Chapter One: In Which A Demon Needs Help And A Hug

CW: Explicit language, dark roleplay,

Jasper

Boxes gnashed their teeth, daring to bite her fucking head off. With even more in the moving pod, Jasper was in over her horns and didn’t know where to start. Moving alone was hell, and she’d been there. No, like she’d lived in hell for most of her life. As a succubus and adviser to Duke of the Fourth Seal, she knew a little something about hell.
This was it.

Handling another taped and lopsided box, Jasper climbed the stairs. She stepped with caution, avoiding holes. Her new house was two hundred years old and a steal. Jasper wanted a home she could grow with and thanks to the success of her creative streak, life was better. Not great, but good.

“Could be worse,” she mumbled, entering the master. Or something like it. Unnamable substances stained tattered strips of wallpaper and the ceiling. “Well, fuck.” She dropped the box of Petite Pop figures and huffed. This was an impulse buy. She’d come up on a few dollars and lost her goddamn mind. With only ten years worth of top-side living under her belt, she still had much to learn. With no help from her father or mother, Jasper was on her own. She didn’t want to hump her way to the money like most of her siblings. Nah. She had her own plans and way of hoarding coins.

“And I’ve done well,” she admitted to a stuffy, dust-filled quiet. The master was nothing more than squealing floorboards, a queen-sized bed, and her ancient laptop. Windows with no drapes was ghetto, but they were boarded anyway.
“This was sooooo, stupid.” Taking it all in Jasper stomped her foot and yelped as her boot fractured what was left of creaking, rickety planks.
Splintered wood snagged and scratched her ankle. “This is fu-ow!” She yanked her poor foot loose and flailed, dropping on her ass. Jasper massaged torn skin and grunted.
“What the hell am I going to do?”

With a telling moisture on her butt, she sighed. This house was a shit hole. Falling apart at the literal seams. She gestured at a giant crack behind her headboard.
Spiderwebs and must. Mildew and broken pipes. She was about to breathe fire and raze the joint to the ground until a knock at the front door interrupted her bad decision.
Jasper sat, waiting for a second rap. She’d moved to Indigo Plains three days ago and didn’t know a soul in the rural town. Miles from the big, stank city, she had no friends.
A third knock got her up and limping downstairs. She’d heal quicker with a bite of raw sinewy flesh or a sip of male passion, buuuut she had neither at the moment.
From the vestibule, Jasper noted a smiling old, self-tanned lady.
Opening the door, Jasper grinned. “Hello.”

“Why look at you!” The elder beamed, holding a fine-looking roast. “It’s been a while since we done had demons ’round these parts. You are mighty tall, ma’am.”
“I get that a lot. What you got there?”
“Oh, this? It’s my famous rump roast. Jerry, my husband of forty years loves it and so do most folks in the neighborhood. Ask Maryanne and Bob Warring, down the way. They’ll tell ya.”
“I can smell the garlic, Ma’am.”
“No, noooo…call me Sissy. I ain’t been a Ma’am in many moons.”

Jasper laughed, casting her gaze about. It was a hot August afternoon with the heat making cicadas scream. Jasper didn’t have air conditioning and was certain the human woman might faint, Warm for Jasper meant unbearable for a human. Ominous odors and humidity were a bad sign as well.

“I’d invite you inside,” Jasper said, “but this place isn’t so welcoming at the moment.”
Sissy waved a jewelry-adorned hand, her bracelets clanging and glinting in the midday sun. “It’s alright. I can smell the mold. I’d rather not anyhow. I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood with a hot meal.”
“You are so kind,” Jasper accepted the heavy ceramic dish and said,“I’ll be sure to give this back.”
The woman wagged a papery finger. “I’ll come uh looking for it. Don’t you worry.”
“Thank you again.”

Sissy giggled and left with the twirl of her tie-dye skirt. She was an adorable elder with pink hair and pure intentions. Her emotions tasted sweet, akin to butterscotch. Jasper snickered, remembering she was probably a hundred years older. With the hot offering in hand, she kicked the door closed and dined in what was considered a kitchen. It was missing a stove and cabinet doors, but it might be nice one day. Jasper stood where the breakfast nook would be and impaled bits with a plastic fork. She attacked steaming beef, carrots, baby reds, and caramelized onions. After a decent burp, she popped open a hot beer and guzzled every ounce.

“That was amazing.” Belly full to bursting she was ready to take on the task at hand. “I have no fucking idea what to do.” She kicked a box of Tupperware and groaned. “Guess I’ll buy some tools and watch DIY videos.”


Nieema

Nieema hated working at the hardware store. It wasn’t fun and it smelled like sawdust. Granted, they cut and sanded wood in-store…for free. Stocking shelves with nails, bits, and such wasn’t her idea of a good time, but it was only fair. Keeping to it, she stacked tubes of caulk into a caddy and bobbed her head to an oldie. She set the playlist and be damned if anybody changed it. For the hundredth time, she’d told them not to touch her music. god forbid she say it again.

“Can I get some help around here?!”
Nieema winced and rounded the stack with her hands full. “Do you need help, sir?”

“You god damn right I do. I come looking for a new chainsaw. What row are they in?”
The man flicked his filthy cowboy hat and spat. He flashed gold fangs and snapped his gum. He was a cruel-looking fella, and Nieema cleared her throat.
“They’re uhm—“
“Speak up, shit.”
“Isle three.”
“You one of them Porter gals? I heard about y’all.”
“No, no. I’m not.“

The burly man made off down the row and Nieema hustled behind the counter. Their store wasn’t too big, with only ten aisles, but some folks got lost.

“The—“
“Where the fuck is it?“
“On the back wall.“
He cursed, finding the high-power chainsaws. Nieema didn’t want to know what a man like him would do with the tool. He was a fae of some make, but she was unsure which. His dark eyes and claws didn’t say much

As he stalked toward her, Nieema swallowed and tried not to stutter, it was tough.
He slammed the chainsaw on pockmarked pine that was older than her and spat again.

“How much I owe ya?”
Nieema brushed sweat from her upper lip and glanced at the tag. “Two hundred and—“
“Two what?! Two hundred dollars? Ohhh, what game are you running in here? Are you tryna scam me, darlin’?”
“No! No, I would never.“
With a death glare pinned on her, he squinted. “I got fifty-seven dollars in my pocket. You can take that, or…I can pay in other ways.”
Nieema gasped, her heart daring to claw its way through her chest. She searched for an escape as he rounded the long counter. “Wai—“
“I don’t like no women trying to steal from me. Just cause I’m an honest hardworking man don’t mean I’m dumb.”
“I did—‘
“Shut your mouth!”

Nieema planted both hands on the wall and prayed to the gods. His obsidian gaze flickered with fire and life, he was of the dark fae for certain.

“You’ll take the fifty and I’ll take something from you—“
A single, sharp talon grazed her cheek. He loomed, smelling of sweat, mint, and a cherry-scented smoke. Her throat closed and body quaked.
The bell sounded and Nieema pinched his nipple. Mister Fussy hissed and laughed.

“Ain’t shit funny,” Nieema whispered. “Clean that spit up off my floor or so help me, Buck, I’ll break your behind.”
“You had your chance, darlin’. And I made it easy.” Buck popped his gum, cracked his back, and lept over the counter.
“You hush, I wasn’t giving in so easily.”
“You were sweatin’, I got you on camera.” He pointed at the ball on the ceiling and tried on a wolfish grin. “We’ll play it back during them wee hours and see just how fast you fold.”
Nieema cackled and tended to their customer. Well wasn’t this a sight. A demon, of the red sort. It was safe to say, they were a succubus. Horns and all. She had to be about six-foot and hard bodied.
“Suck my toes, mama. She is rather fine.”
“Would you cut it,” Nieema snipped. “She looks lost.”
“We can help her find any and everything..“
“Did you clean your mess, Buck?”
“Not yet bu—“
“Get to it, old man. I am not playing with you.”
“Don’t pester me, vampire. I’ll give it to you good.”
Nieema winked and patted Buck’s arm. “I can only hope.”

With her freaky deaky husband occupied, Nieema sidled up to the succubus and smiled.
“You need help finding something, suga?”
“Hell yeah..” The tall woman slouched and shrugged. Her voice was rough and sultry. As if she had dragon fire caught in her throat. “I watched videos about paint, floors, mold, pests, and corroded pipes. I don’t even know how to hang a frame. Installing a stove is beyond me. I just bought the house on Weaver Avenue and I’m outta my element. I thought a fixer might be a cute learning experience. I was wrong. The house is shit.“
“Whoa, haaay.” Nieema went to soothe her through touch and stopped herself. Not everyone was tactile, and succubi had a specific way of feeding. “It’s alright. You’re okay. Listen, I come from a long line of contractors. My mama and daddy damn near built this town. If you’d like, I can help.”
“Me too!” Buck said, tossing the broom. “Hello, there, I am Buck Sunside, and this is my lovely daisy of a bride, Nieema. It just so happens we own a contracting firm, the only one in all of Indigo Plains.”

The woman slapped her wide chest and smiled. Her teeth dazzled. Needly as a pin and long. Nieema touched her neck and batted lashes. The towering succubus was a looker, and Buck knew it, too. He was staring hard enough.
They were on the same page. After one-hundred-plus years of marriage and seven kids, they were open to pretty much anything.

“I’m so sorry honey,” Nieema said. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Jasper.”
“How progressive.”
“I thought it was adorable. Everybody says I look like a Jasper.”
“They were right,” Buck added. “So, if you’d like, we can come on by. Take a look around and see what the damage is?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” Jasper grimaced, fiddling with a tangled mess of glittering gold chains. “I heard quotes are expensive.“
“On the house,” Nieema blurted. “Listen here, anyone who moves to Indigo Plains and lays roots is my kinda people. If you’re serious about making this your home, then we are here to help.”
Buck nodded in agreement. “Yup. We don’t need the money with the new mall opening and such. All hands on deck, as they say, we all you got for now.”
“I’m nobody to refuse help.” Jasper shook a box of nails and said, “When can you stop by?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh shit, that’d be great. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“It’s a good thing you walked into our store, Jasper.”
The succubus smiled and placed the box casting nails back on the shelf. “Thanks. It was nice meeting you, Mr and Mrs Sunsde Have a good night.”

Combat boots and a sundress. It was a deadly combination and Nieema knew well what women like that had to offer. Her calves were large and striking. Buck sniffed and Nieema hummed.

“She’ll be in our bed by next Monday.”
Nieema tweaked a brow and craned her neck. Buck was a god amongst man and smiled like he knew. “She’ll be at my feet long before she sits on your crotchety lap, Mista.”
“Oh woman, you underestimate me!”
“She’s young,” Nieema said, shoving Buck aside. “I can smell it.”
“I’d say a century or two.”
“Hm. That’s why you lookin’ crazy, old fool.”
“My heart and soul belong to you, Mrs Sunside. My dick, however—“

Nieema pounced on her man, locking arms and legs around him. He rumbled with mirth as their lips met. Nieema used her mental will to lock the door. They’d be closed for the next fifteen to twenty minutes.

What To Expect From Patchwork and Pitchforks

Set in the fictional town of Indigo Plains, Patchwork and Pitchforks is a paranormal romance serial with splashes of adventure, horror, and mystery. The main couple and cast will encounter strange happenings in the rural town. Magic and mayhem will ensue but just know, romance is the plot. Please do not misunderstand, I write romance. Kissyface and smashing will be the bread and butter of my stories. I love love, intimacy and smut. You will get all of that and more.

You may find throughout this serial supporting characters get some air-time. Yes, there will be sidequests! I love them, I’m so sorrrry. Serials are about ensembles, right? Can’t say who will get what and when, but I will read comments on this.

I am a planster. I know the characters and the setting, that’s it. I will give ocntent warnings as I go.

I know a few straightaway and they are:

Patchwork and Pitchforks

Be prepared for fluff, steam, romance, and paranormal happenings!

After Jasper Marrow relocates to Indigo Plains she’s prepared for paint, hammers, and broken nails. What she finds on moving day is more than she cares to deal with. Busted pipes, growing mold, and an eager-to-please married couple offer too much excitement for one night.

All Jasper wants is her new-ish house fixed and perhaps exorcised. When the happy duo extends a helping hand and free temporary housing, she has no choice but to accept.

This isn’t close to what I normally write, but I wanted something cute on Whitney Houston’s internet. I’ve been trying to do light and fluffy for months. And I don’t know, I thought why not put it out there.

You Can & You Will

Five months ago, I set out to write a shorter novel and have done it! Brevity, as I’ve stated before, is my weakness. I am a long writer who enjoys 100k+ word counts. I am not apologizing for that. I still prefer them, but I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to put my ass through it. I needed this exercise. It was a great lesson. Now, my shortest book is 43k not, 91k. I went in with a 15k goal. Clearly, I was off by a couple thousand. Lol. But, I still set out to accomplish this thing. This goal I made for reasons other than to prove to myself I could do it. For those like me, writing short stories is unfamiliar and hard. Cutting details and world-building down to a chapter or two is not fun.

My typical genre is paranormal romance and urban fantasy. Those books are known to be longer but in the world of indie, standards such as word counts do not exist. We can write a 30k hard fantasy if we want. We can write a 20k hard sci-fi epic if we so please. My point is, the industry standard is no longer my goal post, however, I will STILL prefer longer novels for paranormal romance but that doesn’t mean I won’t write shorter ones. It’s difficult, not impossible,

If you’ve set a personal goal, and it seems unreachable, REACH FOR IT! You can do this thing! I doubted myself for a long time. Said I could never write a shorter novel, it was too hard. Well, I did it and I pushed through until typing ‘The End’. Believe in yourself and whatever it is you want to achieve, I promise it’s worth the work.

“From my point of view, your life is already a miracle of chance waiting for you to shape its destiny.” ~ Toni Morrison

Himbos Have Nerve

One thing I love most about himbo characters besides their blissful, confident ignorance is their wisdom during heated moments. They transform into arrogant intellectuals who have the answers to all your more personal problems.
Scrap may not know the difference between temperature and temperamental, but he knows enough, honey.
After forty years of never getting there, Zion is about to learn what, ‘reach the mountain top truly means.

Shifter Cotton Candy

I’m not taking this book seriously at all. It’s cute, fun and sexy. Just a little 25k novella. Nothing too much. It’s a release, a cleanser, a break, and freedom. Low plot, cozy, and warm. Letting other ideas flow and float while writing a series saves my sanity.
This one doesn’t even have a title yet. A himbo lamia (MMC/35), and a chameleon shifter nerd (FMC/40) have crossed paths thanks to the FMC escaping death. I have no idea where they’re going, but I know the FMC has to stay alive long enough for me to find out. Two idiots falling in love. My favorite trope.
Zion and Scrap! Sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S my ass to everyone who tries to gatekeep when it comes to older FMCs and romantasy!

Fat Women Belong In Every Genre

I don’t care what y’all say. We belong in every trope and genre. We should have space in the fictional world. I hate how folks tend to erase our existence. I started reading a certain paranormal series and all the FMCs HAD to be fit and thin to become a mate. This turned me off. Because women come in ALLL shapes and sizes. And they should be represented. As an author, I understand, we are free to write what we want.

I know that.

And as readers, we are free to read (or not) whatever we want.

My issue here is not with the author, it’s with how thin and fat bodies are portrayed. Good vs Evil. It’s absolutely INFURIATING. Please, give me a good reason why. Beyond what others perceive as beautiful and what society has told you is an acceptable physique, why must a character be thin? Why?

This is why we write and are so vocal about body-positive representation. They want us to sit in a corner and be friends who never get the guy/girl/them. They’d rather we stay the funny fat friend and nothing more. I love how self-publishing has given us the freedom to be loud and happy.

Trad pubs hate footing the bill for us. Nowadays, since the movement is over and done (money-wise). They’re back to sneering at fat main characters. Well, I say fuck them and anyone else who thinks we don’t belong in certain genres.

FAT FMCs ARE ALLOWED TO EXIST IN A MIDDLE EARTH-DYSTOPIAN-WESTERN-RGENECY ROMANCE-SEASIDE-SCIFI ALIEN-HORROR BOOKS DAMN IT!

Killing the Art of Sexual Intimacy

Puritan culture is going to kill the arts. Sterility is what they seek and I loathe it. To say this generation is more sexual than the last is not only ignorant but false. To speak on sex in novels without having any knowledge of old works of fiction is absurd. I can understand if you’ve read every book on planet earth and have facts to back your claims. Then I’d say good day, sir, ma’am, ENBY you have stunned and stumped me.

But nah! Hell nah.
Most who recite these points on intimacy in literature and film haven’t read enough. They haven’t researched enough or cared to. They have a ‘me’ mentality about it. ‘I don’t like this so I don’t think it’s called for’. SAD! Please, go sit down and open a book which has what you crave within those pages.
There are too many novels and movies out there w/out sex for them to complain and gripe. If you wanna nitpick about the resurgence of sexuality, genitalia and nudity then fine! Has if ever occurred to them, some may be squeezing in these sex scenes out of spite?!
I have written my fair share of sex scenes because of this. I have made certain in my recent works to make those characters fuck! I can’t take a world filled with this evangelical approach to all things linked to passion and carnality.
Sex will sell! Nothing you can do will stop it. Even if these bible thumping Neanderthals ban erotica and ‘displays of intercourse’ it won’t put an end to this.
Sex and art have ALWAYS been and will always BE one!

New Shorts

Once a week, I will post a new short story. Each short will come in at around 5-10k. A good portion will be romance. Sub-genre? Who knows. I don’t. As a panster, I have no clue what will come from the prompts I use until I start writing. Even then, it’s still up in the air. Typically, a character will expose themselves within minut4es, but that’s all I have to go on. What the story will be about strongly depends on the season. Yes, a large portion will be romance, but not all. I enjoy horror, fantasy, domestic thrillers, westerns and sci-fi. This will be my way of branching out, so bear with me as I explore genres I love, but have never dared to write.

CW: I write dark stories. Expect violence, explicit language, sex, gore, monster fucking, alcoholism, death, grief, murder and certain depictions of abuse. I WILL NEVER SHOW SA ON PAGE! That’s a hard boundary for me as a reader and a writer.

PSA: I WILL NEVER USE AI. I HAVE BEEN WRITING SINCE I WAS NINE YEARS OLD AND WILL NEVER, EVER, SUPPORT THE USE OF AI IN LITERATURE.

Fear, My Best Buddy!

For years and years annnnnd years, I’ve let fear run amok. It’s controlled many parts of my life, I threw away huuuuge opportunities because of such cowardice. My lack of spine, and lack of faith in self! I let doubts and impending criticism hold me back from sooo much.
But sis, bro, them!I am so over it. I have been a writer for seventeen long arse years. I have written scripts, poetry and scribbled ideas on napkins, journals and receipts. I have finished 16 MS! No one, has read so much as a word. Not one person, why? Cause I scarwed, or was. I was terrified of someone saying, “yo, this is garbage.” After I’ve just spent months pouring my whole soul into 120k words.
I was polarized and mortified by the mere thought of criticism. Not that I think I’m above it, absolutely not. No, it’s someone looking at my work and thinking I’m no good, cause I wanna be good, I wanna be a published author. And, I think I’m good, I do. I think I’ve got a knack for it, but what if someone disagrees?! That’s the scary part. Thing is, with age, I’ve grown less concerned with what others think of me, what I wear, or how I choose to live my life. For the life of me, I can’t find those same set of balls when it comes to writing.
Letting strangers read what I’ve written is exposing! I think that’s what it boils down to. People get to see what’s inside my dark, dank, attic which some would call a brain. It strips me bare for all to see, and perhaps that’s what I’m fearful of most. But by gods of Olympus, I’m sick of it y’all, I am done! Ya girl is fresh out of excuses. If I want people to read what I have, even ten sets of eyes, I will mush on! I want someone to see this world full of vampires and demons that reside in my head for weeks on end.
I feel it’s time you know, to throw caution to the wind and say, F it! Some will hate it, I am not delusional about this, there will be folks who will give it one star. But, that comes with the territory. Life as a storyteller isn’t easy, but if I can write it, I can publish it.