We found socks!

(I'd like to thank the person on FB who posted this to my
FB group. Best. Picture. Ever!)

Okay-- it's not really anything to blog about, but it is exciting.

This year, I decided on three projects to knit (hey-- knitting is in the title there somewhere).

Project A: A family of socks for Mary-my-Mary

Project B: A blanket for my friend Ellis's adorable child

Project C: The Neil Gaiman Baker-Street scarf for Ms. Lynn West





So, I've started on all of them (being the fiber slut that I am) and I love every project. (And hey, it's just occurred to me, that as far as rockstars go, I'm knitting for rockstars. Saying. This is exciting.)

But here's the thing-- I am actually almost done with the family of socks. There were to be four pairs.  I sent two pairs to their intended recipient, had finished the third and set them out to block, and had started the fourth and had actually finished the first sock. 

And that's when I realized…

Oh, holy crap, I couldn't find the third pair of socks.

My house had eaten the third pair of socks. NO SOCKS, there were NO SOCKS!

You've got to understand.

The first pair of socks for this project was halfway completed--I had one sock done--and I had ZB try the sock on and… zip. I had no socks done, because a flaw I hadn't noticed just ran down the side of that sucker and I had to start again.  The second set went much better--but I had to unwind the first sock or I wouldn't have had enough wool, and honestly? That makes me itchy. I like to have enough wool. The second pair went awesomely--so awesomely in fact that I had to have a pair of fingerless mitts out of the same wool for reasons. Those reasons, btw, are what have kept me from whining over the last week as we sit out in the dark and cold to watch our kids practice soccer on a tennis court under the lights, so Imma say some good reasons.  But still-- two projects, two delays.

This was the third pair of socks… if I couldn't find them by the time I finished the last sock I was going to have to postpone the blanket (which is doing quite well) and postpone the scarf (which I adore working on) and knit another pair of plain worsted socks. 

I know non-knitters won't believe me when I say this, but this would be a tragedy.

And now it's been averted.

I haven't been this happy since I woke up on Saturday and thought, "I need to take care of that ticket-- WAIT! IT'S OVER! I DON'T HAVE TO ANYMORE!"

*whew*

Only one sock to go.

Mazeltov, It's a Zoomboy

My younger children are…

Not popular. Not only are they not popular, but nowhere in their genetic makeup are the seeds of being popular. Squish doesn't know how to play mean girls, and she had no desire for makeup-- as she'll tell you to your face, she is only nine years old.  She would, however, like to level up in her reading, insists on being in GATE, needs to be in choir, and would dearly love to make every dance class if it were not for mom making her catch up on homework or those pesky Kings games.

Zoomboy is pretty sure he is popular because he knows everything about Star Wars, Harry Potter, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, How It's Made, Myths of Science, Mythbusters, and World's  Funniest Animals. How could you not be popular with that roster-- and the chess club to boot!

So, no. I have not geared my brain-thirsty children for popularity 101.  

And I"m not excited about wrestling, either.

Big T wrestled when I was pregnant with Squish. He was easily the biggest kid in six schools--and he would step up to the matt, and those kids would crap their pants, thinking he was going to destroy them.

The longest he ever lasted before his pin was 10 seconds.  

Ten. 

So, when Zoomboy told me they'd started a wrestling unit in the same class that was responsible for his concussion, I was not particularly excited.

"Wrestling, huh?"

"Yeah! And they teach us how to hold and how to take someone down and how to pin--"

"So you know all that?"

"Yeah! And today I went up against a kid who was really good and I lasted for a long time before he pinned me!"

Me, somewhat surprised. "Good… that's great. Good for you!"

"And then I went up against another kid who wasn't supposed to be that good and he totally took me out."

"He what?"

"He took me down--I saw stars, I couldn't breathe-- I think I even cried."

Me--flailing, angry, upset, because… my baby!  "You… you cried! In PE?"

"Yeah, my head hurt and everything."  

Oh God. "Does it still hurt?"

"Oh no-- it stopped before my next class. But it was scary."

Yes, yes it was scary.  "I think maybe you shouldn't wrestle anymore."

And here's where ZoomBoy totally surprised me.  "But I love wrestling!"

"But that big boy made you cry!"  And yes, I am still flailing.

"But he said he was sorry! And he won't do it again! I love wrestling. I'm sort of good at it."

"Oh.  Okay."  And now my inner flailing is coming from a totally different place. "Wrestling, huh?"

"Yeah-- it looks like it's all about strength but it's really about strategy and intelligence--that's what the coaches say. I think I can do the intelligent part."

Oh God. It hits me.  "You'll be great, honey!"  

I've given birth to and raised a boy.  I didn't mean for it to happen, but there you go.  Mazeltov, it's a ZoomBoy. He likes science, literature, math, chess club, and wrestling. 

I have no idea how that happened.

Ball Experts

So, Squish's coach is a fit guy, as energetic as a psychotic squirrel, with a tendency to chatter at the kids without actually thinking about what he's saying.

He's sort of adorable-- the soccer moms have enjoyed giving him a ration of shit.

Example?

Tonight, they were practicing on the tennis court, under the lights, while we huddled under blankets on the sidelines.

Coach: I seem to have lost my ball… darn it, where's my one white ball?

Soccer Mom 1: Only one ball, coach? You only have one white ball?

Coach (looking suspicious): Yes, only one white ball--

Me: Is the other one blue, sir?

Coach (getting it now): You know, there is a teenaged boy behind you guys--

Me: He can write his own material-- we're doing fine on our own!

The coach walked away, muttering, but as practice progressed and he started calling out to the girls, "Where's my support over here! My ball needs support!", well, you can just imagine.

Soccer Mom 2: So, which ball do you think he needs supported?

Soccer Mom 1: Definitely the white one.

Me: The other one is just left, swinging in the breeze?

We laughed-- a lot-- but when he came back to the fence, we had quieted down. He glared at us suspiciously.  "You guys are quiet-- nothing else to say on the subject?"

Soccer Mom 2: You said everything-- you said your ball was unsupported. Did you get support for your ball, coach?

Coach: You girls sound ball deprived, that's the problem!

Soccer Moms 1 and 2 shut down with that, but, well… who could resist.

Me: Actually, sir, I'm a ball specialist. It's part of my job.

He was left speechless (for about ten seconds) and the Soccer Moms high-fived me.

Me (quietly to soccer moms): I really am sort of an expert.

Soccer Moms: Well, you'd have to be in your line of work.

Me: Sayin'.

*Kermit Flail* November

So-- We've survived the dreaded October, and it's nothing but holidays from here on out.  I'm so excited!

And this month's *Kermit Flail* is really something special-- in a lot of ways.  

I know all of the authors featured this month-- and have even flailed one or two, but everybody is here in a slightly different capacity than they are usually--and that makes things sort of more awesome.

Let's start with Alex Whitehall, who is one of my much adored Riptide People.  I've met Alex several times in person, and last time, was gifted by a chain mail scarf (which got me through the winter, it was just so soft and full of love!) because Alex really loved my knitting series.  I have the feeling that they have a soft spot for our gentler characters--especially given that Alex's offering this month is called Sharing the Pond and features the most adorable little frog on the cover!  So sweet!  

From Alex, we can move on to Shae Connor-- who just doesn't write enough. Now see, I've met Shae on a number of occasions, but I have two favorites.  One was at RWA Atlanta, where we shared a beer with J.P. Barnaby over lunch, and the other was at RWA New York. I hadn't seen her all week hardly-- but she was my parting hug as I waited for my cab. I adore Shae, and I'm so glad to be *flailing* one of her books this month.  And I love the cover-- so pretty :-)

Now, I both know and have *flailed* Aisling Mancy and Shira Anthony-- but never together--so I pretty much begged Aisling for the chance to *flail* A Solitary Man.  Eeeee!!! These are two of the most awesome people in the history of awesome, and they ave pooled their awesomeness TOGETHER. How I adore them so!

S.M. May is the pseudonym of one of the lovely people who offered to translate Vulnerable into Italian for free. She has written a novel-- in  English-- and has also written a few in Italian, and I am just always so in awe of people who can do that. She asked for some help getting the word out about her work and I just jumped on that!  Anyone who would translate a book for just the love of it is going to be one of my favorite people in general, so go baby, go baby, go baby GO!

And Nyrae Dawn… *happy sigh*  Ms. Dawn also writes as Riley Hart, and I am a huge fan. She writes young adult as Nyrae and wonderful M/M small town romance as Riley, and in person? Lovely. Stunningly pretty, a little bit shy, and all around wonderful.  When we first met, Nyrae was planning to write adult M/M and I told her to go for it--now I'm like, "Best. Cheerleading. Ever!" Anything I could have possibly done to help get another Riley Hart or Nyrae Dawn book in the world is a really amazing thing.  And Nyrae's new book looks wonderful-- I'm so proud she's on my blog!

Kim Fielding was, of course, one of my two beloved companions two and from GRL this year.  Kim is several shades of awesome, and to prove it, she's donating the proceeds from her new audio release-- A Festivus Miracle -- to one of our favorite charities, Doctors Without Borders. So, not only will you get beautiful sweetness from someone who usually writes chest-rippers with delicacy and skill, you will get to give your money to a great cause as well.

And we wrap this *flail* up with Bound: Part 1.  Now, I love these covers-- I mean adore-- and I know some of you have been so faithful about buying these books as they're re-released. I'm grateful for every one of you who has hung in there for so long.  The next thing on my editing queue is the three Green's Hill novellas, followed by Rampant. And then, oh yes then, we can release Quickening--and nobody will be more excited than me!

Oh!

And at the very bottom?  We've got cover reveal!  It's not out until December 24th, but I thought you'd like to get a glimpse of Winter Ball… just because ;-)

So, without further ado, here we go with November's *Kermit Flail*-- YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAAYAAYAAYAYAYAAYAAYAAAYAYAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

Sharing the Pond

By Alex Whitehall

Brent shows up on Corey and Shane's doorstep in the dead of winter needing a place to stay—and hopeful his mates will provide it, and not mind he's a frog shifter.

Being a shifter is nothing new to Corey and Shane, but neither is being mates. They've been together since before they first met Brent ten years ago—back when Brent was Brenda. Bringing a third into their relationship is more than a little complicated, but they're willing to try.

But change is always easier said than done, and Brent wonders if he ever really stood a chance at being happy with the men he has always loved and admired.

Less Than Three Press

Amazon 

Nobody's Son

by Shae Connor

Who wouldn’t want a nice cup of tall, dark, and gorgeous? Shaun Rogers does. He’s working at the front desk of a clothing-optional gay resort when Conrad “Con” Brooks walks in. The sweet, funny, and smart IT guy is there to install a new network and security system, and sparks fly between the two men from the start. Trouble is, Shaun’s hiding his sexuality from his grandmother, the only family he has left, and that makes him reluctant to take the leap with Con.

Then a man claiming to be Shaun’s absent father shows up out of nowhere, throwing Shaun completely off balance. His life spiraling toward chaos, Shaun soon discovers that his “father” is hiding secrets of his own. When things come to a head between them, it’s Con who comes to Shaun’s rescue—but the incident could force Shaun into a decision he’s not sure he’s ready to make.

Dreamspinner Press

 

A Solitary Man

by Shira Anthony and Aisling Mancy         

Sparks fly when Chance meets tall, sexy Xav at a Wilmington bar and they have the hottest one-nighter of their lives. But Chance doesn’t do repeats, Xav seems detached, and they go their separate ways without a word. Two months later, when closeted Assistant District Attorney C. Evan “Chance” Fairchild meets Dare’s Landing’s newest deputy sheriff, Xavier “Xav” Constantine, Evan isn’t only wary. He’s irritated as hell.

Xavier is a former FBI agent turned deputy sheriff who is hot on the trail of a South American child prostitution ring. Evan is fighting to put an end to rampant cocaine trafficking and chafing under the thumb of an election-hungry boss. When someone tries to kill the thirteen-year-old witness who holds the key to both their investigations, they’re forced to work together as they put their lives on the line to protect him. As Chance and Xav collide in heat of a sweltering North Carolina summer, dodging bullets and chasing bad guys isn’t the only action going on.

 Dreamspinner Press

 ARe

SECRET FUNDING

by S.M. May

 Young, handsome, sometimes cruel. Noah Kress is a hardened broker, skilled enough to bring success to his company and determined to face the ever-growing challenges of the venture capital market. In his private life he is Master Noah, a very popular dominator at the Circle, one of the most exclusive private clubs in Boston. For him, at work as well as in the dungeon, people and events are just variables to be interpreted, numbers to be broken down, combinations to consider and evaluate.

But when the latest, most difficult deal threatens to make his company sink without trace, his only chance seems to be the large investment fund managed by the mysterious Martin Scheer. And in order to provide credit, Martin demands a very special guarantee.

For both of them it's just business. Yet, what was supposed to be a mere contract might just shatter the perfect surface of their lives.

And will talented player Noah be willing to gamble following brand new rules?

 Amazon

A Hundred Thousand Words

by Nyrae Dawn

Tobias Jackson grew up in Coburn, a town where the gay population equaled exactly one: him. Add that to the fact that his dream guy was his best friend's jerky older brother Levi Baxter, and it made hooking up virtually impossible.

Now home from college for winter break, Toby is a different person. He left Coburn for San Francisco, where he wasn't the lone gay guy and the only black kid in town. And yeah, he took advantage of what the city had to offer.

Apparently Toby isn’t the only one who’s changed. Levi’s not acting like the self-centered guy with all the answers that Toby remembers from growing up. Oh and Levi’s realized he's bisexual, which makes things a lot more interesting…

Heading back to college, Toby doesn’t expect to meet up with Levi again, despite him being in med school not far away. A surprise visit from Levi blows that assumption out of the water. As they spend more time together Toby sees Levi as more than just the fantasy. He’s complicated, unsure…he’s real. But if Toby can’t get out of the past and find the words he keeps locked inside himself, he’ll lose his chance at Levi for good.

Amazon

The Festivus Miracle-Audiobook

by Kim Fielding

It's finals week during Tony McNeil's second year in law school, and he's struggling to keep up. Frankly, he'd rather be cooking. Then he meets first-year student Eddie Cohen-Fernandez, who's heartsick over missing his family's annual Festivus celebration. Tony can use his culinary skills to lift Eddie's spirits, but finding long-term happiness? That just might require a Festivus miracle.

Audible

ETA-- and my beloved Jaime Samms slid this one just under the wire-- it's called Like No One is Watching.

Like No One Is Watching

by Jaime Samms

Dusty has finally landed a job he thinks he’ll be able to keep long-term, even with his broken brain and bum knee. He didn’t anticipate that cleaning a dance studio would reawaken his yearning to dance—even though he is no longer capable—or that meeting the studio’s director would rouse his dormant libido. Or his sleeping heart.

Conrad thinks his life is finally complete with his successful dance studio and a steady stream of students. When Dusty arrives, he rediscovers his thirst for a man who will let him hand over control and give him the undivided attention he’s never had. The trouble is, Dusty isn’t sure he’s worthy of the studio director’s submission.

To make their relationship work, Dusty will have to trust his ability to dominate the powerful and beautiful dancer, and Conrad will have to stop talking long enough to hear Dusty’s promises.

Buy Here

Bound, Vol. 1

Amy Lane

2nd Edition

Humans have the option of separation, divorce, and heartbreak.  For Corinne Carol-Anne Kirkpatrick, sorceress and queen of the vampires, the choices are limited to love or death. Now that she is back at Green’s Hill and assuming her duties as leader, her life is, at best, complicated. Bracken and Nicky are competing for her affections, Green is away taking care of his people, and a new supernatural enemy is threatening the sanctity of all she has come to love. Throw in a family reunion gone bad, a supernatural psychiatrist, and a killer physics class, and Cory’s life isn’t just complex, it’s psychotic.

Cory needs to get her act and her identity together, and soon, because the enemy she and her lovers are facing is a nightmare that doesn’t just kill people, it unmakes them. If she doesn’t figure out who she is and what her place is on Green’s Hill, it’s not just her life on the line. She knows from hard experience that the only thing worse than facing death is facing the death of someone she loves.

Loving people is easy—living with them is what takes the real work, and it’s even harder if you’re bound.

1st Edition published as Bound: The Third Book of the Little Goddess Series by iUniverse, 2007.

Buy at DSPPublications

COVER REVEAL: WINTER BALL 

Available for Pre-Sale at the end of November 

Sunday Shorts

So, today was mostly an underwear day-- but I did make exceptions.

See, a friend of my parents was talking this weekend about how Shih Tzus were dogs of routine--terrible, terrible routine, and I totally believed him--and this morning they totally demonstrated why.

I got dressed and showered and Mate was still in bed.  The dogs were just tearing it up on the bed-- growl, tumble, tussle, play, repeat on speed-- and over the din, Mate said, "So, where are you going?"

I said, "I"m going to take the dogs to McDonalds, because they haven't been on their morning drive and walk in two days."

Or that's what I was going to say…

I got to, "I'm going to take the dogs to McD--"  and suddenly both dogs just STOPPED their tussling/tearing/growling/playing and scrambled to the ground by my feet. 

Where they stood, staring at me, waiting for leashes and the trip to the car.

Mate couldn't stop laughing--and the dogs?  

They enjoyed their sausage patty very much, and their walk around the block and their daily dump.  When they got back to the house? It was raining.  I'm like, if that's all it takes to get rain (and washing my car the day before!) I will do that every day. 

This is Halloween

 It doesn't matter how i try to photograph it, I'll just never never get across how totally cool the whole thing is.

My parents go to this RV park not far from Sacramento-- as in, an hour's ride, max.  During most of the year, it's an RV park in the middle of a cow field. Like… literally.  You look out over the tightly packed row of RV's, and there are cows.

The other side is the Jackson Hwy, a two lane road that stretches between Sacramento and Auburn, with a few stops in between.  This town-- Plymouth, is one of the stops. 

During Halloween, it becomes something entirely different.

During Halloween, it becomes Halloweentown.

Everybody decorates. And if, say, one in maybe thirty spots isn't decorated, well, they're RV parking lots-- it's not like you're walking across the street and a quarter acre spread to see if somebody had candy or not.

Everybody dresses. And no, not all the outfits are awesome, and sometimes it's really just a T-shirt that has a black cat on it, but everybody is doing something for Halloween, and usually it's something pretty awesome.

I mean, I admit to being uncharmed by the guys in lab coats claiming to be Dr. Feltyersnatch, OB/GYN, but I was plenty charmed by the entire family of pirates, that you might be able to make out somewhere in all of my shitty pictures.

And OH!

Speaking of...

 Even the dogs dress.

You heard me.

My parents and aunts and uncle went as knights and ladies of yore.  The dog had a hauberk and hood, I shit you not.

Twas amazing. 

And, if maybe only one person knew who my family was (Gravity Falls, people, it's a television series!) that was okay because that one person did a spot on impersonation of Sus, and we knew that we'd done our jobs right.

 And my kids got back from trick-or-treating feeling like they'd conquered the world because they'd hit the entire park and then they gave out candy and helped man the trebuchet and jumped out screaming "Oooga booga booga!" trying to terrify toddlers. (I think Zoomboy got that from my dad. It didn't work.)

Oh! The trebuchet…

Actually it was a series of catapults that my father made with PVC pipe, kitchen spoons, and big rubber bands. The object of the game was to fling the light foam balls (painted orange) at the big cardboard castle (painted gray and strung with lights.)  Thus, my parents as knights and ladies of the round table, get it?

Did I mention the nonstop AWESOME!

I KNEW I did.

Anyway-- so that's why we left our house, even though it was pretty niftily decorated too, and drove all the way out to Plymouth to not be recognized in our costumes.

 But oh!

Did I mention?

There are also games all day--and Squish and Zoomboy DIDN'T win the screaming contest.

 But according to all reports of random strangers wanting to pose with them as they trick-or-treated, they SHOULD have won. Seriously, "Yoiu guys were the best. You should have won. Can I take your picture?"

You guys--

My kids had the best time.

And Big T got to sit at home and watch scary movies and hand out candy.

And the dogs got to go insane.

Pretty cool-- right?

Happy Halloween, everyone-- may you sleep the hell in tomorrow.

I know I plan to!

Fan Fic Friday-- Nightmares (SuperBat)

*waves*  So, I'll probably post Halloween pictures tomorrow night to make up for my final disgust with my computer last night. I just couldn't do it--every change of URL was a struggle, and deciding which windows to close to keep my computer from freezing was like playing Fuck/Marry/Kill with my Internet browser. (Fuck GoodReads, Marry Twitter/FB, Kill Washington Post--repeatedly.)  Anyway-- I have a SuperBat bug, and an itch for some Destiel in the future… not that I don't want to write Cartinski anymore, but, you know… varietals.

Oh!  And I took the kids to Plymouth to play with my parents today--and remembered all the reasons I loved Mom & Dad and can effectively forgive them for not being liberals.  *sigh*  That makes me a happier moo.

So, on we go with some SuperBat--and NightMares.

*  *  *

He really hated this night.

He'd smashed--literally, over the head with the side of a warehouse--an entire cadre of drug dealers who had peppered a party with "sample" packets. Not soon enough though-- there had been three overdoses before the ambulances had gotten there, and he'd had to run anyway.

A group of thugs wearing Boehner and Paul Ryan masks were trying to vandalize a local Planned Parenthood, and those assholes he had to string up by their ankles. (Well, not had to, but since he was against killing people outright, it was the best he could do.)

From the BatMobile, while on his way from one crime in progress to another, he'd managed to stop a cyber-terrorist act that would have set everybody's computer on seizure strobe.

And all the super villains were fucking out, cackling their way through the trick-or-treaters in the suburbs of Gotham, slipping razor blades into apples and snakes into licorice boxes and generally, he'd just started injecting them all with sedatives as he passed by, pretending to be an overzealous parent in full dress armor. By midnight, there were several piles of sleeping super villains, passed out on lawns, getting rousted by the police and put in the drunk tank because nobody believed the real Penguin would be harassing little kids on a holiday.

Batman was out of the patience to explain that all the super villains were little kids hyped on tragedy and resentment, and that horror was their sugar rush.

He was just tired, period.

He hauled his ass into the BatCave at the asscrack of a late dawn on November 1st, parboiled himself in the shower and crawled into the infirmary bed.  He still felt dirty, and he wanted nothing to do with what was waiting for him in his room.

An hour later he sat up in his own bed, freezing, sweating, shouting, "No! No! Don't eat the fucking candy bar! Don't take the drug! Don't jump off the goddamned bridge! Jesus, why don't they listen?"

Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and he was borne down to the mattress, while a firm male body enveloped him in comforting heat. "They heard you, Bruce. It's okay. It's okay--don't worry about it. They'll be fine."

"They never listen," Bruce whispered brokenly against Clark's naked chest. "They never listen."  He fell back asleep--for five minutes. Then ten. Then a whole half-an-hour. At one point, he lay awake, in one of those horrible waking-comas, where he kept trying to sit up but his eyes wouldn't even open.

He heard two voices, Alfred's and Clark's, whispering just outside the curtains around his bed.

"Every year, Alfred?"

"Since he was a small child, sir--even before his parents were killed."

"This is…"

"Master Grayson started leaving town. This day broke his heart."

"I'm stronger than Master Grayson," Clark muttered, and Bruce felt himself relax into sleep.

Yes, Clark. You are stronger, you are smarter, and you have the biggest dick. We all know it. Brag some more…  Even as the thought trailed off, his stomach clenched in fear of the next time he jerked awake, sweating, consumed with the things he couldn't undo.

A warm cloth moved along his limbs, the heat saturating his skin, bergamot and amber permeated his dreams.  He grumbled as the cloth was moved along his chest, under his arms, around his neck.

Between the crevice of his buttocks and thighs. Around his genitals. Then down his legs.

Strong fingers worked the muscles of his calves, his feet, his ass, his lumbar, his shoulders, his neck.  By the time he was rolled over--again--those hands and fingers were working insistently along his arms, and his entire body felt limp and wrung out, a used dishcloth, a scrap of soiled silk, crumpled on the bed.

And he wasn't asleep.

"What time is it?" he mumbled.

"Does it matter?"

"Bruce Wayne has a meeting at--"

"A time that's been canceled," Clark said, his tone brooking no argument.

Bruce managed to open his eyes--barely--and glare. "We agreed, no inter--"

"Interference of The Justice League in Bruce Wayne's business matters. Sue me. I lied. Now either shut up about it or get up, get out of bed, and call the damned meeting if it's so fucking important."

Bruce couldn't move. "You're swearing a lot," he muttered.

"Only since living with you."

"Heh heh heh heh…"  He was naked and clean, and Clark's hands were on his skin. That terrible, chest pressing anxiety wasn't fading, really, but it was… taking a step back, and letting his animal needs be met.  Speaking of…

"Sit up," Clark ordered, pulling at his shoulders. "You haven't eaten in forty-eight hours.  Time for soup!"

Bruce glared at him. "Who told?" he snapped.

"Alfred--and I took your blood sugar before I went with the sponge bath."

"Because…"

"I'm obsessive about my fragile human," Clark snapped. "And you wouldn't let me help, remember? 'Gotham is my business, you go save the world, I'll save my city'. Ring any bells, you obsessive fuckhead?"

"No," Bruce grumped. "I don't remember that. Must be brain damage from my low blood sug--"  The bite of stew shoved in his mouth wasn't unwelcome.

"Liar."

"I'm not ly--ump!"

He glared as Superman, leader of the Justice League and multiple-time savior of Metropolis and Planet Earth, fed him soup like he was an infant.

But the more he woke up, the more he recognized this mood--Clark wasn't just trying to comfort him, he was trying to save Bruce, just like he saved everything else.

Well, it was what you did, when you were Superman, right?

"I'm done," he said, as Clark tried to scrape the bowl.  "I've eaten, I"m fine. I can get up now."

Clark continued with the spoon until Bruce saw little bits of enamel peeling off with the dull edge of the good silver. With a sigh, he put his hands out and stilled Clark's restless bowl-scraping.

"Thank you," he said, his voice soft. "I've eaten. You can come back to bed now."

Clark nodded, not looking at him, and set the bowl on the tray.  He was dressed like any man who'd been wandering the house in the morning--in sleep pants and a T-shirt--and he took nothing off as he slid in next to Bruce.  Bruce rested his cheek on that broad, Fortress of Solitude chest and picked restlessly at the cotton under his cheek.

"Take it off," he ordered.

Clark ripped it down the center, and Bruce let out a half-laugh, laying his head down on the smooth-skinned muscle that protected the strongest heart on earth.  He closed his eyes and listened to that heart beat under his ear for  moment.

"Strong," he said.

Clark ran his hand along his back.  "Very," he murmured.

"You've done your job," Bruce said, smiling a little. "You can get up and go--"

"What haunts you?"

Confused images ran behind his eyes, grownups in masks, overloud laughter, the screaming of children, a still, floating form, water closing over his face, a broken mask and a scarred mouth underneath… pain… violation… fear…

"I don't even remember," Bruce confessed, embarrassed about this, embarrassed because of a nightmare or a child's fear, so deeply embedded in his mind that he couldn't root it out and kill it himself. He owned his neuroses, dammit-- he wore them on his body as armor and drove around in them like a giant fucking tank.

"Tomorrow then," Clark said, running that comforting hand down his back.

Bruce was sated and fed, and still tied, but he purred and ground up against that super-body, unashamed of his hunger.

Clark laughed softly and turned, taking his mouth--but not gently.

The kiss was not gentle, and his hands on Bruce's body were hard, demanding--almost bruising. Bruce stayed boneless, pliant, liquid, as Clark made his body ready, spreading his thighs and nipping at his nipples, squeezing BRuce's cock until it was hard and weeping with need. When Clark slid down the bed and slid two spit-slicked fingers into Bruce's entrance, Bruce gasped--and allowed.

Bruce, the top, the dominator, the one who took the strongest man in the solar system and bent him to his will, bent, opened, and allowed.

Clark thrust into him, aggressive and commanding, and Bruce let the pain wash over his body, the way pain always did. This pain was followed by pleasure, followed by possession, followed by the nightmares, tearing like tattered flags of childhood, disintegrating into wind of relentless sex.

His orgasm swept over him, possessing him completely, a man's body reacting to his lover's complete domination, and Clark's grunt and howl of completion filled him from the inside.  Bruce's neuroses burned away, his memories burned away, his ghosts disappeared like smoke.

Cock and ass and come… flesh and blood and bone…

Painful twisted love, unfurling in his loins, in his body, sending him to sleep for one precious moment, whole and as undaunted as a newborn.

*

Clark didn't clean them up when they were done--Bruce had fallen asleep as Clark panted into the hollow of his shoulder and ear anyway.  Instead, Clark slid to the side and rolled Bruce over, so he could spoon his shorter, stockier other half, and smooth his sweaty hair from his forehead.

"So haunted," he whispered. "So broken. It's like you were broken and haunted for me alone to fix. Why would the world do that? Why would God do that? I don't understand."

"Because," Bruce said, and dammit how he could fake sleep so convincingly like that, Clark would never know. "I like it when you fix me. It tells me God exists. And the ghosts can scream all they want, but you will keep me safe."

Schtuff...

*  At the beginning of school, I gave Squish's class a bunch of my old swag pens-- the purple ones that had the little plot bunnies on them. Squish reports that she is tickled when she realizes the entire class is using mom's Angst & Pain pens. She also reports that the entire class is tickled because they easily convert to the world's BEST spit-wad guns. *sigh*  Remember that thing about the road to hell and good intentions? I hope the teacher forgives me as she picks spit wads out of her hair.

* As reported on Twitter/FB, Squish left her backpack at home today.  The resounding opinion was to simply let her reap the natural consequences of her screw up.  Apparently the natural consequences of her screw up were for mom to go home, walk the dogs in her pajamas (how they got into her pajamas I'll never know) and then put the dogs BACK into the car, grab the backpack and return it to school, disapproved of barking dogs et al.

I was in my pajamas, in public, at 9:30 in the morning.

Mother Nature is a cruel ass bitch. (And thank you, Kristen, again for the lovely memes to prove it!)

*  Big T got to go off on a rant about his favorite movie directors today-- I felt bad. He kept apologizing, but really, he'd just put a new gloss on his bright and shiny gods and he wanted to share. I helped him do that as much as humanly possible--because Lynch and Aronofsky ARE powerful gods, and I see nothing wrong with the altars at which he worships.

* Big T also got a new computer with his own money. He's so very proud.

*  Zoomboy has been learning about string theory, time travel, the big crunch following the big bang, and WWII.  Today, he told me that he wanted to write a dystopian story in which the Nazis had won WWII and mankind was still working to rebel against their regime. (I shit you not.)

"Oooh," I said, entranced.  "That sounds awesome."

"Yeah, but I need to find a new Hitler-- because he would have passed away even if he lived."

"Yeah," I agreed, and then, heaven help me, I got lost in the allegorical politics that have so much potential given that premise. "And Dick Cheney could be the leader, and Ted Cruz and Paul Ryan could be his minions and…"

"Mom," he said pityingly, "I think I need something more original than that."

I had to give him a high five for that-- he had me there.

*  Chicken is applying for the GRE. I'm so hopeful for her-- I think she'll really enjoy the Master's program at San Diego State.  That said, she is lost in facnfiction as a way to destress, and I'm so jealous that she has that kind of time.

*  Oh!  And we're almost done with the Halloween costumes… speaking of which, which state are YOU from?

Welcome to my Cave

Do you like it?

I've got blankets--comfy chairs, a mini fridge. Chocolate, ice water, cranberry juice, root beer. Jerky for protein.

There are dogs to lick feet and cats somewhere when the dogs are sleeping.

There is NO CRAZY.

None. Just me, huggled in here with my computer. I don't have to go for takeout (cause I might forget my wallet.)  I don't have to interact with other humans (cause I might do it wrong and piss them off or make them sad or just stubbornly refuse to be normal) and I don't have to brush my hair. (It doesn't listen to what I say anyway.)

There is NO CRAZY.

Just ignore the fountain of imagination, of angst, of stress, issuing forth in a visible stream. Ooh, wait, was that a unicorn, squatting on the toilet, crapping ice cream? No, no-- a YouTube commercial, but still. Nice image!  Most of the rest of it is mine-- dragons, sorceresses, hot young men going at it like lemmings on speed and viagra.

Oh, hey, a dead horse!

But there IS NO CRAZY.

I'm gibbering to myself and knitting and watching television… iZombie, the Flash, SUPERNATURAL, BOYS HANG ON, DID YOU MISS ME?  Every sci-fi show I can possibly tape and watch while still managing to eat, sleep, and function is on the TV.

*dangles for my more fiberific friends*  There's YARN. Did you see the yarn? In fact… shh… the walls of the cave are made with yarn boxes. Just pull a brick out of the wall and find your fiber. Shhhh… we even have a special day when we wind skeins and sing to the soundtrack of Guardians of the Galaxy. 

Oh-- and there IS NO CRAZY.

Music… there's music too. It's a mishmash, everything from kids' songs to AC/DC to AC/DC on violin and cello.  Bruce Springsteen, Bruce Springsteen, Greenday, REM, the Killers, Bruce Springsteen, The Shins, Broken Bells, Death Cab for Cutie, Sheryl Crow, did I mention the Bruce Springsteen?

Music… music music music, all in the cave, and it's all pouring through the opening in a cartoon, with the dragons and the elves and the sorceresses and NAKED MEN, TWO PEEN SEX, and COOKIES!

And did I mention?

There IS. NO. CRAZY.

Oh. *blinks*  Really?

Are you sure?

*wraps blanket tighter*  *stares into the glow of the laptop*  *whispers*

Well, I"m crazy, but I promise you, it's safer in here.

You won't get such a promise for outside my cave.

It's not that I expect...

People to worship my gods… but a little respect would be nice.

* * *

My parents are taking the kids to Plymouth for Halloween, and, as expected, this week leading up to the big day has been full of putting together costumes.  This evening, my stepmom called, and we had the following conversation.

Stepmom: Okay-- so what are the kids going to be for Halloween again?

Me: Gravity Falls-- it's a TV show. Chicken and Mate are dressing up too.

Stepmom: Not you?

Me: There's not really a character I could play. I'm wearing a purple zombie T-shirt-- you know, the Joss Whedon zombie who goes "Grr… Argh…"

Stepmom: I don't know who that is.

Me: Uh, you know-- produced Buffy and Firefly and, like, the Avengers!

Stepmom: STill don't know. Whatever.

Me: Well, anyway, he's sort of a god.

Stepmom: Well, to you maybe. Anyway, make sure the kids have name tags for their characters because people ask me and I can't remember.

Me: Uh, yeah. Sure.

* * *

So anyway-- I hung up, and tried to analyze the source of my irritation.

And I think it's this.

I have watched Disney nature flicks from Chimpanzee to Big Cats to Monkey Kingdom. I have seen Mythbusters, at least one Twilight Movie, and Little Red Riding Hood in the theater. I have listened to Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones and Earnest and Celestine. Oh yeah-- and The Illusionist. Kim Possible, Phineas and Ferb, The Mighty Fuckin' Morphin' Power Rangers and holy fuck, not one, not two, but fifty-gazunga versions of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles IN THE FUCKING THEATER, not to mention That Guy With the Glasses, Game Theory, video game competition commentary, 107 True Facts About Naruto, HOLY FUCKIN' GOD, PIXELS for sweet Goddess's sake.

And I have tried, through boredom, cynicism, and more popcorn than one human should gorge on, never to make my kids feel like insignificant douche-pickles because of the gods they worship.

Apparently, this was because I knew how it felt to be an insignificant douche-pickle, a stranger, a changeling baby under a fuckin' mushroom, because I worshipped at the feet of different idols than my parents.

It makes me want to eat a fuckin' pizza, that's how it feels.

And I remember a long time ago, when Chicken gave my friend's daughter one of the Mexican print dresses my parents had brought back from Puerto Vallarta. It was bright purple and pink, and Chicken loved it dearly but it didn't fit anymore, and my friend's daughter twirled in it and said, "Look, mommy! Isn't it pretty?"

And my friend said, "Jesus, Jenny, it's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I'm not taking that home."

And I lost a lot of respect for her that day, because her daughter was CRUSHED. And Chicken felt sort of shitty too.

So, life lesson number 523-- hard earned, with a lot of philosophy and binge eating, and I'm just dishing this one out for free.

I don't expect people to worship my gods--although, honestly, a little  happy, healthy proselytizing of, say, yarn, or yarn websites or maybe my favorite gay romance author is more of a "friendly neighbor sharing" sort of thing than it is expectation of worship. As they used to say when they'd drag us kicking and screaming to to Bible study because our parents wanted free daycare, "We're just spreading the good news."

But it's okay if they don't worship--  it's not required for friendship or any other ship for that matter.  If someone is a quilter or a sewer or a jet-skiier and not a knitter, well, A. More yarn for me, and B. They have different stories and that's always awesome.

I am fine worshiping my own gods-- just as long as nobody shits all over them. To love a person is to respect their gods. It's as simple as that.

So there you go.  Put that one right next to "Don't expect boys of a certain age to smell any way but heinous and try not to shame them for the stench coming off their feet and pits: It's not their fault." Respecting your children's gods is something that will make you feel better about your relationship with your children--#truefax.