Extraterrestrial Abductions Day | There Will Be Aliens

Are you keeping an eye out today? You should! It’s Extraterrestrial Abductions Day, so you better be careful or you might find yourself on a spaceship. 

I can’t believe it’s been two years since There Will Be Aliens was published. It’s one of my favourites and still one of the stories I think of most often. I had so much fun writing it. We have huge aliens with tails and sharp teeth, but something has gone wrong in their evolution, and they’ve lost most of their emotions. 

This has led to no one wanting to have children, so in an attempt to save their race they’ve gone to Earth since they’re compatible with humans and are there to kidnap a group of women – yes, very much the March needs women trope.

Something goes wrong though because when Zenon sees Carlo, he realises he doesn’t want a woman, he wants Carlo, so naturally (😳) he takes him.

Kidnapping aside, this is a pretty light-hearted story. Stoic aliens who have to learn to live with and interact with humans and their emotional rollercoasters LOL

There Will Be Aliens

Carlo Russo is having the worst day. Not only has he lost his job, caught his boyfriend cheating, and had one too many shots with his best friend Grace, now he’s seeing aliens too. Big, black, tail-equipped aliens. After a futile struggle, he and Grace find themselves on a spaceship leaving Earth.

Zenon Scoreceds Qhainqons doesn’t know what it is about the earthling male. Their mission is to bring back ten females in hopes of them being able to provide their planet with children, but he wants the male. What he’s going to do with the male, he doesn’t know, but he’s claiming him as his payment for going on the mission.

Carlo doesn’t approve of kidnapping, but the aliens aren’t too bad, and once the language chip is installed, he finds it entertaining to talk to them. Zen in particular. They’re standoffish and never show any emotion, but Carlo has no problem cuddling up next to Zen at night.

All Zenon wants is to spend time with Carlo, but it’s his job to get them all home in one piece. Will he be able to keep Carlo safe from all the dangers lurking along the trip? He has to because Carlo is his, and he’s not letting him go.

Buy Links

Gay Alien Romance: 32,509 words

books2read/ThereWillBeAliens :: Amazon.com :: JMS Books

Chapter 1

Carlo Russo plucked the cigarette from Grace’s fingers and put it to his lips. He wasn’t a smoker anymore, had quit six years ago, but tonight he needed it.

Grace huffed. “It will be okay, you know. He’s an ass.” Her dark blue eyes lit with anger. “My God, what an ass he is. I don’t understand why you didn’t walk out of there a long time ago.”

“I love him.”

She shook her head. “You don’t.” When he was about to object, she kept on talking. “You love the idea of a boyfriend. You love having something you can call a family. You love belonging. You love having a home. You love someone needing you. But you don’t love him.”

He stared, wishing he had a thousand pieces of evidence to prove her wrong, but he didn’t. Ryan breaking up with him hurt. It hurt way more than he’d believed it would. But Grace had a point. It was not belonging anywhere that hurt the most.

“You’re smart and good-looking. You’ll find someone else.” She gave him a wet kiss on his cheek and stole back the cigarette.

“Eww.” He rubbed his cheek. “Do I have lipstick on me now?”

She laughed and blew out a cloud of smoke around them. “It’s nothing that would kill you.”

He wasn’t sure. Lipstick probably had a million different ingredients causing cancer and shit in them.

“Don’t pout.”

“I’m not.”

She linked her arm in his and rested her head against his shoulder. “One day, you’ll find Prince Charming.” She gazed at the stars. “Or we’ll build a spaceship and move to the moon.”

Carlo grimaced. “The moon? You won’t get me to set foot on a spaceship. Never.” He shuddered at the idea. Astronauts had to have some severe brain damage to willingly leave the planet. He looked at the stars. Out there, there was nothing but eternal blackness. It was like being in a grave.

His heart beat fast as the night sky pressed down on him.

“Stop it.”

Grace’s voice made him jump. “What?”

“You’re doing the claustrophobia thing.”

“Claustrophobia is not a thing.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “But you’re doing it. Your muscles tense, your breaths come faster.” She took another pull at the cigarette. “I know the signs.”

“You were the one talking about the two of us on a spaceship.”

“Space is never-ending. How can it trigger claustrophobia?”

Carlo’s lungs shrank. “It’s dark, you can’t breathe, there is no way out, and did I mention you can’t breathe?”

“Easy, easy.” She chuckled and patted his arm. “One, people like us will never go to space. Two, no one would ever force you into a spaceship. There are enough idiots fighting to get on one for there to be any room for someone who doesn’t want to go. Three… I can’t think of a third, but it’s absurd to think people like us would ever get near something as high tech and expensive as a space vessel. I mean, imagine how many NASA people we’d have to blow to see a picture of a ship.”

Carlo laughed. “NASA guys aren’t my type.”

“Mine either.” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “You’ll be okay.”

The sorrow weighed down on him again. “Will I?”

“Of course. Ryan was a controlling bastard, a cheating controlling bastard. You need to find someone who makes you laugh, not someone who makes you worry that you’re doing or saying the wrong thing.”

Ryan could be controlling. He demanded to know where Carlo was at all times and called him every fifteen minutes if he went outside the apartment. But Carlo had believed he was that way because he cared, because he worried. The cheating… It had come as a shock, and it flipped Carlo’s world. Was he blind? Naive?

“Don’t think about him.” Grace bumped his shoulder again. “You want another beer?”

“I think I’ve had enough. More than enough.”

“Yeah? No one will be upset if you have another.”

“No?”

“No. You’re living with me now—”

“I’m sleeping on your couch.”

“Yes, you’re living with me. And I say you’re allowed to have another beer.”

Carlo sighed. He had nowhere he needed to be tomorrow, nothing to do, so why not?

* * * *

 Zenon Scoreceds Qhainqons steered the spaceship toward the spot in the lush vegetation they’d agreed upon. Agreed. He glanced at Brox Scoreceds Cruul on his right, then at Anek Scoreceds Dhaankrors. They’d listed several locations and then they’d blindly drawn one.

Pontybridge was a settlement like any other. He didn’t know if it truly was since he’d never been to Earth before. They’d spent a year perfecting the translation chip and Ghurva Scoreceds Vracets, their linguist, had told them what areas to scout.

Apparently, Earthlings had different languages depending on where on the planet they lived. Strange creatures.

Why they couldn’t decide on one language was beyond Zenon. Communication would be much easier if everyone understood each other. On Negudade everyone spoke the same language. The name—how he and his crew all were named Scoreceds—told others what area they were from, not the language.

“Brace for impact.” The greenery came closer and closer, and Zenon steered the ship to the dark water, coiling like an unruly tail over the land.

The shuttle shook as it hit the surface, making Zenon grit his teeth. He disliked landings and takeoffs. Or dislike might be a too strong word—they were an inconvenience.

Unbuckling the seatbelt, he turned to his crew. They were only four, and Ghurva hardly counted. So three able warriors and one linguist.

“We take ten. This is a first try. If it works, we might come back. If it’s worth the effort.” They’d been on the ship for months, and it wasn’t a trip Zenon would volunteer for again, but the planet’s future depended on it.

The others nodded.

“We go in, quiet and unseen. We take the fertile and healthy-looking and bring them back here.” He glanced at Ghurva. “Once we’re on our way, you install the language chip.”

Ghurva nodded, and Zenon hoped it would work. They had had no one to try the chips on other than themselves, and Earthlings were fragile beings—or so he’d been told. He wasn’t sure if he could trust the information.

Negudade wasn’t a big planet, about half the size of this—Earth. He’d tried to say the word in the Earthling’s language, how Ghurva had claimed it was pronounced by the inhabitants, the Earthlings, but he wouldn’t try it again.

Since Negudade was such a small planet, they only had one leader—Qheks Hannaek Koruts. Zenon didn’t dislike her, but she’d been the leader for almost a decade, and it was time for her to step down and make way for someone else.

Koruts, like any politician, did what she could to remain in office, and securing the planet’s survival had been a cause she’d pushed for the last two-three years.

Zenon didn’t say the information they got was faulty, and if it was, he didn’t think it was a deliberate mistake, but…

It was a little too good to be true to find a species compatible with them. A species who could bear their offspring, and who possessed all the traits they’d lost.

Too good to be true.

The teams who had surveilled the Earthlings were linguists and scientists, not warriors. He wanted to believe their intelligence was true, but how much could you learn from circling a planet and listening to their information flow? He didn’t trust the scientists when they said the species was harmless, and he wasn’t sure mixing their genes would be enough to bring back normal levels of dopamine and whatever else it was that they’d lost these last generations.

He understood their excursion could gain Koruts another decade in power should it succeed, but he wasn’t sure it would. Still, they had to try something. Their population had halved during the forty-eight years he’d lived. Another forty-eight and the Negudade people might be extinct.

“Do all four of us go or do we split up two and two? They’re small and weak.”

Zenon peeled back his lips and showed Ghurva his teeth in warning. They’d gone through the operation over and over, and he had some understanding for Ghurva being a civilian, and not knowing the routine. You did not change an operation the moment before you went in, that he should know.

“All four.” Brox stared at Ghurva, who shrugged.

Ghurva was the most emotion-ruled person Zenon had ever met. He’d never seen Brox or Anek shrug—he never shrugged. It was an unnecessary motion.

“It would go faster if we split up—”

Zenon snarled.

Ghurva quieted and widened his eyes. Zenon shouldn’t stare, but…who wasted energy on widening their eyes? He tried telling himself it was a natural reaction, some of them still expressed natural emotional responses in communication. It made him tingle, which was strange.

Rubbing his chest, he nodded at Brox to take the lead out of the spaceship.

A quick in and out, and then the trip back to Negudade.

* * * *

 Carlo stumbled on the even road. “Shots were a bad idea, Gracie.”

She giggled and hooked her arm in his. “They were. I want pizza now, and I know I’m gonna have a headache tomorrow.”

Carlo sighed. He didn’t want to think about tomorrow. What the fuck would he do with his life? He had no place to stay since Ryan owned the apartment. He didn’t have a job since Ryan owned the restaurant where he’d worked and had been fired from. He didn’t have any money since, well, he’d worked as a waiter in a restaurant.

“It’ll be all right.” Grace patted his arm.

Had he spoken out loud? He didn’t think so. “I wish we had some weed.”

“I’m not sure getting high on top of being drunk will solve our problems.”

“No?” Carlo wasn’t so sure.

“Remember when we lived in the group home on Mill Lane?”

Carlo shuddered. “I’d rather not.”

“How the fuck did we end up here, Carlo? We swore when we got out that we would do something with our lives.”

“We have. Neither of us is in prison, neither of us has a drug addiction, and we’re not living on welfare. It’s a huge step up.”

“Yes, but what about family, a nice house, or a job we like?”

Carlo groaned. “I have to get a new job.”

“See what I mean?” She pulled at his arm, gesturing at a bench bathed in the soft glow of a streetlamp under a huge oak tree. Carlo shivered in the chilly March night but allowed her to steer him to the bench.

As soon as they sat, the surrounding shadows moved.

“What the…” He squinted. “What’s that?”

Grace clung to him. “Did you slip us drugs? I think I’m hallucinating.”

He hadn’t, but could someone else have? But why would they? Four huge black forms moved toward them. Carlo sucked in a breath as he noticed white, gleaming teeth.

The aliens were eight-nine feet tall with rippling muscles, midnight black skin, and…fangs. Not like vampire teeth, but fangs—both upper and lower canines.

“Holy shit. They have dragon teeth.”

Carlo didn’t look away from the monsters. “There is no such thing as dragons.”

“Are you sure?”

Right now, he suspected he was hallucinating or dreaming, so maybe there were dragons in this reality. “No.”

One of the monsters took a step forward. His skin was so dark blue it looked black, and he pointed a sharp-looking claw at them. Three fingers and a thumb, Carlo noted. Could’ve been worse, could’ve been tentacles. Then he swished a tail, and Carlo yelped in surprise.

As they took a step forward in unison, he flew to his feet. He might hallucinate, but he wouldn’t let them take Grace without a fight.

Release Day | Batshit Bassel

It’s release day!!! 🥳 This month we’re focusing on soup. Batshit Bassel is a psychic with no control over his powers, and the rest of the paranormal community is shunning him. He’s come to terms with never being able to perform miracles, never finding a mate, never having a family, and so on. It stings a bit, but it’s fine because he has soups.

Soup is love in a bowl. Soup is therapeutic. And he might not be able to perform flashy miracles or predict things that will save the world, but when his empathic side takes over, and he experiences the feelings of his soup stand customers, he can make their day better. He can give them soup and lend them an ear. And if that isn’t a miracle, then what is?

And we have a bear too. Thor lost his sister a couple of months, and as a result, he’s now the guardian of an eight-year-old boy. Thor owns a nightclub and works around the clock. There is no room for a child, and he is running himself ragged trying to both run his business and be a parent. He needs help. And who can help? Well, a bowl of soup might not solve all his problems, but it’s a start. 

I loved writing this one. Who doesn’t love soup?! 😆

Batshit Bassel

Some people perform miracles, others serve soup.  

Bassel Uxium will never save the world. He doesn’t have the skill. He’s the product of his parents’ sin, a psychic with no control over his powers. But he can serve soup, and soup works wonders in its own way. He isn’t bitter about it. Some people create miracles, others give a frozen soul a warm bowl of love.  

Thor Espen’s life changed in a heartbeat. A few months ago, his sister died, and he became the guardian of his nephew. His life isn’t fit for a child. He’s the owner of a nightclub, and his schedule doesn’t leave room for a cub. When his nephew starts spending time with the weird soup guy with the food cart outside his club, he allows it.  

Bassel aches for the little boy who is cloaked in grief and tries to ease his sorrows with soup, one bowl at a time. He aches for Thor too, but in a different way. Thor should focus on work, but he can’t get Bassel out of his head. Can a bear shifter and a defective psychic have something together, or will the budding relationship turn to ashes, along with Bassel’s predictions of a fire? 

Buy links: 

Paranormal Gay Romance: 20,177 words 

JMS Books :: Amazon :: books2read.com/BatshitBassel

Chapter 1

Bassel Uxium handed over soup in a Styrofoam bowl to the woman in front of him and smiled as a sense of satisfaction filled him—hers. He rode the emotion for the short second it lingered in his chest. Often the emotions washing over him were negative, so he cherished the good ones.

His parents had sinned, and he was the product. Malfunctioning. Weird. Batshit.

He’d stopped being angry a long time ago. Anger didn’t serve him, and he was here, was he not? He had his soup stand, and he’d found the perfect spot where he would make the most impact, and where people treated him fairly.

Here many unhappy humans passed by, but Bassel could, and would, give them a warm bowl of love. Soup was therapeutic, and people might not know it, but it helped balance them. It gave them a hot meal, nutrition, and liquid. Doing what he did, he could sneak soup into people’s lives and help ease their suffering without them knowing he was defective.

Witches and psychics paired up with shifters. There was a connection, a mate bond or whatever. According to the tales, you knew the instant you met someone you could pair up with, and the bond would be there for the rest of your lives when you did.

Bassel didn’t think there was anyone for him since he wasn’t like other witches or psychics. His mother was a precog, and his father an empath. They never should have touched each other, much less produced offspring, and his mother should have known. It was her skill, after all, knowing.

The result? Sometimes Bassel experienced things about to happen. Sometimes he lived in people’s emotions, but it was never under his control. He couldn’t look at a person or touch a person and tap into their emotions. If it happened, it happened. Like with the woman now walking down the street. She was cold and hungry, and she’d purchased a bowl of hearty chicken soup. Satisfaction made sense.

Sometimes it was his mother’s precog genes shining through. He could look at a person and see what would happen to them or he could get a feeling. That was when it got tricky. He didn’t know if the feeling was current or future, and if it belonged in the future, there was no guarantee it would happen. Things changed all the time.

Worst of all was when it affected his other senses. He’d smell something about to come later but was unable to sort out if it was the present or future or feel the rain on his skin on a sunny day and not knowing if it meant rain was coming soon or a day from now.

Every day was like walking through a minefield of sensory triggers he couldn’t sort, and sometimes he was unsure of which timeline he was living on, but he’d learn to cope. For the most part.

“Batshit Bassel.”

Bassel struggled to hold on to his pleasant mood as the hyena laughed at him before heading toward Come Inside. He didn’t know if he was a hyena, but he laughed like one every time he was near Bassel.

It was the one downside to this spot. Once Bassel had accepted his fate of never being bonded to a shifter, never being accepted by a witch, and never finding a home with a psychic, he’d set out to make the world a better place. And this sidewalk, right here by the old brick buildings remaining from the industrial era, was where he connected with most lost souls.

A witch or psychic bonded to a shifter was a force to be reckoned with. They could achieve great things, borrowing power from each other. Shifters were strong and agile, fierce and protective. Psychics could see the future and help prevent crimes and catastrophes, predict the economy, and make smart business decisions.

Bassel could serve soup.

He didn’t turn his nose up at it. There were people doing big, amazing things, and there were people who affected the world in a more subtle way. His mission was a subdued approach, a gentle push in the direction of a better day and hopefully a better life—for his customers.

There were many lost souls, scarred souls, lonely souls who needed a bowl of soup. He’d never perform miracles, but he could give people something warm to eat and listen to their problems. He loved doing it. It was fulfilling knowing he’d touched a person’s spirit and made them feel better. He wouldn’t complain if it hadn’t been for the hyena, who most likely wasn’t a hyena.

Though he could be.

Come Inside was a nightclub run by shifters. One night a week they had a drag queen show, and there were small rainbow-colored unicorn sculptures in the windows, so he believed it was a friendly place. For others. Shifters would never welcome him inside since he was faulty, but real witches and psychics, humans, and shifters were accepted as they were.

Longing hit hard, sadly, his own. What would it be like to belong somewhere? To be welcomed with open arms? Missed if you didn’t show? Bassel had no idea.

He pulled in a deep breath and stirred his soups. He always made two different kinds—one with meat and one vegetarian. Today’s options were chicken soup and Moroccan Harira.

Soups spoke to him. Nothing said love like a hot bowl of soup.

Lost in his head, he first didn’t notice the boy nearing him with slow steps. He’d seen him before. Grief clung to him like a wafting cloak, and it broke Bassel’s heart. The boy couldn’t be more than eight years old, if that.

“Hello.” Bassel spoke in a slow, soothing voice as if speaking to a wounded animal. He was. The boy was a shifter and while grief didn’t bleed as a cut would, it was a wound in the soul.

The boy nodded before glancing at Come Inside’s door. Bassel turned to look too but couldn’t see anyone watching them.

“Would you like some soup?”

The boy startled and looked a little afraid, as if Bassel had tried to lure him away with candy.

“I… eh… don’t have any money.”

Bassel shrugged. “Of course not. You’re a child.”

The boy glared at him, and Bassel turned the words over in his head. Were they insulting?

“When you have a job, you can pay me back. Now, do you want chicken soup or chickpea soup?”

The boy scrunched his nose at the mention of chickpeas. “Chicken.”

With a smile, Bassel filled a bowl. “I’m thinking about adding a hotplate or maybe one of those pans to have over an open fire. I could make skillet flatbread to go with the soup. I think people would appreciate it, and if I went with the open fire option, it would help warm people in the winter.” Spring was around the corner, but he was still frozen to the bone every day when he came home, no matter how many layers of clothes he put on. “Or maybe there are portable pizza ovens. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

The boy stared at him as if he was insane—he was.

“Come sit.” He grabbed the folding chair he had standing next to the food cart with one hand while balancing the bowl of chicken soup in the other.

Hesitating for a moment, the boy then slowly neared the chair.

As he sat, Bassel handed him the Styrofoam bowl and a spoon. “Did you have a good day at school?” Bassel assumed he went to school.

The boy nodded and looked away as an ache spread in Bassel’s chest—the boy’s. He had no idea what had triggered the crushing wave of grief washing over him, but something had.

“Oh, sweetheart. Eat your soup. Everything gets better with soup.” He was quiet for a few seconds before asking, “What’s your name?”

“Dag Espen.”

“Oh, you’re a bear?” Espen meant bear, right?

Dag nodded and blew on a spoonful of soup before putting it into his mouth. Warmth spread in Bassel’s soul—all his own. He loved feeding people.

Dag didn’t speak but ate another spoonful and then another.

“What did you get for lunch at school today?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t go to the cafeteria.”

Bassel waited for his emphatic skill to give him any clues on how to proceed with the conversation, but of course, he didn’t get any insight into Dag’s emotions. Never when he wanted them or needed guidance. “Because you brought your own lunch?”

Dag avoided eye contact and ate another spoonful.

Dammit. This was a poor neighborhood. It was one of the reasons Bassel had chosen it as his place. Here he could make a difference. And while he needed people to pay for their soup or he’d go bankrupt in a week flat, he gave away several bowls every day. It was the right thing to do.

“How far away is your school?”

Dag pointed at one of the large industrial buildings with his spoon. “It’s two blocks over.”

Ah, Bassel knew the one. “Is your lunch break long enough for you to get here and make it back in time for your next lesson?”

Dag looked at him for a long moment. There was longing in his eyes, and Bassel bit his tongue not to offer to bring soup to his school. Lunch was when he sold the most soup. If he left the food cart in the middle of the day, he’d lose customers.

“I can make it here, but I have no money.”

Bassel smiled. He didn’t know who Dag’s parents were, and he wouldn’t go searching. If they couldn’t afford to give him money to go to the school cafeteria, and they couldn’t afford to pack him lunch, then Bassel would make sure he got a bowl of soup. Who knew? It might be the only cooked meal the boy got all day.

“Great! Which is your favorite kind of soup?”

Wide eyes met his, then they filled with tears struggling not to trickle over. “Mom used to make tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“Oh…” Bassel noted the used to but didn’t want to ask what the past tense meant. “Then we’re back to the bread problem. We should find a solution. I like the open fire idea, but do you think the surrounding businesses would object?” He twirled his finger around, indicating the buildings around them. They were mostly offices, but there was the bar and one woo-woo shop. Woo-woo shop wasn’t the accepted term, but Bassel had gone there to introduce himself, certain he’d be sneered at by a witch or psychic, but it was a plump, gray-haired human woman running it. He’d been pleasantly surprised even though it meant the crystals and protective spells she sold were fake.

* * * *

The next day, Thor Espen growled as he walked through the empty bar. It was still early, and his staff hadn’t arrived yet. Normally, he slept this time of day, but since Karla had died a couple of months ago, he now had to get up and make sure the cub got to school.

Kids weren’t anything he’d ever wanted. They did not fit his lifestyle, but he couldn’t allow his nephew to disappear into foster care. He’d promised Karla to take care of him. The problem was, Thor knew nothing about children. He set the alarm every morning to wake Dag and made sure he ate breakfast before he went to school. Then he hardly saw the boy all day. By the time he got back from school, the bar had opened, and while there weren’t many customers until the after-work crowd, everyone was busy with preparations.

He pulled out a chair from one of the tables and sat, cradling his head in his hands. He was so tired. Yawning, he allowed his elbows to slide over the table before folding his arms and resting his cheek on top of them. He couldn’t go on like this. Two months without proper sleep made him prickly, and yesterday he’d dropped a bottle while working the bar. It could happen to anyone, but Thor hadn’t dropped a bottle in a decade or two. Sleep deprivation made him uncoordinated.

He needed a nanny. Did people still have nannies?

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d promised Karla to take care of Dag, to raise him as if he was his own. Thor was the only family he had since the no-good witch Karla had bound herself to went and got himself blown up in some huge magical experiment. Part of him was glad it had happened when Dag only was a few months old. No kid should lose both their parents before they turned eight, so it was good he didn’t remember his father. Or would it have been better for him to have the memory?

Thor didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. These were the cards they’d been dealt. It was unfair, and Thor wanted to object. He wanted to file a complaint to the universe or whoever it was deciding who lived and who died, but no one was willing to listen. Bears didn’t get sick, and yet Karla had faded away right in front of him.

He closed his eyes, trying to fight the memories wanting to surface of her in a hospital bed. Who had taken care of the boy while she’d been in the hospital? Thor should ask someone. His breaths grew deeper and his muscles slowly unclenched. Maybe whoever it was could look after him again.

“Boss!”

Thor flew to his feet, his hands changing to bear paws as he swiped the air. Ed, his chef, stood at a good distance. “Oh, hi.”

“The kid is chatting to Batshit Bassel.” Ed scrunched his face as if he’d smelled rotten fish.

“Who?” Thor tried to clear his head. Fuck, he’d fallen asleep. The kid—as in Dag?—was talking to who? Did it matter who he talked to?

“The soup freak outside.”

Thor willed his paws back to human hands before rubbing his face. “Who?”

“The guy outside, the one with the food cart.” Ed widened his eyes while making a face, telling Thor he’d better get his brain cells to wake up because this was important.

“Is he a pedophile?”

“No! Or I don’t know, maybe.” Ed shrugged but didn’t look satisfied with Thor’s reaction.

“If he isn’t a threat to Dag, why can’t he talk to him?”

Ed huffed. “You’re his dad now. You need to be a role model. You can’t let him make friends with freaks.”

Thor took a moment to breathe. Maybe he wasn’t awake enough yet to understand the conversation. He didn’t know the soup guy, had never spoken to him, and didn’t know what he looked like. Average height, on the slim side, but he couldn’t say what color his hair was and he wouldn’t have recognized him if he’d met him on the street.

He arrived there around ten in the morning and left around three, from what he’d heard from the staff. He’d been in to introduce himself when he’d first started selling his soups several months ago, but Thor had been in the office at the time so it had been Ed, Adam, and Jenny who’d talked to him, and he’d never gone out there to chat to him.

“And he’s a freak?” Thor didn’t like the term. As the owner of a queer club, he’d been called many things, and most often for no other reason than bigotry.

Ed shook his head. “He’s an abomination.”

Thor straightened his back. Abomination? He’d been called that too, and few things infuriated him more. “Is he?”

“He’s not right! His mom had him with one of her own. He’s inbred.” Distaste colored the words, and a responding revulsion wrapped around Thor. But it couldn’t be true. If a woman got pregnant with a family member, surely she’d have the fetus removed? Nausea climbed his throat, and he forced his brain to stop painting pictures. If it was true, it wasn’t the soup guy’s fault, and forbidding Dag to speak to him because of sins his parents had committed didn’t sit right with him.

“Is he… disabled?” What were the signs of inbreeding?

Shrugging, Ed walked farther into the room. “He isn’t right.”

“Isn’t right how? If he can run a business, it can’t be too bad.” Maybe a food cart didn’t demand the same brain capacity as running a bar, but there was still a lot to be done, invoices, bookkeeping, and so on.

“He isn’t right.” Ed didn’t change his words, he only spoke louder, which made Thor frown. Seconds went by, then Ed huffed again. There was a lot more huffing and shrugging than Ed normally indulged in.

“He has no skill. His mom was a precog and his dad was an empath. It isn’t right. Now he’s here, selling soup on our doorstep, and he’s as useless as a human.”

Not inbred, but two psychics reproducing. Ed was correct. It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Thor had envisioned. You couldn’t bond with the same breed as yourself, and having offspring was extremely unusual, both because it most often didn’t take and because no one wanted a child with someone they weren’t bonded to.

“He didn’t inherit any skill?” So he was like a human. They didn’t shun humans. Many of their patrons were human. Jenny was human. He wouldn’t sleep with one, but he didn’t dislike them on sight.

“He’s creepy as fuck. Go out there and talk to him. You’ll feel the wrongness from a mile away.”

“Creepy?” Would Dag talk to him if he were creepy? “What time is it?” Shouldn’t Dag be in school? He hadn’t slept for that long, had he?

“Noon. I have the dentist at three, so I thought I’d come in early and prepare and then come back after the appointment.”

Thor nodded. As Ed spoke, he remembered him saying something about it. Shit, he’d never forgotten his staff’s changed work hours a couple of months ago. “What’s Dag doing home at noon?”

Fear gripped his heart. Had something happened to him? With a growl, he stomped toward the door.

Cover Reveal | Batshit Bassel

We have a cover, people!!! 🥳 On March 4th, Batshit Bassel will be released, and it’s a paranormal gay romance novella I wrote to celebrate Soup It Forward Day. So expect a lot of soup!

It’s a story about a bear shifter who’s become the guardian of his nephew and is at a loss. He runs a nightclub, and his life isn’t fit to take care of a child.

Bassel is a failed psychic who’s taken it upon himself to make the world a better place through soup. Nothing soothes the soul like a hot bowl of soup on a bad day. And when a lost little boy comes by his soup stand, he of course offers him a bowl of soup too.

It’s… cosy for lack of a better word, like a hot bowl of soup 😊 Ready to see the cover??

Batshit Bassel

Some people perform miracles, others serve soup.

Bassel Uxium will never save the world. He doesn’t have the skill. He’s the product of his parents’ sin, a psychic with no control over his powers. But he can serve soup, and soup works wonders in its own way. He’s not bitter about it. Some people create miracles, others give a frozen soul a warm bowl of love.

Thor Espen’s life changed in a heartbeat. A few months ago, his sister died, and he became the guardian of his nephew. His life isn’t fit for a child. He’s the owner of a nightclub, and his schedule doesn’t leave room for a cub. When his nephew starts spending time with the weird soup guy with the food cart outside his club, he allows it.

Bassel aches for the little boy who is cloaked in grief and tries to ease his sorrows with soup, one bowl at a time. He aches for Thor too, but in a different way. Thor should focus on work, but he can’t get Bassel out of his head. Can a bear shifter and a defective psychic have something together, or will the budding relationship turn to ashes, along with Bassel’s predictions of a fire?