It’s Time for you HUMP DAY HUMP!!!!
Been a while, so I am going to post a few! *g* Lets start off with one of my fav’s. An R rated snippit from How Not to Date a Changeling…. yeah, it was a fan
demand that I write this one… See what you all make me do? LOL

How Not to Date a Changeling by Stephanie Burke
http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=2077

“Life in the fast lane,” Taylor sang, tossing his head back and shaking his hips.
He was baking. In the last four days he had tried everything he could to get into that house. The note he left taped to the door was found the next day in the same envelope, torn into itty bitty little pieces, and the noise was even more intense that night. He tried sending flowers only to find the bouquet decapitated in its vase when he went back. The hello card was corrected for grammatical errors in red ink the next day, and the noise sounded smug and spiteful that night. And his last attempt, a basket of breads, was taken in and the mangled basket left on her front porch.
It was a game to him now, to get his house unpacked and to meet the strange neighbor. Baked goods was the closest that he had come so he was going to continue on that track. It was a personal goal to get into her house, and he was not above pulling out the hard stuff to get his way.
He swiveled his hips, all stripper chic, his hips moving on point, and hit the ground… hard.
“Fuck!” he bellowed when his bad knee clicked as it gave away, and he collapsed onto his side.
If this pain had a color, it would be bright red with radiating white streaks of fire shooting up his thigh and down to his ankle. Hissing, he leaned over and gripped his knee with both hands as he writhed on the kitchen floor. Some abstract part of his mind was grateful he’d decided to keep his living area on the first floor, reserving the second floor for guest rooms. He’d never been more grateful than when he realized he didn’t have to navigate the stairs to get to his pain meds.
When the bright red of his knee dulled to an angry purple, he forced himself to move. Flipping over onto his back was enough to make him curse again, but he refrained and forced himself to sit up.
It was a blessing that his heavy butcher’s block kitchen table was strong enough to hold his weight as he struggled to get onto his feet. Silently, he blessed his therapist, who insisted on indoor athletic shoes for traction because if he slipped again he was going to wind up on his ass for the rest of the night.
Using the walls for balance, he ignored the deep throbbing which had added itself to his knee party and the hot spot his left leg had become as he made his way to his bedroom.
The hope trunk at the foot of his bed was his goal. It had been a gift to him from his grandmother years before she passed, and he treasured the trunk made of oak and dreams. Even now he loved the damn thing, though it would never be used for its original purpose. Instead of being filled with baby clothing and tangible memories of the love of his life, it now held souvenirs of his battle to remain ambulatory and the gear needed to control his pain. There were no silks and satins, but there was a garment made of neoprene and steel that offered support and balance more powerful than any relationship he could have chosen to have.
He stumbled to the bed and sank down on the foot of it as he flung the trunk open. His knee brace — one of many — waited to embrace his leg and knee and offer what support it could. It took a few seconds to get the Velcro straps just right and then he sighed when the cold neoprene surrounded his leg and thigh, keeping his kneecap centered while allowing motion.
Once he was properly strapped in, it was only a matter of making his way back to the kitchen for…
It was about then that the alarm on his oven went off.
“Fuck.” Taylor struggled to his feet, moving as fast as he could, which was not very fast, to make his way down to the kitchen. With every step, anger grew. He was out of a job, stuck in this house and inundated with noise every night. And now his knee was done and the fucking cake was burning.
Moving so fast he nearly stumbled a time or two, he made it to the kitchen and over to the oven. He nearly burned himself on the oven door before he remembered to slip on oven mitts. He ripped the chocolate mint cheesecake out of the oven and barely prevented himself from throwing it against a wall and watching it splatter in a bright beautiful mess. Just like his knee. Just like his life.
He dragged his bad leg behind him as he made his way to the cabinet that held his meds. He slammed the door open and stared at his unending supply of narcotics and pain meds while he decided how dumb he wanted to be that night. Was it a Percocet night, which would numb his mind but not the pain, not really. Or would Vicodin be the drug of the hour? It would numb the pain and his mind, but that was a small price to pay for the ability to walk upright, right? Then there was oxy. Good old oxy, made him tremble like an earthquake and drool would collect in the corner of his mouth, but he would feel nothing at all. That was good, right?
Well, at least he still had a leg. Fuck the fact that the pain meds made taking a shit a bloody nightmare, literally. No, he could actually exist in a drugged haze until they threw his ass in rehab… Never mind his lack of a sex life — at least he had his health, somewhat.
Forget about ever finding someone to sleep over for the night, let alone start a relationship. Who wanted to sleep with a man who had flashbacks and night terrors that inevitably brought him awake, scaring whoever had the misfortune of being beside him? Who wanted to endure his scarred body and his tendency to fall down when least expected? Who wanted a fucking cripple as their significant other?
So instead of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness that he had damn near died fighting for so others might have a normal life, his life now consisted of goals. To get out of the bed in the morning, he had to have a goal. To keep exercising, he had to have a goal. And now, his motherfucking goal was to get into that goddamned house.
Taylor slammed the cabinet shut and absently grabbed the really nice cheesecake with his oven mitt and stormed toward the front door. Ignoring his usual outdoor shoes, he slung the front door open, his pain and anger carrying him forward. Limping, damn near dragging his leg behind him, he stormed up the path to the mad woman’s door. The setting sun told him he had an hour or so before she would start her caterwauling. He had to hop on one leg to move up the three stairs that led to her front door.
Blam blam blam.
“I know you’re there!” he bellowed, pounding the door so hard it shook on its hinges. “Look, you pitiless monster, for a week I’ve been playing nice, dealing with your fucking noises and bringing you gifts.”
“No!” he heard from behind him, and the less angry part of his brain recognized Miss Winnie.
He ignored her and pounded on the door again. “I bust my ass trying to be kind, and you throw it in my face. You take what I give and act like a feckless bitch. So you know what?” He hefted the cake pan high, eyeing her door. “You like my baked goods so much you had to eat them all and fuck up my basket as a thank you. Well, I got something for you now. You’ve got five seconds to open this fucking door or so help me I’m gonna smear this chocolate mint cheesecake that I so kindly prepared for you all over your front door and then fuck you!”
“It’s not going to work and you… you’re going to get yourself killed,” Miss Winnie screamed, and he slammed his hand down on the door once more.
“Five seconds! One… two… three… four… fi –” and the door clicked open.
Taylor stood there, mouth hanging open, hand raised to strike the door. It was an obvious invitation, but dare he take it?
He looked over his shoulder at Miss Winnie and her purple-tinted poodle, who was glaring at him in abject disapproval, down to his swollen, throbbing knee, and then back to the open door.
Goals needed to be met.
Slowly, he limped into the house.
The interior of the house was dark and, amazingly enough, smelled of vanilla, spice, and lemon. It tempted him to close his eyes and inhale deeply, though he resisted the urge.
He stepped in deeper, looking around curiously, and nearly jumped as the door slammed shut behind him.
“So where are you?” he demanded, limping further into the vestibule. “Where are you hiding? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure doors don’t open –”
“Put the cake down and no one gets hurt.”
Taylor spun around, his eyes traveling over the dim recesses of the room. He could make out a lot of tropical plants in huge pots and the beautiful black-and-white checkered tile of the floor, and not much else.
He stepped in farther and caught his breath because where the tile ended, the real beauty began.
The walls were covered in crystal, quartz, and all sorts of shiny things. There were bells hidden somewhere that tinkled as a gentle, unseen breeze flowed through the room, ruffling his hair and surrounding him with the smell of lemon and spice.
Taylor was in awe. He took another step, his head turning as he took in the exotic look of the place. It had to have taken years to create such a space, and he admired the creator’s eye for beauty. But that wasn’t why he was here. Interior decorating hadn’t yet become a kink of his. He was here for the girl.
“I will if you show your face,” he countered, spinning around, looking for the direction the voice had come from.
“You don’t need to see me,” she snorted. “Just put down the cake and no one gets hurt.”
“And that’s the thanks I get?”
“What makes you think you earned any thanks at all? You’re the one who invaded my territory and had the audacity to demand a gesture of appreciation from me. You, sir, can kiss my ass.”
“I’d kiss it if I could see it,” he grumbled, thinking maybe she had a point. He’d never really involved a person in his daily goals before. This was a first, and his little experiment wasn’t turning out how he’d envisioned.
“And what makes you think you even earned that?”
“The fact that you liked my goodies so much you left teeth marks in the basket.” He tried to interject a joke, wondering if she would allow a little humor to ease the tense situation.
“That was a warning.” She spoke slowly, as if considering her words. “One that was apparently too complicated for your simple mind to grasp.”
“Or maybe I’m more determined.”
“Stubborn.”
“Dogmatic.”
“Ass-a-holish!”
“That’s harsh.” Was he coming off as an ass? He thought about his past actions and had to shake his head in the negative. He wasn’t being an asshole. He was following all the rules of becoming a good neighbor that he had gathered from his own parents and the Internet.
“But no less deserved.”
She had kind of an accent, he realized, and now he wanted to see her more than before. “If you come out, I’ll apologize and give you the cake.”
“And leave me the hell alone?”
“Can’t promise that.” She really sounded fascinating and he wanted to… he didn’t know, learn more about her. “I try to be honest to all my potential friends.”
“Potential.” She snorted. “I only want some chocolate. Why do I find myself constantly surrounded by drama?”
“Maybe because you’re creating most of it yourself?” he asked archly. “I mean with the caterwauling and all. Someone was bound to come and see what was going on.”
“No one has before… besides a few cops, and they are crunchy when roasted just right.”
“Not scaring me.” He chuckled. “I’ve been to Afghanistan. Believe me, after using golf balls to bust up anti-personnel mines and the men’s barracks after we survived a dirty bomb attack made with our own missing gear, nothing you do can scare me.”
“Is that what happened to your leg?”
Her question threw him for a moment, and he stared into the dim light in silence. He really didn’t want to relive the attack, the sounds of the mortars exploding, the screams of the dying…
“Something like that,” he allowed finally, all humor leaving his voice as he felt his expression fall flat.
“Oh…” Her voice trailed off, and he could detect a hint of pity there. It pissed him off all over again.
“Yeah, oh.” He rolled his eyes, shifting his weight to take pressure off his throbbing leg.
He looked up as he heard a noise and was grateful for the distraction from the dark turn his thoughts were taking. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, when he saw a shadow detach itself from a stand of plants. He squinted, peering deeper into the darkness to see… a form.
As he watched, the long, thin shadow separated from the rest and a long, thin body stepped forward.
She was… he didn’t know. The darkness seemed to part, and suddenly he found himself staring at a thin woman who was taller than him.
He could barely make out her face, heart-shaped and delicate looking. Her limbs were long. She stepped toward him and he could see long fingers, piano player fingers, clutched nervously before her. She was small breasted, and with her head tilted to the side, examining him, he could see her eyes were large, almond-shaped emeralds that glittered in the darkness of the foyer.
He took one step toward her and she paused, almost skittish despite the earlier bravado in her voice.
“I — thank you for your service –” she stammered, and a smile broke across his lips. She still sounded snarky and defiant, but now adorable.
He stepped closer and presented the now-cool cheesecake pan. She reached for it, stepping deeper into the dim light, and he froze.
There was something… she was… not – “Oh. What are you?” he asked, and she froze as if struck by a sharp and painful object. Her eyes grew larger, and her thin lips pulled taut.
Orange/brown skin the color of honey flushed red as she snatched the cake pan. She was wearing a long, thin robe and with each feature taken in the singular, she was human. But when he put them all together there was something decidedly otherworldly about her.
He wasn’t afraid, just shocked, and stood there as she snarled, exposing tiny, almost cute fangs.
“Cur!” she screamed at him before he could explain that he found her adorable even if she wasn’t human. A wild wind, still smelling of lemons and vanilla, and a taint of displeasure, lifted him off his feet and sent him whirling toward the door.
He struggled to speak, to control his limps, to stop his impression of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz when the front door sprang open and he found himself being gently but firmly placed on his ass on her front stoop.
He jerked around, trying to see into the house again when the door slammed. He winced as the sound reminded him of a gunshot.
Attempt one was a dismal failure, and now he had lost any ground he had gained. So not cool.
But on the bright side, his goal for the day had been met.

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