Emmett Locke gave up on love years ago; that is, if you can give up on something you never really believed in. Sure, he would have gladly accepted a relationship and consistent sex, but it just wasn't that easy. He didn't do bars, clubs, or any of the other things gay men were 'supposed' to do and he sure as hell wasn't going on some stupid app. He'd accepted, rather begrudgingly, that no one was just going to fall into his lap. Finnegan Walker IV had no time for any of the stupid men who wooed, harassed, or eye-fucked him on a seemingly hourly basis. He wasn't dumb, even if people assumed he became Vice-president of his family's company at the ripe old age of 26 because of his name. Being smart meant that he refused to be used for his money, name, looks, or body and the fact was that by the end of his long days he had very little left to give. Why couldn't he meet someone who didn't want to take, take, take? That was alright; there were more important things in life. Friday afternoon, their worlds collided. Literally. Emmett and Finnegan probably never would have met otherwise. They may as well have been from different planets. Luckily for them both, Finn was reckless. Or maybe it really *was* Emmett's fault? This is a two-book series with a middle, his daddy, and a lot of expectations turned on their heads. Angst is pretty low and it ends in a HFN.

Lucian's life is bland and grey. He has a normal job, normal friends and a normal relationship, but he's not attracted to normality, he wants chaos, he wants the rush of adrenaline from taking risks, and that's what he gets when he meets Cedric and Elijah, the boys who will paint his world with a kaleidoscope of colors.

Vincent, a rich-kid whom never had to work for a day in his life, meets a boy. He decides to call him "piss boy" after concluding that the odor of his body -- or maybe his ragged, torn, stained, and unwashed clothes -- reek of urine. He was skinny -- too skinny to be healthy. So Vincent goes on and does something he doesn't like to do, he assumes that piss boy can't afford food. His clothes were the same every day, navy blue jeans and a black hoodie, both stained, torn, and worn. Now, Vincent being Vincent didn't pay much attention to the other boy at first. But once he sat by him, curious as to why no one else was bothering to sit there, he got a good idea on why. He smelt the stench that was piss boy but he didn't move away or judge him. This boy smelling of piss and Vincent were total opposites, anybody could see that. But they would bond, and Vincent would learn that the other boy's name was Scott. But along with their friendship comes secrets, and although a large percentage are from Scott, Vincent does have his own. ❝I could not visualize it, actually, I felt for a small period of time I lived it.❞-Heather Roberts, author of 23:27. Piss Boy has reached: #163 in disorders #1 in sleepingdisorders #1 in sleepingdisorder #2 in narcolepsy #11 in projectsave ❙Warning: This book includes rape (not detailed), self-harm (not detailed), and abuse. If you are triggered by these please do not read, thankyou.❙ © Copyright Rights 2016 -- Present Time

Parę miesięcy temu kupiłem kubek ze złoconymi maziajami. Na wyprzedaży. Żaden prezent, żadna okazja do wspominania. Zwykły, ładny kubek za 15 złotych. Od tego momentu piłem kawę tylko z niego. Plułem fusami z herbaty do jego wnętrza. Nigdy jednak nie spojrzałem na ten kubek w szczególny sposób. Zwykła rzecz, nie? Jednego wieczoru rozsiadłem się wygodnie przy biurku. Patrząc na telefon chciałem sięgnąć po zeszyt do pisania tekstów. Banalna sytuacja. Poczułem, jak moje nieuważne palce nie wymijają kubka. Pozwalają mu przewrócić się, ześliznąć z blatu. Mimo że nie widziałem, poczułem nacisk niepokoju. Moja głowa sama narysowała trajektorię lotu, rozbicie, wylanie. Stratę. Przez ułamek sekundy miałem jeszcze nadzieję, że uda mi się złapać kubek, uniknąć tego, co ma się za chwilę wydarzyć. Ale dobrze wiedziałem, że już mi się nie uda. Poparzyłem tylko palce. Patrzyłem na nowy kształt kubka, rozbity na części. Nasza przygoda się skończyła. Bezpowrotnie. Nie miałem już pić z niego kawy, pluć fusami do wnętrza. Ta chwila, gdy wiem, że coś stracę jest zawsze intensywna. Człowiek zamiera, wstrzymuje oddech. Jest okrutnie krótka, ale ściska w dołku. Zawsze towarzyszy jej nadzieja. Głupia i naiwna. Tak mocno wierząca, że jeszcze się uda. Uczucie straty. Tak, to tego uczucia nie znoszę najbardziej. Gdy wchodzi w ciało, wpełza we wnętrze, uświadamiam sobie, jak bardzo coś było dla mnie ważne. Czy to Nivan, czy durny kubek ze złoconymi maziajami.

Rysował palcem po krętym tatuażu na jasnej skórze. Zaczął od szyi, która od razu odsłoniła się pod jego dotykiem. Reagowała mimowolnie nauczona, że otrzyma więcej przyjemności. Długa szyja działała jak magnez. Gdy była naga i odsłonięta - nakazywała, krzyczała. Nie mogła pozostać bez atencji i dotyku. Trzeba było musnąć ją ustami, zostawić wilgotny ślad, powtarzać tę czynność aż cała skóra zostanie pokryta niewielkimi wypustkami przyjemności. Dopiero wtedy można było iść dalej wzdłuż krętego rysunku.

A few months ago, I bought a mug with gold gilt. On sale. Not a gift either nor because of an occasion to remember by it. Just plain, pretty mug for 15PLN. I drank my coffee from it since. I spat loose tea leaves into it. It never felt particularly significant. An ordinary object. Only when I lost it, I realised its true value. I sat comfortably at my desk one evening. Looking at my phone, I reached to take my song-text notebook. Trivial situation. My clumsy fingers were unable to avoid the mug. They allowed it to topple over, to slip from the desktop. Even though I did not see the split-second occurrence, I felt the pressure of unease. My head painted the trajectory of the fall on its own, the shattering, spillage. The loss. For a millisecond I still had hope, that I would be able to catch the mug, that I would be able to avoid what was about to happen. But I knew I was headed for failure. I don't have any superpowers. I only scalded my fingers. I looked at the mug's new shape for a long while, at the shattered pieces. At the spilling liquid. Our adventure came to an end. Irrevocably. I won't be drinking coffee from it anymore, nor spit tea leaves into it. Well. I shouldn't be sad, it was just a regular mug, just like thousands of others. I grew to like it, it kept me company throughout hundreds of warm drinks. I lost it. I hate this feeling the most. In the moment when I am losing something, I stop in my tracks, I hold my breath. It is always a very intense moment. A short one, but one that gives me the tight unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The feeling of loss is always accompanied by hope. Silly and naïve. Making me believe so strongly, that I can make it. That I will still be able to catch the mug mid-flight. When the feeling is entering the body, crawling into me I realise, how important it was to me. Whether it's Nivan or a stupid mug with gold gilt.