Fabion Under the Spotlight
Fabion, my supermodel elf prince from “An Elf for All Centuries,” has finally emerged from enjoying sex with his new lover. My, someone looks flushed.
FABION: “Yeah, tell me about it. Whew! Come on, Henda’s been in a serious ride his pretty pony hard mood and I am hardly turning him down. Neeeiiigh way. Ha, get it? Yeah, whatever. Okay, you keep harassing me about this interview and I keep ducking you. Great, bring on the questions. I usually love the interview process. Talking about me is never a hardship, right?”
S.A.G.: These aren’t my normal questions. I threw in a few silly ones I found on the Internet.
Fabion: “That doesn’t sound cool. Okay, whatever, toss me the first question.”
S.A.G.: Which are you, a key or a lock?
Fabion: “Geesh, you ask me those kinds of goofy questions, eh? What’s next, ink blots and weird swirly patterns to determine my relationship with my Pops? Fine, during my life as a supermodel, I usually liked being the key. Now that I am back in the stone— I mean the nineteenth century, I dig being a lock. Someone else loves using his huge key to turn my tumblers, yeah, baby!”
S.A.G.: Why am I not surprised? Next! When you walk into an unfamiliar room, what’s the first thing you notice?
Fabion: “The closest mirror so I can make sure my hair is looking fine. Tee-hee. I tend to notice details, like if groovy flowers soften the room or if great accessories like the rug or wall hangings match. Yeah, if a room is painted like blood red, I’ll notice that first and probably run the other way. Someone who paints a room blood red isn’t all there to me. Blood red walls means they’re trying to hide something gross.”
S.A.G.: You are being served dinner and the server dumps soup in your lap. How do you react?
Fabion: “Really, lots of these questions have different answers since I used to be more of a jerk. If the soup is hot, I’ll stand up and scream, no doubt about it. Back in the day, I might even have slapped someone in fine pissed off diva style. Now if the damned soup is hot, I’m still gonna scream, but I won’t hit anyone. Around here the human servers are too cute to hit, ya know?”
S.A.G.: If you say so, sweetie. Now, imagine you wake up one morning and discover you have turned green. You…
Fabion: “Any reason why?”
S.A.G.: No, you’re green.
Fabion: “What shade of green?”
S.A.G.: Does it matter?
Fabion: “Pfftthh, the fuck yeah it matters. Hey, a dark emerald green might not be so bad.”
S.A.G.: Okay, how about a bright acid green?
Fabion: “Ouch, yeah, no way. First I’d think someone had punked me, so I’d try scrubbing off the color in the bath. If I remain acid green, which would so clash with my sizzling red hair, I’d run screaming to Mattie and beg him to change me back. I’m sure my wizard pal knows a few tricks for getting out the green.”
S.A.G.: How pleasant to have a wizard around to solve your problems.
Fabion: “Damn skippy it is. Hey, if you turn green, I’ll ask him to help you.”
S.A.G.: Gee thanks, I’ll keep it in mind. Here’s a brain teaser. You are in a pitch-black room. You need matching socks and you have 19 grey socks and 25 black socks. What are the chances you will get a matching pair?
Fabion: “None because I don’t own gray or black socks, well, yeah, I’m sure some black ones hide at the back of one drawer. I’m more into green although here no one really sees my socks because of my cool boots. Why am I trying to match socks in the dark? Did the big dude forget to order more candles? Wait, hey, I never get up when it’s dark. Is there a point here?”
S.A.G.: I’ll mark this as you don’t want to answer the question.
Fabion: “There’s no reason to answer it. Pfftthh, it’s silly. Nothing in that question pertains to me.”
S.A.G.: Striking any math-oriented questions. Great. This one might be more to your liking. You walk into a room of strangers and catch someone regarding you with abject hatred. How do you react?
Fabion: “Abject hatred? Really? Like he’s gonna run up and knife me type of abject hatred? Yep-a-doodle, I would react. I’d beat it the hell out of there fast.”
S.A.G.: You’d run away?
Fabion: “Listen, if it is a room filled with strangers, I bet it’s a party or high-assed social function. If anyone gives me that serious level of stink eye and I don’t know why, then I don’t wanna know them. Common sense, correct? Diplomacy. Yeah, if by some chance I happen to wear my sword to the party, which I can’t imagine why I would, a duel might break out. That sounds fun. Yeah, I can see myself tapping the dude on the shoulder and calling him out. Well, maybe. Depends on if the big dude is with me. If Henda is with me, I’ll ask him to give the nasty bugger his first class ‘don’t fuck with us’ stare. Henda’s primo cold stare is lethal.”
S.A.G.: But if you are alone and armed, challenging the nasty bugger is an option.
Fabion: “Sure, why not? I’d fuck with him, get him down on the floor and ask him what the hell is his problem. I wouldn’t hurt him.”
S.A.G.: Duly noted. If you had to apply a label to yourself, what would it be?
Fabion: “Do you mean literally stick something to my body like a warning label? That would be ‘warning, contents under sexy pressure.’”
S.A.G.: No, not stick the label on you. More like a label to describe you.
Fabion: “Pretty much the same thing. 100% Sexy Elf.”
S.A.G.: Sounds like time to move this question up in the ranks. Who is sexier, you or your big dude lover?
Fabion: “That is so not fair. Look, I am sexy in my own way, granted an extremely special way, but Henda is sexy in that low-key confident manner that makes him, well, even sexier. There. But come on, as a supermodel, I needed to market my sexiness. I doubt if I’ll ever kick the habit of strutting my stuff. That’s the thing, my big dude never struts his stuff. His stuff struts without him knowing it’s out there attracting attention, ya know?”
S.A.G.: Your answer is your big dude Henda. Fabion? Hello?
Fabion: “Yep. Let’s move along already.”
S.A.G: Fine, fine. Here’s another brain teaser. What do wood and alcohol have in common?
Fabion: “Aw shit, that’s easy. Wine casks. You need wood to help the wine ferment until the brew has an alcoholic content. The answer is wine casks, right?”
S.A.G.: There are many different answers. It’s a silly question.
Fabion: “Like what other answers?”
S.A.G.: Like they both burn or can’t drive a car.
Fabion: “Righto, I get it. I coulda said they don’t need to wear clothes and I’d still be right, eh?”
S.A.G.: You nailed it, dude. Ouch, wrong thing to say around you.
Fabion: “I’m being a good little elfikins and just smirking at you. Look, can we take a break soon? I need to piss.”
S.A.G.: Two more and we’ll take a break. Using a scale of 1 to 10, how smart are you?
Fabion: “Smart as in being a smart ass or— okay, geesh, quit shaking your head at me. I know I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree, around here that honor goes to Henda, Mattie, and even Tah, but I’m no drooling knuckle-dragger, right? I give myself a 7 or, on a good day after the big dude has cock-stirred my brain, an 8.”
S.A.G.: Here’s a silly one before the break. The cow jumps over the moon. What day is it?
Fabion: “The day I need to quite drinking tree-sap wine because if I start hallucinating that badly, my brain must be short-circuiting. Are we good? Can I pretty-please run to the potty? Thanks. Entertain the folks with an excerpt.”
S.A.G.: But of course! Here’s an excerpt from “An Elf for all Centuries.”
S.A.G.: Pssst, Fabion will answer more questions on Edward Kendrick's blog on June 5th. Don’t let him know.
Elven super model Prince Fabion's day is perfect until wizard Matradorian kidnaps him from his penthouse. Surprise, Fabion is a spiritual match for elf king Henda’s dead lover. Only he can save the dying Henda. The problem is Fabion lives in the thirty-ninth century. Henda lives in the nineteenth.
When he lands in the nineteenth century, Fabion controls himself from punching Matradorian, saves Henda and falls in instant lust with his romantic fantasy. After all, this is a romantic comedy.
When Fabion realizes his polluted, on the verge of ruin thirty-ninth century is gone, the super model pitches the temper tantrum of any century until he realizes sexy Henda accepts him as his true lover. Being the virile, handsome Henda's lover fills Fabion's emotional gap. Despite the lack of facials and hot water, the former super model adapts to living in the backwards century.
Soon Fabion learns the nineteenth century is more dangerous than his vanished thirty-ninth century. Who wants to kill him now? And why?
The supermodel reached the Sequoia's warded doors. Tough-looking guards nodded his way. The fawning security chief opened the doors inserted into the tree's giant base.
Before he entered, Fabion stopped and glanced to the right. Wait, who lurked over there? How had he slipped past security?
An ancient oldster, clad in a peacock feather-coated top hat and a tattered, blue robe, slumped against the Sequoia's rough, far edge. Upon spying Fabion, he stood straight. His excited stare speared into Fabion's flesh. Fabion sensed the invasion pass through his clothing and examine him down to the bone. How did the old wart create the strange violation?
Fuck, the insane wizard everyone was talking about now stalked him.
He owned no time for magical nonsense. Fabion pointed in command. "Guards, secure that suspicious, old cretin!"
The five aggressive guards followed Fabion's gesture. Huh? No way! The scruffy dude had vanished!
A tall, blond hulk respectfully glanced toward Fabion. "Prince Fabion? Sorry, there's no one there."
Right, like duh, butthead. Did the blond lunkhead suppress a snicker? Asshole. "Wow, my eyes must play tricks on me."
Like fuck! Fabion possessed sharp elven vision. The old bastard had stood right over there. The weirdo had even managed to make eye contact with Fabion. Super-duper creepy.
Fabion stared in further suspicion. Nothing. He sighed and entered the tree's unnaturally enhanced pine-scented interior. No matter, the sweet air instantly calmed him down. At least the designers had left the rough wooden interior alone. How rare.
Another forlorn jab hit Fabion's mind. What the fuck was wrong with him today? He needed to feel fabulous, not introspective. Fabion turned to the tall, human security head and amped up his smile wattage.
"Kyle, make sure no old wizards sneak in here. One lurked out front and I swear the skanky asshole shot me the evil eye. Too weird, right?" Fabion shook his head. "When Hestran arrives, send him right up. No need to buzz me."
The handsome human winked in acknowledgement. "Will do, Prince Fabion. How did your meeting go?"
There, someone cared about him. Fabion preened in giddy delight. "Mmm, Kyle, consider my rent paid for eternity. Worry not, the fabulous bonuses for the many kicky extras you supply me still flow your way."
Winking coyly, Fabion trailed his long fingers down Kyle's cheek. He loved slumming with the muscular human. The security administrator's bloodline traced back to an ancient, trusted royal human family sworn to support the elves. Too bad the Walmon goons had declared human dynasties illegal. Arrogant power-hogs.
"The news makes my day, Prince Fabion." Kyle ducked away from the security camera and wetly kissed Fabion's soft palm.
Fabion smacked Kyle's firm cheek. "Stop it, you naughty boy. Hey, you're off tomorrow and I'm not busy." Fabion playfully winked again and licked his lips.
He adored how Kyle almost drooled in aching delight. "What time should I arrive, my prince?"
"Come up around four. Bring take-out from that clever dwarf fusion café. Their barbecued electric eel and fried kiwi combo platter is faboo. We can enjoy a picnic out on my balcony, well, if the pollution isn't deadly. No matter what, at least we'll enjoy each other."
"I can't wait, fair one!" Kyle bowed in respect.
"Keep hot for me, sweetie."
His secret human squeeze deserved one last radiant smile. Fabion strolled to his private elevator and punched in his access code. He smiled at himself in the gleaming mirrors. What a delightful view. Nothing in squalid Pinar matched the pristine sight. He always wore light colors to offset his emerald eyes and waist-length, coppery tresses. This tailored suit displayed his masculine assets in a subtle yet impressive fashion. No wonder everyone adored him.
Fine, fuck, almost everyone. Stop!
The doors opened into the snug security foyer. Cameras monitored his movements. Another access code opened stern steel doors. Fabion stepped up to his custom, hand-carved double doors depicting him as a benevolent savior. As he murmured soft runes, Fabion's fingers touched key spots in the beautiful display. They were located at his nipples, cock, and lips. Yum. Elven magic supplied more security than keys and locks, although when drunk, Fabion owned a dragon of a time entering his own penthouse. Slurring during a strict, elven rune chant messed up the works. He hated calling his building rune master, but the problem occurred more often than Fabion cared to admit. Rune Master Sarde had made a fortune off befuddled Fabion's house calls.
The thick doors swung in. His mobile phone sang Hestran's tune. Now what? Hestran probably needed advice on a purchase. His fingers plucked out his phone from his vest. Fabion entered his penthouse. His finger aimed for the answer button.
Instead of answering his phone, Fabion shrieked in total alarm. The phone fell to the expensive carpet.
Fabion turned to escape. The heavy doors mysteriously slammed shut. What the fuck? He launched his body at the doors. His hands grasped the silver boar's head doorknobs and yanked backward. No effect. Cursing intensely, he slammed his handcrafted leather heels against the doors and pulled back in enraged elven might. Nothing happened. Come on, his superior physical effort should have ripped the knobs free from the wood.
Fabion muttered his security runes again. He touched the proper places on this side.
Nothing. Nada. Null. Impossible!
Fabion did not need this radical nonsense. Time to kick wizard ass in a lethal manner. He seldom released his elven strength but when he did, if he was sober, he understood how to inflict nasty damage. Abnormal strength and pristine looks were Fabion's only special elven assets. He hated violence but hated violation even more.
His feet slammed back to the carpet. Fabion whirled, raised his taut fists toward the old geek standing before him and bellowed in fury. "Listen, you filthy old bastard, get the fuck out of my penthouse right now! I don't understand how you slithered in here, but you need to slither out! I have more crucial things to do than endure your shit!"
The grubby dude performed an elaborate, arcane gesture. His staff bobbed. Fabion froze. What? Gaag! He couldn't move, speak, or even blink! As Fabion helplessly watched, the winkled old dude performed a triumphant little dance. His feathery top hat bobbed atop his long, white hair. No points for grace.
"That I am able to smite thee tells me that ye are truly the one!"
Huh? Smite thee? Geesh. Struggling mightily, Fabion almost broke free from his freeze. To his annoyance, the old one flicked his fingers again.
The wrinkly dude stopped dancing and cleared his throat. His epic frown reminded Fabion of a frustrated prune. "Right. Sorry, I need to sink back into your odious speech patterns. Dude, I have conquered thee—wait, let me make this clear for you." He hesitated one more time. "Bud, I can freeze your pretty royal ass, which means you are the true Prince Fabion. Do my words compute? Do you savvy my sizzlin' stunt?"
Who had slipped him the hallucinogens? The frozen Fabion stared in pure amazement. His fractured temper soared into the polluted sky. This old asshole deserved an extra large helping of elven ass kicking with a side of manic stomping. He deserved to be tossed off the balcony into the Dumpster.
"Right, you can't talk." The old git twirled his right hand in an intricate pattern. "Pal, now you can talk. Let me warn you, if you raise your voice again, a choking spell will knock you out. Are we clear on the new house rules? I will let you talk, but no caterwauling. High-pitched elven hysteria hurts my poor, old ears." He waved his tall, gnarled staff toward the astonished Fabion.
Fabion snarled in prime annoyance. "What the fuck do you babble about? My prize-winning voice is not high-pitched. I record my own commercials and win awards!"
Instead of looking impressed, old prune puss shook his head. "Fabion, if I release you, do you swear upon your elven soul, or what passes for an elven soul in this wretched century, not to jump me?"
Fabion rolled his eyes. "Yuck, do you think that I want to grope your grubby dick? Dude, so not true! I'd rather kick your wrinkled ass. Besides, what the fuck are you going to do to me? Keep me frozen and pork my tight ass?"
A vastly insulted look crossed the old man's features. "Listen, mouthy, I don't like your attitude. I'd best keep you restrained. Fabion, although you are a sweet hottie, I am not here to jump your bones. Please listen to me. I have wandered across this fucking filthy, crowded city looking for the chosen one. I need to find the royal elf who is a bitchin' soul match for Fabion Leonia, son of Tonasdian, who died in the year 1803. Tag, pal, you're him."
Thanks for reading and thanks for Dawn for hosting today’s Q & A.
Who Am I?
Thirty years ago, I started writing m/m romance. My writing remained a secret lest my friends thought me a freak. Writing about men inserting tab A into slot B didn’t seem the norm for a female teenager. Reading Gordon Merrick, John Rechy and Larry Kramer helped me fill in informational gaps. Yes, I read those books only in my bedroom.
As the years progressed and I discovered my sexual path, I still wrote m/m romance, although the stories progressed from lurking in notebooks to hiding on the computer.
Now I am glad I kept the writing faith. Five published novellas and novels later, my life is a fun quandary of too many stories hindered by slow typing skills. I accept the silly challenge.
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