades away. I’ll tell him to go along with it so your boys can pursue other ways of entertainment.”

The big blond moved from his sideways position on the tangled sheets to loom over Hugo. “Is this a goodbye?”

“I thought we had a tacit understanding we were just fuck buddies, not lovers.”

“You’re right.” Snyder plopped on his back to take his face away from Hugo’s sight. “My mistake.” The voice wasn’t completely Snyder's.

“Just don’t force Angel.”

“I’ll never… I’ll lie to my men, but I have no intention of claiming the boy.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not doing this for you. He’s a good asset. I hope he stays with us.”

“He probably will.”

And Hugo would lose his charge, his little brother, his almost son. He scooted until he was seated at the end of the bed, elbows on his knees and palms over his face. In two days, Snyder and a group that included Angel would set up camp in the Cantabrian Mountains, preparing the destruction of the gate located at Picos de Europa National Park.

Softly, Hugo padded to the open window. The night breeze blew the curtains, and he stood there naked, watching the half-mast crescent moon. He sensed Snyder moving behind him, most assuredly to escape the room without awkward farewells.

A thick finger traced a line from the back of his neck to his coccyx. Warm breath tickled his ear. “One last time,” Snyder sighed, “for the road?”

Why the fuck not?

Sunday, August 20, 2017


Deleted Scene. 

*Between Part One and Part Two, Bruno and Fabian, had an impromptu raunchy moment in a back alley. 

They had an hour to kill.

Not enough to catch a movie.

Food was out of the question because the kid would certainly want to eat something after his class.

“Let’s just walk for a bit,” Bruno said. “Maybe we’ll find an out of the way curio shop to pass the time.”

“I think there’s a bookstore ’round here somewhere.”

Bruno chuckled. “I don’t see you surrounded by books for only 30 minutes.”

His lover was right. Fabian would end up buying any book he started to read or carrying six to read them at home. At least they had ditched the bodyguards— as much as they could, since even when not visible, he knew they were close. Not having them breathing on his neck was good enough for now. They walked on a deserted street, so he pushed Bruno into an alley. It smelled reasonably right, just a musty reminder of home cooking lingered.

“What are you doing?” The flailing was in Bruno’s voice yet not in his actions. Fabian had never been able to understand how Bruno managed to do that.

“I’m taking us out of public view.”

“Whatever for?”

“We never have alone-time anymore. I adore the kid, but I miss my man.”

“Chief Acre, are you trying to ravish me in a dark alley as if I were a cheap trick?” Bruno did the expected token resistance, but the twinkle in his eyes was clear proof of his absolute approval.

“Why, commissioner, of course.” Fabian found a dimly lit corner where he could still inspect his lover with more than just his hands. “I haven’t spanked you in months, and I need my kinky fix.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Bruno’s sigh and the unzipping noise ran together as one.

Fabian covered Bruno’s mouth with his. From the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar bulk obstructing the entrance of the alley. Those mammoth shoulders and cock-shaped head belonged to Smith, Bruno’s head of security. Good boy. The man blocked the way but was respectfully looking toward the street, giving them privacy.

Bodyguards were a necessary evil; nevertheless, sometimes that evil was useful in its own way— they would not be interrupted now.

Fabian snorted softly, thinking what kind of reward Smith would tacitly request.

Bruno bit Fabian’s tongue. “Are you here, or planning the invasion of some distant planet?”

That swift pain went right to his cock, and Fabian moaned. “Oh, fuck. I’m here handsome. I am here.”

“Well, start acting accordingly and get on your knees.” Hands pushed Fabian’s shoulders down, tossing his thoughts of removing Bruno’s T-shirt into a not so distant garbage can.

Fabian squatted, not a hundred percent sure of the state of the alley floor; it was common knowledge that proper endeavors rarely left stains on your knees, so he decided not to risk it.

Bruno’s cock sprouted from its concealment, hard and proud, and Fabian inhaled, his nose glued to the shaft, forgetting all the mundane situations awaiting them outside this alley.

“Damn, I love when you do that,” Bruno sighed as he caressed Fabian’s close-cropped hair.

The answer was a healthy gulp, taking as much cock as he could in a single maneuver. Bruno hissed over him, the sound curling around Fabian’s entire body like a thick, long tentacle, squeezing and igniting every cell.

Fabian let the granite beast inch its way toward his willing throat, drinking in Bruno’s enraptured expression: eyes shut and mouth ajar. The scarce light of their little haven did wonderful things to the manly planes of that handsome face. Sweet Goddess, he was full of cock and full of love, and he didn’t know which fullness was better.

I swear it’s a total tie right now. 

The massive piece made love to Fabian’s uvula for a couple of minutes, accompanied by moans emanating from him and grunts and thrusts cascading from Bruno. Nevertheless, he needed one more thing to complete his fix.

Reluctantly, Fabian’s lips dragged over the expanse of the pole leaving his trap as he released it. He turned Bruno around. He pulled down the denim covering the furry hills with one hand and used the other to uncover the silky skin of Bruno’s lower back.

Fabian smacked the exposed cheeks until the silhouette of his hand glowed from both and Bruno’s moans had filled the alley. Satisfied by his handiwork, he burrowed his face between rocky globes, latching on his lover’s gauche ring.

Bruno squirmed and undulated, giving Fabian pure heaven.

A hand grabbed the back of Fabian’s head, pulling him deeper to attack his prey using nose, lips, and teeth. He assailed Bruno on both ends, taking care of the hidden gate ready to be breached and the (hot to the touch and dripping like a broken faucet) hardon.

“I’m so fucking close, babe,” Bruno grunted.

Fabian withdrew his face from his task enough to growl encouragingly, “C’mon, love, paint that wall.”

And with a shudder that rocked his entire body, Bruno complied.

Fabian’s hand got smeared as the sweet cock he held jettisoned rope after rope of thick cum. He went to his feet, turning Bruno around and slamming him against the wall. He opened his zipper with his clean hand and used the one covered in semen to finger his lover’s hole.

All sounds coming out of Bruno were swallowed by Fabian’s mouth as they devoured each other; his hands pistons in opposite directions, until he brought himself to completion with a cry that Bruno’s lips helpfully muffled. That particle of Fabian always in control gave him enough focus to aim for the alley and avoid messing his partner’s clothes.

“I needed that,” Fabian murmured, panting and letting his forehead rest on Bruno’s shoulder.

“Fuck yeah. Me too,” Bruno agreed. His chest heaved, undecided between a chuckle and a deep breath.

“Ahem.” Smith was almost in their personal space. He offered them two handkerchiefs.  “You can throw those away after you’re done.” His voice was grave and measured, but Fabian recognized a hint of amusement.

They looked anywhere but at Smith as they took the handkerchiefs. The one in Fabian’s hand had Smith’s initials monogrammed.

Embarrassing cannot begin to describe this moment.

Still, it was a good thing to have bodyguards after all.

#mmromance #daddies #piercings #fiction #nearfuture #maturemales 

Saturday, August 12, 2017


A bit of reading material for your weekend: brownie points, teasing, and blowjobs among enemies... 
(there's also a werewolf)



“If you think you earned some kind of brownie points for how you tricked the Supras into protecting us, you are pathetically mistaken.” Orfeo huffed. Droser Sundew wasn’t his favorite person at the moment.

“I just did what I thought was best for us.”

“There is no us.”

Droser flinched at his tone.


Before Droser could open his mouth again, Orfeo asked something that had been driving him crazy all night, “Star called you ‘the Maker.’ What did she mean by that?”

“Let me show you.” Droser pulled an ampoule from his jacket. The orange liquid glowed in the semi-darkness of their suite’s lounge.

“Are you a Deus dealer?”

“No. I created it. The dealers, well just Prussia now, get it from me.”

“You motherfucker.”

“Hey.” Droser put his hands up in surrender. “I’m not going to say that I created it to save the world and it went wrong. I was experimenting with the mucus of some Drosera plants. You know how scientists use their mucilage to elaborate tissue-connecting glue and other medical stuff. Well, I discovered that in certain combinations they become psychedelic stimulants to release endorphins in the highest levels known to mankind.”

“Save me the autobiography nonsense. The outcome’s a drug that keeps people like slaves.”

“That is not my fault.” Droser narrowed his eyes. “Each idiot knows why they go to it.” Then he flinched. “I didn’t mean Star…”

“I know what you meant.” Orfeo shook his head. Technically, it wasn’t Droser’s fault that Star was a drug addict. It was Orfeo’s fault for not doing anything to help her quit them. “You are just a frigging facilitator of commodities.”

“I’m a businessman.”

“You are a murderer,” Orfeo hissed. Did he really have the right to be calling Droser a murderer when he killed Supras for a living?

Supras were people too, had mothers and fathers and children that mourned them. Still, The Red Vanes only eliminated convicted Supras that escaped the justice system, so that had to count for something.

“It’s a bit hypocritical coming from you, isn’t it?” Droser smirked.

Orfeo’s body reacted to the smirk. Goose bumps sprouted, but he was able to suppress the shiver that would have followed in their wake. Even his traitorous nipples hardened. Never had his body reacted to a man in such a desperate way. He didn’t know if he wanted to shoot and quarter Droser or fuck him blind right there. “We can say we are no angels and call it even.” His voice sounded almost natural.

Droser cocked his head and studied him. The smirk turned into a saucy grin.

Shit. Bionic eyes.

“You’re watching my aura, aren’t you?”

“My enhancements assess more than auras,” Droser offered, shrugging.

His wayward body might be wanting to screw the living daylights out of Droser (and silently but inexorably convincing his mind), but the Supra’s involvement in their situation had given it a one-eighty turn straight to Crap Town, Alaska.

“Mister Lathan,” the suite’s computer pronounced officiously, “Mike Hardy is here to see you.”

Droser chuckled. “That dog is not going to stop until he has his nose buried in your ass.”

The Supras’ suite was two doors down from theirs, and Antha and Ashley had provided it with spells and enchantments to avoid unwelcome visitors. Mike had offered a more hands-on protection approach… A Machiavellian thought occurred to Orfeo. “Perhaps I’ll let him do more than sniff my hole.” Orfeo twisted his mouth as if he were actually considering it.

The change in Droser’s face was brutal and instantaneous. Before Orfeo could move out of the way, Droser had gripped his arms, shaking him. “You won’t!”

With a swift maneuver, Orfeo broke the hold and punched Droser in the face. “What? You still think that if we survive this trip to Mega-Vegas, we are on? That hovercraft crashed hours ago, asswipe.” He shook his hand, releasing some of the pain after its meeting with Droser’s mug.

Sprawled on the plush carpet, Droser touched his broken lip and looked at the blood left on his finger. “I didn’t know who my target was until after I met you.”

The sad part was that Orfeo believed him. Nobody was that good of an actor. He could not deny the things he saw in Droser’s eyes that afternoon in Prussia’s stairs— when they vid’d. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever this is— was,” he moved his hand to encompass them, “isn’t an option anymore.”

“There is always an option,” Droser said softly, sadly.

Orfeo closed his eyes and sighed.

“Mister Lathan, your visitor awaits,” the suite’s computer insisted softly.

“Let him in.”

“My, my,” said the Werewolf as he entered the lounge. He had showered and looked particularly dapper in a nice fitting red shirt and dark pants that accentuated every sexy bulge. He uttered (almost with relish), “Seems like enemies invading your quarters are unnecessary to start the punching party. I’m here to kiss those wounds better,” Mike offered, opening his arms grandly.

Orfeo chuckled. “You couldn’t be cheesier, even if you were stuffed with cheese.”

“Or hornier if he were covered in horns,” said Droser, who had produced a handkerchief and dabbed it on his lip.

“Now, puppies, you were fighting a moment ago. Don’t gang up on me… Well, I don’t mind—”

“Don’t say it,” Orfeo stopped him, raising his palm up. “Do you need something?”

“Are you offering?” Mike grinned. His eyes flashed with lecherous mirth.

“I asked if you needed, not if you wanted something. There’s a difference.” Orfeo offered a half smile to remove some harshness from his statement. He wasn’t keen on Supras, but Mike was entertaining in a corny way.

Maybe we can stuff him with corn.

“Just came to check on you, boys.” Mike browsed around. “Where’s Star?”

“She’s watching a movie.” Droser went to his feet.

Orfeo grabbed Mike by the arms and turned him toward the door. “All right, you checked. We are good. You can go now.” He spanked Mike once.

Mike jumped and guffawed. “I can get used to that.”

“Not in this lifetime, Mike!” yelled Droser behind them.

“A submissive Werewolf— that’s new,” Orfeo whispered in Mike’s ear.

“Liking pain is not necessarily about submission.” Mike looked at Orfeo sideways, his guttural voice making the statement sound like a threat.

“Still not going to happen, Wolf. See you later.” The door opened, and Orfeo pinched Mike’s ass. “For the road.”

“Tease,” Mike growled fondly.

Orfeo winked, and the door closed.

“Not happy about all that flirting,” Droser hissed, as Orfeo approached him.

“Your happiness’s the least of my concerns, Sundew.” Orfeo made a “give me that” motion. “Are you going to charge me for the Deus, mister businessman?”

Droser’s face crumbled for a second, just a blink. “I should.”

“And it’s your right. Although I must stress the fact that it is your fault that Star doesn’t have today’s dose, and because of that, we need to resort to this exchange.”

Wrong words.

“What are we exchanging?” Droser’s face brightened and Orfeo felt that obnoxious pang of desire surge— uninvited.

“I’m letting you live.”

“Oh.” Droser drew the ampoule from his pocket and put it in Orfeo’s hand. His fingers lingered longer than necessary.

What’s a blowjob between enemies?

No. What the fuck did this man do to him? Orfeo couldn’t seriously be contemplating that possibility amid this fucked-up situation, let alone with Star just a door away.

“Consider it a business expense.” Orfeo’s harsh tone wasn’t fooling Droser, who could frigging read his aura. Orfeo moved forward and kissed Droser, just a whisper of lips. He shook his head. “Perhaps, we were not meant to happen.” He turned around. “See you at sundown.”

He didn’t look back.


You can download the e-book for free here:

Tuesday, July 18, 2017


With skilled hands and brightened heart
He released the night
To bear war to conquer lands

Strong muscles his farewell gift
He released the night
To raze towers to undo ships

With a “you come back, warrior” whispered
He released the night
To break apart to annihilate

#poetry #darness #night #poem #war #raze #annihilate 

Thursday, July 13, 2017


It all happened late at night
When sleep wouldn’t come
But darkness seemed a good escape

It all happened late at night
When your touch was far
But your presence loomed aflame

It all happened late at night
When I was but a memory

A song never sung— forgotten

By Gabbo de la Parra

#poetry #love #darkness #poem #night #desire #agony 

Monday, June 26, 2017


The gray cat started to follow Randolph as he exited the narrow alley after killing the last of his enemies. At first, he thought the cat was following him due to the few drops of blood on his shoe.

Silent and steady, the feline presence didn’t feel completely off, just different, unexpected. Randolph had never been a pet person, but he wasn’t opposed to them; the opportunity had simply never aroused.

Now, the small shadow following him seemed like a good omen— even if almost concealed within his own shadow as he moved through deserted streets toward the shabby place he had rented as his base of operations.

By the time Randolph reached his current accommodations, someone must have decided to take a piss in the crime scene he’d created (after drinking the day’s labor in one of the taverns nearby) and sounded the alarm. Perhaps, Peeing Peter would not be the first in the scene and the previous visitor would have taken the dead man’s wallet, leaving the coppers with the impression that it had been a mugging gone wrong.

It didn’t matter; Randolph’s ties to the man were so remote they were almost inexistent, not just to the naked eye but also to logic. First, no one knew him in this city where the smell of the ocean and fish factories never ceased their assault on your nose. Second, he had rented the place under a false name and wore a truly Viking fake beard.

Perhaps the cat had sensed the darkness inside him; perhaps they were kindred spirits. Randolph climbed the four steps to the front door and about-faced. The cat sat there on the sidewalk staring at him. A single streetlight didn’t give much illumination, so the animal’s pupils were black pools zeroing in on him.

Randolph put the key in the lock and opened the door; he had done it just extending his arms and finding the lock unconsciously— out of habit. The smelly city had been his station for almost a year, studying his victim until it was the right time to take him out. He kept a hand on the door as he put a foot on the threshold, his eyes locked with the cat’s. “So? Are you coming or not?” he asked the silent figure.

The gray cat sauntered to the steps, taking each at his own special pace, and entered into the townhouse’s dark foyer. Once inside, turned around with his tail high and meowed.

“I know. Me too,” answered Randolph as he closed the door behind him.

Friday, June 16, 2017


The problem with mixing things that were not conceived together is all the confusions they could originate.

The colors on the RAINBOW FLAG associated with the LGBT+ community were conceived as reflections of the joy of being human, in essence including all human beings regardless of skin color, religious beliefs, or political affiliations.

Why do we need to bring skin colors into this situation? Our community is already hated across the board by those who consider us abominations, looneys, and every other epithet you can think of. Do we really need to bring this illogical division right now, when the world is going to hell in a handbasket and the only people that seemed cohesively united were us?

First of all, when you add something that already has a meaning as it stands, your addition should enhance it, not bring discord. The moment you see it complicating things, you should stop. But that is not what’s happening here. Those who came with the idea of adding stripes representing two skin colors (immediately dismissing the other skin colors they are not including) rather argue and fight and be offended than backtrack and say “You know what? Perhaps this is not the time for this.”

Why bother? I have an idea and it’s mine and I’m gonna force it on you because I can. That’s exactly why we have the head of state we have now because no one took a step back and had the courage to say, “Oops this is not going to work.”

Let’s talk about the meanings of colors for a minute. Each culture has a different meaning for all the colors. In many places, brides were white implying purity. In many others, brides were red for good luck. So if you were raised where brides wear white, and all of the sudden you see a bride wearing red, you will question the meaning of that until you learn what it signifies for that bride and her culture. That’s just an example, and I could give you a thousand more. Very few things are truly standard globally, and the meaning of colors is surely not one of them.

Now, the RAINBOW FLAG embraces humanity and its emotions, not skin colors. If you add two colors, those colors will not mean skin tones at first glance because that’s not how the flag was conceived. Those proposing the new stripes will simply be adding the emotions associated with those colors. If you see the color black, your first thought is not going to be a skin color (no flag in the world uses black to represent skin color). And the emotions that black brings as a color are not necessarily the most positives, so that could be a handicap from the get-go. Same thing happens with brown, and I’m going to let you do your own associations.

I will not even try to express the disappointment I feel, seeing our community fighting over something that shouldn’t have even started. LGBT+ people of all skin tones suffer. Starting a fight over who suffers more is incongruent with what we’re fighting for as a group. We, as a community, have more mixed couples and families than any other like-minded group, and yet we’re disrupting the united front we should be forming because of skin tones.

Some proponents say, “But it doesn’t take anything from the flag.” That is not a reason to make additions to what is already established. As humans we are selfish, but many times we learn to share. This doesn’t seem to be the case.

This moment smells like a case of IF YOU ARE NOT WITH ME, YOU ARE AGAINST ME.

And that is very CHEETO smell.

#rainbowflag #colors #controversy #moveforward #stophating #loveislove #LGBT #newstripes #pride #embrace #lovehasnocolor #enough #stop #behuman #forgetyourcolor #betteryourself #bekind #respect #loveyourself #loveothers #prayfortheworld #goodvibes #humans #love #kindness #forgiveness #understanding #peace #wisdom #knowledge #history #humanity #breakyourchains

Friday, June 9, 2017


The Seer of Paoha Island is such a great character, and I had so much fun writing about *insert nonspecific gender pronoun here*— a separate story might happen. Well, technically it will happen since I was smacked with a title and everything: TO DIVINE LOVE.

Now, the thing with the Seer of Paoha Island is that *insert nonspecific gender pronoun here* assumes whatever form: it could be any gender, any age, any race. Nevertheless, in CLOCKWORK VENDETTA *insert nonspecific gender pronoun here* came out with the form in the picture. A young hunky ginger, and that form is ready to fall in love. Probably a short story to kill time between books, who knows!

TO DIVINE LOVE has been registered in #TheBookOfTitles, so it is a latent promise.

#fiction #mmromance #gay #shortstories #magic #paranormal #fantasy #iamwriting #menofgabbo #seer #ginger #instafab #genderswap 

Saturday, June 3, 2017


How many rings are used in a three-way handfasting ceremony?

a) four
b) three
c) nine
d) six

I’m not saying we’re going to have one of those (I’m not saying we’re not either), but it is always good to know in case someone asks.

If you have read my books, you should know.

You’ll need to wait until one of those ceremonies happens (it might not) to find out if you haven’t.


Saturday, May 20, 2017


La idea de traducir al castellano WAND-LOSING & OTHER THINGS YOU SHOULDN’T BE DOING me ha estado rondando desde hace rato. El problema (como podrán observar desde el principio) es el pedazo de título que tiene la historia.

Yo soy el primero en soltar barbaridades cuando veo traducciones de títulos poco inspiradas como LOS JUEGOS DEL HAMBRE o LAS CINCUENTA SOMBRAS DE GREY, pues los títulos de estos libros literalmente significan mucho más de lo que la simplista traducción al castellano implica.

Así que ya ven que para mí no es fácil, soltar una traducción titular como PERDIENDO VARITAS Y OTRAS COSAS QUE TU NO DEBES HACER porque legalmente suena un poco pendeja, aparte de que es aún más larga que la propia en inglés (bueno solo una palabra extra, pero ya era una verborrea para empezar).

Por lo tanto, he barajeado un par de ideas, y me gustaría que ustedes den su opinión, no sólo sobre las opciones que presento, sino las que se les ocurran, porque yo siempre ando abierto a las posibilidades.

Visiten mi cuenta de Instagram para que vean las opciones.

Ahora, volviendo al caso de la traducción… cuando yo escribo en inglés trato de usar un inglés universal más allá de regionalismos (a menos que el personaje sea de un lugar específico, como por ejemplo el sur de los Estados Unidos de América), pero la cosa se complica cuando pensamos en castellano.

Solo el “fuck me” lo decimos de un montón de maneras diferentes. ¿Entonces de qué versión del castellano me agarro? Si pongo “follame” me tocar tirarme todo desde la península. Si pongo “cógeme” (que para mí sería la opción menos regionalista) habrá quien se confunda pensado que significa otra cosa… Se me ocurre que podría usar un eufemismo como “párteme” o “rómpeme” pero eso no siempre es factible con algunos protagonistas porque sencillamente suena ridículo o contrario a la esencia de la persona. 

Ya veremos.

#WLOTYSBD #títulos #ficción #traducción #español #gay #bilingüe #hombres #men #fiction #castellano #escritoresdeinstagram #iamwriting #escribiendo #authorsofinstagram #gabbodelaparra #opciones #options 

Monday, May 1, 2017


May 1st is a magical day. Known as May Day, but also as Beltane, it's the day when pagans celebrate the return of the sun after its winter imprisonment.

Here's a little bit of Magic Mischief from SEPTIMA LUNA.

“You can say the words in any language, as long as you visualize the doors opening and what army you want out.”

“What if I say banana and imagine the door, ma’am?”

“It doesn’t work that way because banana doesn’t mean door in any language.”
The infuriated emoticon in her mental text was about to explode. Angel could see the vein throbbing on her temple.

“And what army do I want again, ma’am?”

Angel noticed her effort not to stamp her foot and slap him. He was on his knees (after all), making a diagram to produce the doors of the gate on the temple’s ground with a broken piece of clay from what he assumed was an ancient pot at the appropriate distance to receive the hit.

“You want the Spartan Army that defeated Xerxes.”

“Oh my, like the movie?”

She almost growled, “Angel, after Leonidas was killed, the elders used a gate to summon an army. I need you to focus on the elders’ requested spiritual army.”

Many spotlights had been rearranged to illuminate the area where Angel worked, obliterating the full moon above them. It made him sweat like the proverbial pig, even if he knew for a fact that real pigs didn’t sweat a lot, and that’s why they wallow in the fucking mud so happily.

But a go-go boy was used to being in the limelight, so in a Septima Luna’s-fifteen-minute-break moment of inspiration, he took off his shirt and flung it triumphantly toward one of the armed trolls on his periphery. It landed on his helmet (like an ill-fitting mantilla), and Angel saw the other guards’ trembling shoulders trying to hold their laughter at their comrade’s expense.

Angel scratched his head, pasting the most puzzled face he could command. “Ma’am?”

“What now?”

“If this open sesame thing works, what am I doing with the army again?”

“You’re getting on my last nerve.” She made a signal, and the guards flanking Malachi kicked him on the back of his knees and Malachi crumbled. The butt of a machine gun found his head. “If you have a shred of intelligence within you, you’ll stop your nonsense right this second.”

Angel sprang and poked Tau's sternum with his forefinger. “Listen carefully, you sodding bitch. They touch him again, and the only coordinates that fucking army is going to find is inside your bleached ass. Let him go.” He marched toward Malachi and pushed the helmet-covered faces of the two guards with his hands, making them stagger in their surprise.

By the time every guard reacted and all weapons aimed at them, Tau yelled, “Don’t.”

Malachi wobbled, helped by Angel, toward where the doors had been drawn. “He stays by my side, and you control your gorillas,” he hissed when she was within hearing distance. “Or I’ll use your own weapons against you.”

The pallor on her face showed she had understood loud and clear. She nodded, her eyes narrowed and menacing.

“Are you all right, sweetie?” Angel let Malachi crouch beside him.

“Where is your heavy accent?”

“Gone with the bitch, darlin’.”

Malachi’s chuckle squeezed Angel’s heart. His resolution to destroy Juggernaut grew firmer. He would use their own army to destroy their headquarters and every single motherfucker inside it. The twenty thousand possessed soldiers would make the place confetti in seconds, and then he simply sent back the spiritual army to limbo or released them of their duty, whatever stroked his fancy by the time it was done.

“You.” Angel pointed at Tau, his eyes narrowed too. “Move away. Your face irritates me.”
She glared at him and stepped backward until she was stopped by Martan holding her upper arms and keeping her plastered against his massive chest. She resisted for a second, then stood motionless but never defeated; her furious scowl screamed it.

Using up the abandoned piece of clay, Angel united the bottom lines of the traced opening. He put a hand on each door and concentrated.

“Open, gate of wonders, and bring me the ghost army the elders of Sparta summoned to avenge the death of Leonidas at Thermopylae. The soul of revered Antinous Ephebus, beloved of Publius Aelius Traianus Hadrianus Augustus commands it.”

Angel chanted this for a while, deciding to hold Malachi’s hand and visualizing immense doors (like a cathedral’s) slowly moving open to spill their secrets, over and over again.

A rumor similar to a billion exhausted sighs resonated around them. The clay-outlining emanated a golden glow, its light becoming brighter and brighter by the second, and the ground shook. More than side to side, it trembled in an up and down undulating exhalation.

Until that moment, something inside Angel had hoped this hinky situation was just a bunch of malarkey. That everything was nothing but the opium dreams of mad people. Now, as the earth spread, spewing a vomit green glare, Angel steeled his heart to conquer his destiny (definitively not the time to poop his pants), because the screeches coming from the gate were bloodcurdling.

It was Julius Caesar who said “no one is so brave that he isn’t disturbed by something unexpected”, and this shit surely was bewildering.

The first ghostly figure emerged amidst the puke-like radiance, nothing was discernible but a head and shoulders— the rest of the body was an elongated amoeba.  Angel shouted, “The soul of revered Antinous Ephebus, beloved of Publius Aelius Traianus Hadrianus Augustus, commands you.”

With a short bow, the apparition acknowledged him and floated toward him, giving berth to the next surfacing soul. The yelp of the first stricken guard made Angel lose some of his concentration, and as more guards fell to the rattling ground, he heard it above the shrieks from the opening.

In similar but green SWAT outfits, men zip lined from almost silent hovercrafts. Malachi gurgled, hit by something and let go of Angel’s grasp, his hands searching his neck. Angel forgot about the spirits and the door and the destruction of Juggernaut, Malachi could not leave him there like that.

“Kai!” Angel beat Malachi’s chest with closed fists. “No, no, no.”

Someone grabbed Angel by the waist; he thrashed and kicked, screaming to return to Malachi. Was that blood on Malachi’s mouth? No, this couldn’t be happening. He would go insane.

As he was pulled to a hovercraft, he saw the green SWATS overpowering the black SWATS. The first luminous apparition did something that Angel could only associate with a shrug and returned to the glowing hole, pushing the other entities down as if they were impertinent children trying to escape a radiantly fenced play yard. The gate morosely closed, its creepy lights and noises becoming mute. 

The Neolithic stone complex turned into an amorphous shadow below him. He could not find a trace of Martan or the countess; he could only distinguish Malachi’s unmoving body at an odd angle in the middle of the chaos, shrinking until it was nothing but the luminous drop of a bad memory.

“It will be fine.” The man holding him said in what Angel supposed was a soothing voice; as comforting as a voice coming through a tricked-out motorcycle helmet could be.

Still, the voice seemed familiar, but Angel didn’t care.

As Angel was tucked into the back of a hovercraft, all he wanted was for this to be his day to leave the land of the living and be back on Mnajdra, dying beside Malachi.

*Get your free copy of SEPTIMA LUNA here

Friday, April 21, 2017


For those familiar with Magical Realism, the title of this post would ring a bell since it echoes LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA by Garcia Marquez, and I’m gonna spoil the end for you, it does have a happily ever after, even if the road there was beyond rocky (it was frankly torturous).

Now, a friend of mine used that expression when we were commenting about the recent breakup of two porn stars. It’s truly sad that every time two (or more) people involved in porn start a public relationship a not malicious but severely real countdown begins.

I like porn, but it is also part of my research as an erotic romance writer, and, in all my years following and enjoying that craft, I have not seen a porn couple or throuple last more than two straight years.

“Straight” as in continuous not heterosexual.

I know gay men are complicated, heck humans are complicated, yet sadly, we seem to be more incapable of commitment that other people. Nevertheless, my extensive research into the human nature and love conditions has shown me that usually, jealousy is a big component of breakups. And in all fairness and realness, jealousy is the grotesque child of insecurity.

Call it whatever you want, but you cannot be jealous unless you are insecure. When you are sure of who you are and who the person beside you is, there is no reason for jealousy. And jealousy is also a cousin of control issues, even if you want to try to make it feel more like a distant long lost relative— they are very effing close.

A very smart lady told me once, long before same-sex marriage was even on the map anywhere in the globe, that gay men made a life together because they wanted it since there were no papers or children to tie them up. Her words were not just wise but inspiring. And that is one of the reasons I believe jealousy is insecurity because nothing ties another man to me more than his own decision to be beside me; it doesn’t matter if that decision is based on love or something else. Heck, love has levels, and you never love the same way (or with the same intensity) twice; simply because not two human beings are the same, ergo you cannot repeat love.

But coming back to porn couples which are the real topic of this post, here insecurity and jealousy have hate sex to create a messed up hybrid that always becomes a murderer. In many cases, Dude One is already doing porn when he meets Dude Two and they “fall in love” with the almost immediate consequence of Dude Two starting to do porn too. Nothing wrong with that, if Dude Two has the balls and confidence to play that field because it is not easy in the same way an open relationship is not for everyone; it takes a very healthy dose of cojones and confidence (totally making this a title for a book Cojones & Confidence) to be in an open relationship, so it’s even heavier to be with a person who not only fucks other people but do so for the entertainment of millions of strangers.

To say that jealousy is natural is to deny humans’ ability to be reasonable. Do you think the husband of any actress cheers when his wife kisses another man on screen? I don’t think he cheers, but I am pretty sure he does not feel jealousy (or shouldn’t at least) because it is her job, especially if she had it before they met.

Obviously doing porn is the far, very nasty extreme of that situation, but it completely applies. You shouldn’t be jealous of a situation that existed before you arrived, and if you accepted it at the beginning why change your mind mid journey and make a fucking mess?

True, many people enter a relationship with the (sometimes not conscious) plan to change the other person. This in itself is, if you want to use business terms, “cause for immediate dismissal.” The whole concept of entering a relationship with an agenda, beyond that of make yourself and the other person happy, should instantly handicap your eligibility for a relationship. It’s not fair for the other person or yourself because when you cannot accomplish that “transformative” goal you become a bitter, nagging, horrible piece of whining crap. No one needs that kind of shite in their lives.

But again, in the world of porn, this situation is even more evident and sad. Porn is a micro cosmos in the same way Hollywood stardom is, and many people get invested in these relationships because they give us something that is fantasy and (in many cases) hope. Many fans would see it as a beacon of possibilities: if these men who earn their living fucking on camera can make it, how I (who do it in the confines of my bedroom) cannot?

We see ourselves in the successful relationships of these handsome men, and when they don’t work it affects us both consciously and unconsciously because every time your idols fail a part of you also fails.

Not all humans have the strength to sort fantasy from reality; you just need to see the rants and hate on Social Media when public figures breakup or do something people at large consider untoward. We don’t know these public figures; heck probably you have never been in the same breathing space of these people, but you defend or hate them passionately because they are a reflection of what you hope to be. That is not a bad thing, but it becomes a stupid thing when you turn your whole life upside-down for something that (in the end) doesn’t have anything to do with you or your reality.

But that passion turns back to jealousy, insecurity, and control issues. We adore these people, but we are also jealous of them, and they make us feel insecure, and we hope we could control them. Not a healthy mix if you ask me.

It is not even know how to compartmentalize; it is to accept that we should not be invested in something we cannot change or control. We cannot change other people, whether celebrities or love ones. We cannot (and should not) control others— unnatural is one of the many words to describe that unfortunate scenario.

When you truly love, you accept. You also need to know how much you can accept for your own sake because the idea is not to become a yes man and take whatever crap the other person wants to give you; a relationship is something that goes both (and sometimes three) ways.

Before you can accept and respect another human being, you must be able to accept and respect yourself. When you become capable of that, you won’t be insecure, jealous, or controlling.

Let’s hope all porn stars get their happily ever after because they are human beings just like you and me.


#love #porn #socialmedia #hate #reality #fantasy #control #jealousy #humans

Wednesday, April 12, 2017


Apparently, since The Alpha’s Gifts, the Triads have been having conversations (I honestly don’t want to use the word debates here) amongst them and decided to change the schedule of the upcoming books. So far, I don’t know the final lineup, only that CLOCKWORK VENDETTA is the one to open the year… and they have me seriously working on it… *wink wink*

#fiction #ebook #gay #threesome #yearofthetriads  #steampunk #mmromance #menofgabbo #iamwriting #gabbodelaparra

Friday, March 31, 2017


During a critical moment in WAND-LOSING & OTHER THINGS YOU SHOULDN'T BE DOING, Rezzu goes to his sister for answers. Here's what happens.

“I have no answer for that.” Keda Enoa Ki Muselet, future queen of Mireeh and Rezzu’s sister, shook her head. “If you hadn’t run, you wouldn’t have all these questions eating you.”

“So, you’d have stayed to face the man after he had his finger up your ass when you came in his hand?”

Keda Enoa seemed to consider this, tapping her forefinger over her chin. A trait she had picked up from their father, Kekoa Muselet.

Rezzu rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? You have to think about it?”

“Well, for starters, I wouldn’t have put myself in that situation.”

His sister was insufferable sometimes, but she had a point there. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t have shaken her if she were physically in front of him.

“Besides, you are an adult. It’s not like you can’t have sex with a willing man. What’s so special about this governor?”

“I-I am not supposed to do something like that. I-I haven’t…”

Her eyes went wild. “Brother, you are not a virgin, are you?” Her puzzled face was unbearable. “I thought you were knocking boots with that technician on the Logandi!” She was flailing her arms as she walked about her chambers, moving in and out of the screen. “I’m NOT a virgin. How can it be possible that you’re one?!”


“What?” She stopped her frantic pacing and turned to the screen, catching his astonishment. “Oh, hush. Father said it was natural. How do you know if you like something if you don’t experience it, huh?” She moved closer, flattening her hands on the console, her face occupying almost the entire screen. “Kalhya is so fucking dreamy. Tell me you fucked him, brother. Tell me you did!”

“We… never… actually…”

“Oh, Sweet Meha, what a waste! If I had a cock I’d be putting it in every hole available. WHY AM I NOT A MAN!!!??”

“Would you calm down? This isn’t about you.”

Keda Enoa sobered up. “You are right. What you need to do is stop being a wuss and act normal. It wasn’t a big deal, you two just went with the flow. If I’d seen three hot guys doing it, I’d have totally gotten carried away too.”

“The Alettans think we are here to invade them.” Rezzu wasn’t a wuss. The whole thing had been just a political mistake. He needed a way to clear the air, and his sister wasn’t helping. She was the political strategist, not him.

“But that’s not the case, so what’s your point?”

Rezzu dithered and did not answer.

“OH NO, you like-like him. You like this governor, and that’s why you’re so freaked out!” She jumped and giggled, clapping her hands. “I knew it was something else. You have faced all kinds of dangerous stuff without batting an eye, and this is what’s gonna make you go all wimpy? I knew it. I knew it.”

“Would you stop being obnoxious for a whole standard minute and help me here with what’s really important?”

“And that is…?”

“How do I go about telling him the truth of our mission on his planet?”

In a blink, she was the wise older sister and future queen he needed. “The only way it should be done— complete and without adornments.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re most certainly welcome, Captain,” Keda Enoa uttered, almost aloof. Then with a wicked grin, she giggled. “Now I have to go and tell Father you like-like a boy!” In a flutter of teal and pink, she left the screen empty.

Rezzu pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I’m not gonna kill her. I am not going to kill her.” He was not a regicide; although, technically, she wasn’t queen yet.

The Colviri normally lived for more than two thousand standard years. At twenty-six and twenty-five, they were just mere children, even if their bodies and minds were of adults. Rezzu should cut his sister some slack; he had more pressing matters to attend to.

*Get your free copy here:

Wednesday, March 22, 2017


A secondary (and yet important) character in SCHADENFREUDE, Phillip N. Eckhard, better known as Eck, is there to entice and inform you in equal measure since he's the hottest newscaster of Meridian.

Here's how he encountered Droser Sundew (one of the main characters of SCHADENFREUDE) for the first time.

The meeting never happened. The guy wasn’t where he was supposed to be, probably spooked by all the commotion at the plaza. Droser neared his building in the east side of Pontus almost two hours later thanks to the pandemonium throughout the city. The last thing Droser expected to encounter was Phillip N. Eckhart interviewing people on his stoop with two recording devices floating around him and covering his every move. The street lights seemed spotlights trained on Eck and his acolytes.

Droser had to do a double-take, not just because, even surrounded by people debating between stress, frustration, and attraction, Eck’s aura remained that of a grounded and self-assured person, but because it had that golden serpent like the auras of Star, Bunny, and the bank teller. Whatever it meant, these four seemingly completely different people shared something in common.

Were they all mutations? Nah, Antha had said there was something preternatural in Star. Were they all related somehow?

Boundaries’ fearmongers approached from the left sidewalk in their white robes and green cords, waving their blood-red signs and chanting some religious nonsense. Their auras trembled with conviction and despair, and they weren’t wrong, the thing they feared the most was a reality. Still, this group had something Droser hadn’t seen before. They all had the same inscription on their cardboard signs: REPENT FOR THE END IS AT HAND. Droser couldn’t shake the feeling he had read that somewhere before. They also had ashes covering their faces. Talk about outré displays.

Anyone would think that when these two groups converged it would become a wailing festival, but Droser saw how the tides veered in a different direction for Eck’s admirers. Soon anger shone dangerously, and they started to boo the white robes. The recording devices moved to record both groups, and Droser sidestepped to avoid the inevitable confrontation. Part of him wanted to witness the morons pummeling each other, but he wanted more to call Orfeo again until the stubborn asshole answered. He needed privacy for that.

Surreptitiously, Droser reached the lobby’s entrance, but against his instincts he turned to look at the unfolding melee (it was too much of a temptation), and caught Eck’s eyes as someone, taking advantage of the chaos, ripped his cotton candy pink shirt apart, pulling him into the fracas. Signs swung, punches flew, and Eck’s eyes begged for help. Droser was ready to leave him to his fate, and he remembered the golden serpent in the reporter’s aura. Maybe it meant something worth knowing, and this was his chance to investigate.

Droser lunged forward, giving silent thanks to his Fae ancestor since the Bardagamaður (one of the few perks of that sprinkle of Supra in him) slowed the movements of the people fighting around him. He maneuvered around the jabs and kicks, grabbing Eck’s thick upper arm and pulling him out of the commotion.

“Secure the doors, none of those people live in this building,” Droser ordered the building’s computer as Eck and he looked at the riot from behind reinforced glass. They saw how the two hovering recorders were used to smash faces. More people were joining both bands, and police sirens could be heard in the distance.

“At once, Mister Sundew,” the computer agreed serenely.

“Thank you. It would have not been good to start punching viewers,” Eck said, heaving.

“Are you kidding me?”

What a pompous jackass. Droser narrowed his eyes as another surprise emerged from Eck’s aura. The man was saying something, and his aura projected a completely different thing. Deep inside, Eck was concerned for the safety of those outside— not for what they would have thought of him if he had violently defended himself

Your aura revealed your state of mind, and very few people were able to contradict with their mouths what their auras showed brightly. Droser got distracted by the tribal sun circling Eck’s right nipple. His eyes moved lower, and there were words tattooed, like the stanza of a poem or the chorus of a song (because it had a certain rhythm to it), but it wasn’t English. On the left flank, the face of a lion stared back at him menacingly, his mane flowing toward the center Eck’s defined abs.

“Ahem.” Eck cleared his throat. “As much as I appreciate you ogling me with such enthusiasm, it would be nice if we could go to your apartment so I could borrow a shirt or something.”

“There was no enthusiasm,” Droser uttered harshly.

Eck arched an eyebrow. “If you say so.” He didn’t physically shrug, but his voice was a blatant shrug.

“I can still throw you outside to join your viewers.”

“That would be most disappointing.” Eck winked.

“Save your charm for someone who might actually enjoy it. C’mon.”

They walked toward the bay of elevators. They entered, and, as the door slid close, Droser kept his eyes pointedly forward after he put his thumb on the recognition pad, and the metal cage sped upward. He could feel Eck’s eyes on him, though.

“You’re cute.”

“You haven’t seen my shotguns.”

“Is that a proposition?”

The mirth in Eck’s voice was sunny and preposterous. Droser remained looking forward. “You’re not my type.”

“I am everybody’s type.”

“And I’m not everybody.”

“Touché.” Eck chuckled.

Since Droser wanted Eck to cooperate when he started questioning him, he came up with a peace offering, even though Droser could always drug Eck’s ass with a cool truth serum he had stashed in his interrogation kit. “What are those tattooed words?” Droser asked, as the doors opened on the seventieth floor and they exited the elevator, turning right to his apartment.

“It’s the first stanza of Baudelaire’s ‘The Cat’,” Eck offered proudly.

“You have it in French.”

“Of course, all the known translations are rubbish. Besides Je parle parfaitement le français.”

“The only thing I can shoot in French is Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? And everybody knows that.”

Instead of going with the opening Droser had stupidly given, Eck placidly said, “But you are not everybody.”

“You’ve got that one right.” Droser laughed in spite of his reticence to encourage Eck. He thumbed the apartment’s recognition pad.

The door opened, and the house computer greeted him happily, “Welcome back, Droser.” It took a heartbeat to do facial recognition. “Welcome, Mister Eckhart.”

Eck stared at Droser askance— then smirked.

“What? You are on the media all the time. The computer would have recognized Madonna too. Don’t flatter yourself.”

Eck guffawed. “Shit. If Madonna ever comes to your house please give me a call. I’ll be here in a jiffy.”



“I need to make a call.” Droser waved Eck away. “First door to your left. I don’t think I have anything that will actually fit you, but maybe a vest could cover your nipples at least.” He rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure I’ll find something.” Eck smiled and walked toward the bedroom.

His round ass looked good in his navy blue dress pants, but for Droser it was too perky, too in-your-face. There was only one ass worth of occupying his thoughts. He needed to call Orfeo. He activated his communicator and made the request.

Miraculously, Orfeo answered. “Are you all right?” He sounded truly concerned but didn’t activate the image function, and there was loud music in the background. Although, it was not happy music; it was Madonna’s (how déjà vu -ish) First Life “Love Tried to Welcome Me” song.

“I’m good, but that in the background is depression music.”

“Oh shut up. Nick Cave’s ‘O Children’ would have been worse.”

“You do know your depression classics,” Droser chuckled, “and perhaps I have the keys to the gulag. ’Cause your gun is not little, but it’s lovely.”

Droser had to admit he sounded a lot like Eck. That wasn’t a good thing, but something inside him just went cheesy around Orfeo.

“I’m going to hang up if you don’t stop the corniness.”

“You never gave me the chance to say good-bye.”

“Say it then.” Orfeo lost all signs of the original concern in his voice.

“I need to say more than good-bye.”

“What for? The city is going to hell in a basket after the frigging Supras broadcasted Star. People will lose faith in the boundaries and the motherfuckers will attack. We’re leaving before that happens. That growing thing between us doesn’t have a place anymore. Not after what you did and what’s coming.”

“If you’d just give me a chance to prove I’m not a total asshole.”

“Only half?”

“I’m pretty sure you could live with half an asshole beside you.”

“We met at the wrong time, Droser.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“That’s what Star says.”

“Then believe her.”

“I’m not going to force it. Say it.”

“Say what?”



“Take care of yourself, Droser. You can be a complete asshole now. So long.” Orfeo disconnected the communication, leaving the dark screen mute.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Droser turned around and found Eck staring at him with an uneasy grimace.

“Seems like whatever that was didn’t work out,” Eck said softly.

“It didn’t.”

“Well.” Eck shrugged. “How do I look?”

Some Eck Facts

Born in the Petrarch borough, Eck received his Master’s degree in Communication at the University of Meridian in 2121. A year later he became the first human journalist allowed to do a report on Assignment Day (this is the day in the Vampire Area when roles within the community are distributed and it’s done when humans reach the age of 14). After that story, his career has been steadily upward.
Now he has a show entitled “In Twenty Questions or Less,” where he tackles Meridian and national issues, reporting many times directly from Suprabeing controlled areas. Charismatic and energetic, he supports quite a few charities as a silent contributor. 

Wednesday, March 15, 2017


"Dad, why are there no pets in your stories?" Bella asks. 

"Hmmm... never really thought about that before..." 

"Well, I think it is time you have a cat character. I wouldn't mind being your inspiration... Especially for that one with all the guns and explosions..." Bella looks at her left front paw, exposing a nasty, daddy-scratching claw. 

"So, you want to be in ARZANALE?" 

"One of the big guys looks kind of Russian. It would be a nice cliché if he has a Russian Blue kitty..." Bella arches the muscle over her eye ('cause cats don't have eyebrows...), and her whiskers twitch condescendingly. 

"He's Belgian!" 

Bella rolls her eyes. "Europe— same difference." She shrugs. 

"I'll think about it..." 

"You can use Chance in the one with the blimps..." Bella nods toward Chance, who's quietly pondering the mysteries of the universe, eyes closed, portraying a very convincing statue. 

"Clockwork Vendetta?" 

"That's the one. They could use a fluffy thing like him to soften all that lion testosterone." 

"Shouldn't you be in that one? They have feline gods' temples." 

"Nah. I'll be lost amid all those claws and manes and roars. I'd rather be where I'm more visible. Shame you're not writing anything with witches. I'd totally crush it as a familiar." Bella narrows her eyes as if I am unable to get an undisguised hint. 

"But you are my familiar!" 

"Dad," Bella looks at me like I need to be petted, "being your familiar is not my day job. It's a hustle..." 

#Bella #cat #kitty #daddysgirl #dog #Maltese #familiar #dayjob #hustle #fictionalcharacter #gabbodelaparra