ParaShift 2: 05 (Gregor Tierney/Dylan Park, mm, scifi, a/b/o, mpreg, State Rule) #HarperWCK

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Dylan felt a bit of pity for the foolish boy but it was overshadowed by his anger. There was a reason he was having no real part of Micah’s case. Others would be assigned to unknot the mess that had been made.

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He pitied Micah Figworth, but there was nothing he could do for him. The boy had committed the sin the Inquisition would seek answers for. The case was out of his hands.

There was the insistent 5-note beep of a timer alarm. He tapped his ear, finger unerringly finding the implanted mic button. “Magister Park,” he said. “End timer sequence. Order the aircar be brought around.”

There was the familiar acknowledgement sequence of notes. He could feel the sound vibrating along his jawbone and up into his skull. It had taken him time to become used to the shivery feel of it. Now the implant’s use had become a familiar kind of strange.

It helped that the personal AI within the implant was tuned enough to know when to use voice function or not–he preferred not.

Dylan shrugged on his coat, gathered up his briefcase, and left the office. There was a lot he needed to get done before he could return to Gregor’s side.

And how hard had it been, to leave not only the warm comfort of the bed but a gently breathing Gregor?

After writing Gregor a note explaining where he was going, Dylan had reluctantly left him behind.

If he could have, he would have stayed in the bed, but his extended time off was over.

The Project was essential to the safety and protection of the planet. There was an invisible timer counting down to the next incursion, the next attack of the Outsiders.

Dylan longed to be back in that bed with Gregor. He would love to enjoy a lazy day. Yet duty had been drilled into him from birth and he knew he had an important job to perform.

The start date of his new posting had been pushed back a few days to allow him time to bond with Gregor, but there was a lot to be done. He was scheduled for half-duty to start, then he was to take over command of The Project.

Even with the events of the night before, there really wasn’t time to rest.

They could very well be facing the end of the human race in two years time. And it was up to Dylan to stop it.

Even if he still wished he were back in bed wrapped around a warm, slumbering Gregor.

There were times when he could do nothing but envy the still ignorant masses. They didn’t know it hadn’t been random nature. They didn’t know the Earth had been attacked three times.

They were able to sleep easy with the hope that tomorrows could be better days. They slumbered unaware of the sword hanging over their heads.

But Dylan knew.

And that’s why he’d reluctantly left a sleeping Gregor alone in bed. Because even though he’d wanted nothing more than to rest beneath those sheets, he had a job to do.

A world to save.


ParaShift 2: 04 (Gregor Tierney/Dylan Park, mm, scifi, a/b/o, mpreg, State Rule) #HarperWCK

And how terrifying was it to know that he would be a father. It hadn’t been part of the plan–Gregor had been expected to Bond with Zero–yet here he was: a father-to-be.

A revelation and a terror rolled into one. All he knew was that he felt a spark for Gregor Tierney. He thought it might be love, though what did he know? He’d never felt romantic love before. Yet when he looked at Gregor, he thought he was seeing his future happiness. As though everything he wanted and needed had been distilled and encapsulated in one distrusting but charming person.

He’d thought he was bringing home a Bondmate for his younger brother. He’d been blessed instead.

“Blessed Gregor Tierney,” he whispered to himself simply to hear the sound of the words. The name of the life-changer that had entered his sphere and decided to make a place for himself.

Whatever the future held, Dylan’s life was forever tied to Blessed Gregor Tierney. There were invisible strings bound between them pulling them into each other’s gravity.

Even without the child-to-be, there was a connection that could never be severed.

Because Gregor Tierney chose him.

And that was an amazing thing. To be chosen first and most favored.

He pitied Zero–Jaisuyen Park–who had never been told “No” to something he wanted and wasn’t taking it well.

Baby brother is most distraught, he thought. And there was a bit of disgust there, overshadowing the love he felt. Zero was behaving like a child throwing a tantrum and it was winning him no favors.

Dylan had already advised that he get hold of himself, but Zero had merely scoffed. The jealousy blazing from his gray eyes had resulted in Dylan cutting the visit short and ordering Cousin Deland to keep Zero company and prevent him from doing anything foolish.

Zero had always been impetuous. There had been times when he’d been willing to cut his nose to spite his face and only regretted things much too late afterward.

Dylan loved his brother. But he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his happiness for him.

Gregor had made the choice. Zero would have to accept it.

Just as Dr. Figworth would have to deal with the decisions Micah had made.

The fool boy had betrayed the Family. A few secrets here and there to keep his friend alive, then he’d used his father’s identicard to print the invitations that had allowed Virgil Hanson and his Acolytes into the rehearsal party. He’d even gone so far as to give them his access code to pass through Security.

It should have surprised no one that the friend was already dead. But Micah was young for his age and far too trusting. He hadn’t even realized that the Acolytes were anything more than common thugs.

Now he was missing several toes and half his left ear along with all the physical damage that would heal itself. The mental damage… that might never go away.

Some dark part of Dylan whispered “Good” because Micah should never forget or be completely forgiven for what he’d done. The rest of him could only be sad for wasted potential

The Inquisition would unmake Micah and either remake him or decide how he should be discarded. Either way, his old life was over. He could never go back to being the trusted Family member he’d been yesterday.


ParaShift 2: 03 (Gregor Tierney/Dylan Park, mm, scifi, a/b/o, mpreg, State Rule) #HarperWCK

He’d enjoyed flirting with danger. Hanson had wanted to make it a life sentence.

And here Gregor was: Alone in a big bed after a night of stress and pleasure. The relief itself made him bone weary.

He had no plans to get out of bed. Not until he was good and ready.

The world can deal with itself, he thought. Today is for me alone.

Gregor thought of the things that made him peaceful or happy. He pushed away anything dreary or dark.

And with the relief of having found a comfortable position for his achy body, he fell back asleep. Someone would surely let him know if he was needed.

* * *

Dylan steepled his fingers under his chin and fought off a frown. “How did this happen?”

Second Prime Donella Miri shrugged, her armor creaking. “He was a very foolish boy. I don’t think he’ll ever be so young again.”

“What could he have been thinking?” Dylan wondered.

“Young, dumb, and far too trusting of someone outside the Family. The friend–Tiedo Rasmussen–was dragged out of the Longmarch River early this morning. He must have been killed right after the Acolytes got hold of him. The Figworth boy betrayed everything for nothing.”

Dylan sighed. “Micah Figworth is looking at some dark days ahead. There’s going to be an Inquisition. There has to be.”

Miri’s gaze dipped in momentary sympathy for the teenager.

There was no question that he’d betrayed the Duadenora Family. Even if he might not have realized the level of his betrayal when he gave confidential information, he’d still committed the act.

Lives had been lost. A rare Third had been risked along with the precious new life within.

Micah Figworth had threatened the future of the Duadenora Family. First for the life of an outsider, then for his own life, and never once did he seek out help.

“Kid’s screwed,” Miri observed.

“He most certainly is.” Dylan pushed away from the desk and stood up. “Thank you for handling this incident for me. I’ll find someone kind to break the news to Dr. Figworth that his son is facing serious legal troubles.”

“Aiding and abetting an S-class criminal and his terrorist organization isn’t the level of trouble you expect your child to get into.” Miri gathered her ePad and hardcover notebook into her shoulder bag and stood. She slung her pulse rifle across her other shoulder. “I feel sorry for the doctor. He’s a good person.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said quietly. He shook himself after a moment. “You should get back to your vacation. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” She waved a hand. “I know you’re good for the reciprocity. Plus we weren’t doing anything anyway. Noah wasn’t able to get the time off.”

“Still, thanks for the help. I’ll see you in two weeks,” he said.

“Unless you need me sooner.” She gave a goodbye nod and left the office, the door clicking shut behind her.

Dylan crossed to the window overlooking the lush green and flowered herb garden. It was an inviting view; paradise bathed in the morning light. The glass blocked the jarring mixture of scents where pleasant met astringent to become near overpowering.

This office had been his father’s once. He remembered playing on the thick rug that used to be where the second couch was now. There’d been a low decorative wall that he’d removed years ago. Curled up on the rug, he would be invisible to his father’s guests and could listen quietly to the business of the Family being conducted around him. He would fall asleep to the sound of his father’s voice, comforted and safe, his last view of the drawings he’d taped to the wall near his head.

Renalto Park had been a wonderful father. Dylan had loved him dearly and still ached with the memory of him. He had died much too young. Murdered at 32 years old.

I’m older than my father will ever be, he thought. And it was an exquisite sadness that bloomed in his chest and made his throat feel tight.

With every passing year he drew further away from the memory of his father. Someday he might forget him altogether, or remember him as someone he’d never been.

Dylan had never gotten to know his father as one adult to another. He only had the romanticized image of a man whose murder had become an international spectactle. He had his childhood memories and the loving reminiscences of his grandfather. But that was it.

Renalto Park was cast in the gold of memory. He would never grow older or be anything else.

Dylan clasped his hands behind his back. This was the same place where his father had once stood. The same sort of view. It made him wonder what his own child would think of him.

Of the secrets he protected the people from.

Of the acts he’d committed in the name of Law and Order.

Of the kind of father he would be.


ParaShift 2: 02 (Gregor Tierney/Dylan Park, mm, scifi, a/b/o, mpreg, State Rule)

Burying his face in his pillow, Gregor breathed deep and let his body go limp and loose. He could feel himself drifting into lazy reverie.

Life had been moving too quick for him to handle–to the point where he’d felt the edges of him scrabble away–but suddenly everything was so much easier. The lurking darkness that had been Virgil Hanson was gone forever.

It was a darker satisfaction to know that he was gone by Gregor’s very own hand.

I killed the boogieman, Gregor thought. And it was strange, yet right.

Virgil Hanson had haunted Gregor’s every step for nearly eleven years. He’d been the first and most lasting mistake Gregor had ever made.

And now he was gone.


Gregor’s lips stretched in a fierce grin and he ground his pelvis into the mattress for the simple pleasure of it.

His changing body had needs he’d found impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just shifting biology; it was surging hormones, some of a kind he’d never experienced before. His very bones were becoming different. Shifting to relieve the ache was becoming a pleasure unto itself.

Being a Third meant having a body that was sensitive to hormones. A little testosterone, and a Third began laddering muscle. A little estrogen, and mammary tissue gathered on even the flattest of chests. And either one would push a Third into sexual maturity, where the visible changes happened.

The cocktail of drugs Gregor had used to block his puberty as a Third would have killed a Two, and damaged the bones and organs of a First.

He’d been told to eat and sleep a lot.

He was fine.

Fertile at the time. Gravid at the moment.

Fecund is the Third, near mindless in the need to mate. It’s a wild thing, riding any dick it comes across. Keep the creepy cocklet away from you, and it don’t matter what kind of Third you get. They’ll wring your dick dry. Best lay you’ll ever have, boys. You won’t be sorry.”

Those words had reverberated through his memory from the moment he’d heard them at thirteen years old. He’d stayed away from Coach after that, and kept a wary eye on all the boys that had laughed.

Before the Sterility Plague, Thirds had been a fascinating oddity, by turns worshiped and reviled. Nobody’d cared what they’d done to themselves then. Suppressants were nobody’s business but the person using them and their family.

Gregor’s mother had been a Third. She’d known not to trust Desmond with Gregor’s biology (there’d been a lucrative market for young Thirds) and Gregor had always been grateful for her paranoia. She’d saved him from Hell.

Desmond Tierney had never met a temptation he’d bother to deny. Fatherly loyalty would only go as far as his greed would allow it.

And it was fear of that greed that had allowed Gregor the extra years of freedom he’d enjoyed. So he couldn’t really hate it, could he?

In another life, he would already have had three or four kids for the State. Or maybe a dozen for the lifestyle his father would have forced him into.

Or maybe you would have been a trusting fool and let Hanson know about you. He winced away from the thought, refusing to let himself go down that idea path. He couldn’t imagine any version of himself being that kind of trusting.

Virgil Hanson had been sexy and exciting and had made a young Gregor feel special and in some way important. He’d also been the kind of blood freezing terrifying that couldn’t be overlooked for long. Gregor had run away rather than gift him any truths.



Title: Ishmael
Author: Harper Kingsley
Genre: murder mystery, suspense, different era
Characters: Major Ishmael Dupres, Captain Etienne Barnard

I don’t know how my life got to this point. It must be some phobia of success.”

Looking at the words printed on the paper, Ishmael wasn’t sure what to think. He looked from the words to his lieutenant, then back down at the words again.

“And this was written on the body?” he asked. He was relieved his voice didn’t shake.

“Carved into the flesh.” Captain Barnard’s voice never shook. He was the steady firmament that upheld Ishmael’s command.

“That is most disquieting,” Ishmael said. “How many victims has it been? 10? 12?”

“10, sir. And he’s been getting creative with his knife. It’s a frightening turn of events. Women are scared to walk the streets alone as of late.” Barnard frowned. “The merchants are upset. It’s costing them quite a bit of business that most shopping is ending so early.”

“Ah,” Ishmael said. He stared down at the paper, the words written in an oddly elegant scrawl. “We’re going to catch you, you bastard.”

“We’ll get him for you, sir. I promise,” Barnard said.

Ishmael nodded. “I know you will. You are remarkably skilled at your job, and your squad are the best on the street. Get your kids out there and find this guy. I will reward each and every one of you.”

“Sir, you know that’s not necessary.” There was a tinge of pink high on Barnard’s cheeks. It was an oddly charming sight.

“I know I don’t have to make the offer,” Ishmael said, “but I have quite a large amount of money at my disposal. I would feel better using it to reward a job well done than on simple pleasures.”

“Still sir, you’re far too generous,” Barnard said.

They both knew that he would accept the money. Not just for his officers, but for himself as well.

From his earliest youth, Etienne Barnard had had a taste for the finer things. It was how their paths had first crossed in fact, when Ishmael was nineteen and Barnard was twenty-three. Barnard had been modeling for shopping money and Ishmael had been intrigued.

They’d shared a meal and a conversation, and by the time they’d parted that day they’d exchanged contact information. They’d formed enough of a connection that when Barnard found himself in a bit of trouble, he’d called Ishmael for help.

And through that help, they’d ended up in a lifelong career as police officers. It had been a strange jumble of events that led to this office and this moment.

Ishmael trusted Barnard when he said the murderer would be brought to justice.

He stared down at the words of a killer: “I don’t know how my life got to this point. It must be some phobia of success.”

“We have to get him off the streets. For the peace of mind of our citizens if nothing else,” Ishmael said.

I am not rich. I am not well off. I like to write and I want to share my stories with you.

“365 Prompts” – Prompt 041. blackberries 2A

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2. Tangled in the blackberry bushes, the small child howled in fear and pain. There were red scratches marring the dirty face and arms, one thorn having scratched dangerously close to a teary eye.

A. Tangled in the blackberry bushes, the small child howled in fear and pain. There were red scratches marring the dirty face and arms, one thorn having scratched dangerously close to a teary eye.

Anna ran forward, waving her arms to signal No. “Don’t move, kid. You hold still and I’ll help you.”

“Get me out of here. It hurts! It hurts!” the child screeched, making an aborted lunge forward. Anna winced when she saw that a long thorny branch was wrapped around the child’s chest, digging into the patched and worn cotton shirt.

“I’ll get you, I’ll get you, don’t move.” Anna tried to hide her panic and project a sense of calm concern. The last thing she wanted was for the kid to realize how afraid she was. “Why don’t you tell me your name, sweetie?”

“I’m not sweetie. I’m Brandon.”

“Oh. Well, hello Brandon. I’m Anna.” Working slowly, she began untangling the small body. He couldn’t have been older than four or five, dressed in clothes that would have done better in the rag bin. “Can you tell me where your parents are, Brandon?”

“Don’t have any,” he muttered, his attention focused on her hands. Which is why he missed the expression of shock and pity that crossed her face before she controlled herself.


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“365 Prompts” – Prompt 037. cellphone 2A.

2. The prepaid cellphone made an odd sound before dying, plunging the interior of the box into darkness. The occupant’s breath came louder in panic as the realization sunk in.

A. The prepaid cellphone made an odd sound before dying, plunging the interior of the box into darkness. Jackie’s breath came louder in panic as the realization sunk in.

Buried alive! I’ve been buried alive!

One minute she was enjoying the first real vacation she’d had in her entire life. And the next she was waking up in a box buried underground.

It didn’t seem fair.


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“365 Prompts” – partial Prompt-Fill: 004. spring 1A. “Out of the Wild Lands” by Harper Kingsley

Prompt 004. spring – 1A

1. It was a relief when the spring frost began. They’d been close to running out of nearly everything.

A. Once the river melted, it was a rush to finish building the boat and gather enough food to see them out of the Wild Lands. If they were lucky they could reach civilization within a few months. If they were unlucky they would die. They didn’t have a choice either way.

There was no staying where they were. They’d stripped the island of everything it had to offer, and there hadn’t been much to begin with.

It was either make the attempt now, or slowly starve to death. There was not going to be another opportunity.


Prompt-Fill: “Out of the Wilds”
Author: Harper Kingsley

Once the river melted, it was a rush to finish building the boat and gather enough food to see them out of the Wild Lands. If they were lucky they could reach civilization within a few months. If they were unlucky they would die. They didn’t have a choice either way.

There was no staying where they were. They’d stripped the island of everything it had to offer, and there hadn’t been much to begin with.

It was either make the attempt now, or slowly starve to death. There was not going to be another opportunity.

“Quiet that baby,” Gareth ordered. He was lashing the last of the supplies to the boat and didn’t need the distraction.

“Yes sir.” Leilan shushed the blanket wrapped bundle, jostling it until the wails turned to an unhappy grumble. The baby had been fussing ever since her twin — her Other Half — had died. There was a real concern that she would follow after, the broken strings of her tattered soul pulling her down and down after her sister.

When Poiler had suggested killing the baby as a mercy — she must be suffering with her broken soul — Leilan had hit her as hard as he could and taken the baby himself. He couldn’t believe a mother could ever suggest murdering her own child. It made him suspicious of how the unnamed baby had died. She’d looked healthy after her birth; then she’d been quiet and still.

Leilan tightened his grip on the baby he held. She was alive. She needed him.

He stood out of the way as the men and women worked. He looked down at the baby’s face. She was skinnier than he liked, as his milk had only just begun to come in, but seemed healthy enough. He thought there was a chance that she would live.

“I’m going to risk it,” he said. She blinked up at him. One fist had worked itself free of the blanket and found its way into her mouth where she furiously gummed on tiny tiny knuckles. He chuckled and used two fingers to pull her hand out of her mouth. He wiped the slobber off with a scrap of cloth from his pocket, then tucked her arm back in the blanket.

“None of that,” he ordered when she looked about to cry. She hiccuped and blinked, but remained quiet. “Good girl.”

He jostled her a couple of times. “I’ve decided that you need a name if you’re going to be my daughter.” He licked his lips. “I think my mother would have approved her granddaughter sharing a name with her.”

He held her a bit away from himself so he could see all of her and she could see him. Even if she didn’t understand, this was an important moment. By giving her a name, he was accepting responsibility for her. She would be family.

“Melissa Kim of the House of Graythorn,” he said. “Welcome to my family, Melissa.”

PROMPT-FILL: Intense Thoughts: A. Her tone was so matter-of-fact [choking]

Title: A. Her tone was so matter-of-fact
Collection: Intense Thoughts
Author: Harper Kingsley

“I masturbated furiously.
Then I smoked some weed.
And my thoughts became very intense.”

A. Her tone was so matter-of-fact that it took them a moment to catch up. Then the meaning sunk in.

Albert went bright red and Clarice made a sputtering sound in her throat. “Why I never…”

“Did she just say what I thought she said?” Leon whispered to Yoshina. She hushed him and swatted at his hand, telling him to listen.

He refrained from rolling his eyes. She was probably right. The old people were so touchy; they took offense at every little thing.

His reaction to the farce taking place in front of him was going to be remembered for years to come.

Leon straightened his back and kept his facial expressions placid and untroubled.

He kept up his mask of scion of a respectable family all through the rest of the party. He swallowed his reactions to the things the dotty old relatives said and knew that he’d done well. At the end of the evening, Great Uncle Hermann even gave him a hearty farewell hug.

Leon enjoyed his sense of accomplishment all the way home.

Until he grasped the handle for his front door and the door swung open. There were broken ends of wood sticking out where pieces of the doorframe had broken away.

Leon turned on his heel and began to run. But from the muscled arm that went around his neck, he was too late.

As he choked and flailed helplessly, he could feel the walls of his throat closing shut. Tight pressure that didn’t quite hurt. His assailant was being careful not to damage the merchandise. He could almost be grateful.

He felt an entirely inappropriate pressure in his groin. Now? You wanna do this NOW?!

It was a teasing lick of pleasure. An instinctive tightening of muscles. From I want to pee to Oh as his body couldn’t decide whether it liked being strangled or not.

Then the black spots took over his vision. And his lungs were screaming. Terror had his heart hammering out blood as it tried to get oxygen to his brain.

There was the almost gentle stroke of a gloved hand against his cheek. His grasping, clenching fingers clawed weakly at a leather coat as the man’s head leaned close to his ear.

Say goodnight, Brucie” was the last thing he heard before passing out.


PROMPT-FILL: Intense Thoughts: J. He’d been in prison long enough [NSFW]

Title: J. He’d been in prison long enough
Collection: Intense Thoughts
Author: Harper Kingsley

“I masturbated furiously.
Then I smoked some weed.
And my thoughts became very intense.”

He’d been in prison long enough that he didn’t care who watched. As long as they kept their hands to themselves, they could admire all they liked.

The paper crinkled in his fist and he fought not to squeeze. He wanted to save the letter. It was from his favorite admirer. But it was hard not to wrinkle the sheet of notebook paper as he rocked his dick up into his encircling right hand.

With as much care as he could manage–not much–he laid the letter on the edge of the pillow near his head. Then he dug his heels into the thin mattress and began thrusting his hips as he jerked himself. He propped his left elbow behind his back to get some leverage as he made the mattress cry out beneath him, a creaking of springs and shifting of his whole body.

He gasped rhythmically as he worked himself off. And when he came, it was with a dramatic thrusting of hips and a flop back amongst sullied sheets.

He lay there for a long moment, face uplifted and eyes closed. He drew in deep shuddering breaths and let the sweat and cum dry on his skin.

Tomorrow was laundry day. They’d come around with the big carts and change his bedding for new.

Tonight he would sleep amongst his own body’s excretions. He would breathe in the scent of himself and rub it deep into his touch-starved skin.

And he would dream of his dear admirer.

His dear heart that he wished he’d met before his incarceration.