Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 107

Leftovers

Hello all-- I have to say, it's fun when you guys lobby for your favorite couples. The lobbying for SuperBat was FIERCE today-- via this link RIGHT HERE  as was the lobby for Cartinski, with some awesome pictures. I'm going with the Cartinski-- and if you had any idea how many times I flipped back and forth, you'd think I'd gone mental.
But Cartinski it is-- hopefully because there will be some rockin' sex in the Cartinski and there would have been angst only in the SuperBat. YAY for rockin' sex.
*  *  *
Derek held tight to the iron rail of the bed, and tried very hard to let Stiles have his way.  
"But this feels good, right?" Stiles had two fingers in the tight and achy place, and his mouth hovered over the engorged and dripping thing, and Derek was going to break his damned bed, he really was.
"Feels. Great."  He spoke through gritted teeth and pressed both feet on the bed as he arched his hips. 
"Mmm...fff..."  Stiles was trying to talk with his mouth full, and Derek whimpered. 
"Fuckin' really?" he begged. 
Stiles released his cock with an audible pop. "Yeah--after this, I think we should totally go over to my dad's house and eat turkey."
Derek's erection started to lose some of it's... erectness. "Stiles, really?"
"Oh! Wait! Let's finish here first!" And then, there was blessed, blessed silence, because Stiles had his mouth full and Derek was coming down his throat. 
And when Stiles rose up to thrust slowly into Derek's body, Derek let go of the bed and pulled him down into a kiss, while they were joined. And then another. And then another. And one more for good measure. that's right, just kiss all the talk right out of him while they fucked, so that way, Stiles would forget the whole leftover plan.
Derek didn't think he could take the smell of sex and turkey for one more meal.
*  *  * 
"Is it good?" John Stilinski asked nervously. "I mean... you know. Is it tasty?"
"Mmmf..."  Carter made a sound of orgasmic completion and chewed rapturously on the pan-fried turkey and dressing sandwich, with cranberry mole` as a spread.  "This," he said after a swallow, "this is the most amazing thing I've ever tasted."
John grinned. "Yeah?" Oh, he was pleased. Stiles used to eat pour Cheetos in the mixing bowl, add milk and call it breakfast cereal. John had been pretty sure he'd picked up some cooking skills since his wife died, but until this holiday season, that had been pure speculation on his part.  And Carter was so appreciative of a home cooked meal, which was decent of him. John understood the cafe at Eureka was the equivalent to a five star restaurant, so when Carter made sexy-yum-yum sounds over a turkey sandwich and potato bombs, John wanted to make sexy-yum-yum sounds over Carter's cock.
"This is seriously good," Carter confirmed, digging in again. John took a bite of his own sandwich and he had to admit-- not half bad. "And I'm so grateful to you for cooking. I will buy anything for you on the way home from work, if only you keep making food like this."
John felt a blush creep up. "Well, not this-- this is sort of holiday special. We need to keep everything else a little healthier, you know?"
Carter shook his head, but yeah, he knew. They were at that age where taking care of themselves was important--and that included taking care of each other by remembering to eat right and exercise.  
"Yeah, John, but that's what holidays are for-- a little bit of decadence, right?"
John smiled shyly, still not able to take the really decadent things they did in the bedroom in stride. "Yeah," he said, trying not to fidget like a teenager. "It's always nice to indulge."
Carter bit neatly, leaving the complete half of his sandwich on his plate. He chewed quickly and swallowed, then leaned near to John and whispered, "There is pumpkin whipped cream in the refrigerator, and I know just what to eat that off of."
John gaped at him, completely T-boned by the suggestion at all. Pumpkin whipped cream? Who made such a... where did Jack want to put it?
Twenty minutes-- it took twenty minutes for that question to be answered to their complete satisfaction, and by the end of it, John was leaning over a kitchen chair with a pillow between his knees and the floor, while Jack thrust manically into his ass.  He buried his face in the chair seat as he came, the mess on his stroking hand a combination of hot spend and the remnants of once-frozen pumpkin flavored whipped cream that he didn't want to think too much about.  Carter took three more thrusts and then cried out, his own spill just as stick and confused as John's. 
Carter collapsed across his back and nuzzled his ear, laughing softly as they recovered.
"That was awesome," John panted. "And the whipped cream was low fat."
"So glad you liked it," Carter purred. He pulled back from John, probably to stand up, and their skin stuck unpleasantly. "But now I think a shower is in order."
"But you haven't finished your sandwich!" John laughed.
They stood up and wiped off-half-heartedly with the T-shirts they'd been wearing before sex broke out over the late dinner John had cooked after Carter's shift had gone long. Carter went in for a sloppy, whip-cream and John sank into him, fake sugar and pretend cream forgotten.  Together they clung, happy and sexed out and full of food. 
"Tell you what," Carter laughed, kissing John's temple. "You go up and start showering, and I'll be up after I clean up down here."
"I get to show--"
"You cooked! Anyway, I'll bring up a plate and we can eat the rest of our sandwiches while we're watching TV in bed. It's almost eleven!"
John grimaced. "that's hardly healthy."
"Indulge me," Carter said, and his eyebrow waggle was wicked enough to prompt John up the stairs.
"Yeah, fine-- just bring extra napkins," he muttered.
"Heh heh heh..."
"You're incorrigible!"
"And you keep feeding me and fucking me as a reward!"
John kept walking up the stairs, naked and happy and more than ready for his shower, thinking about how really glad he was that his son had moved out and that Stiles and Derek weren't due to visit until the next day.
*  *  *
"What's wrong?" Stiles asked.  He was naked, Derek was in their bed, and they were all ready to do the happy thing. "Dad's cooking tonight was great-- someone else cooked and we get to have sex-- why is Mr. Happy sleeping?"
Derek couldn't answer him. "Confused," he said, feeling like the word had been forced out of him. "My dick is so confused." 
God, was it ever. The smells at Stiles dad's place had gone from turkey to sex to something sweet and synthetic mixed with the sex. The jizz on the wall from a few weeks before had turned into turkey sandwich in the bedroom and fake pumpkin spice in the kitchen.
Derek had eaten his own weight in dinner and dessert, and now... when their night was wrapping up into their usual conclusion, Derek's olfactory senses and his sexual senses were...
"Confused," he whimpered.  
Stiles just gazed at him, from between his legs, teasing Derek's softened cock with a single finger.  "Yeah?" he asked, his smile wicked.
"Little bit," he said honestly.
"Well, let's just suck the confusion away," he cracked. And then he proceeded to do just that.  

So... much... random...

Indoor soccer--through the heavy duty plexiglassThis first part is to the tune of the Twelve Days of Christmas... somewhere around the swans. Or the drummers. Or the maids. Or the maids fucking the drummers in front of the swans... whatever. You all know the tune...

And on the third day of December, I had to remember things...

For friend's child--it's SOFTDrop Squish off early, pick up Zoomboy late, pick Squish up right after, make her get her gear, wait for Mate to get here, take her to her indoor game... *breath*

GO OUT FOR DINNER!

Get home and relax shortly, get the kids in showers, knit my friend's son's scarf...

And watch Evolution on TV!!!!  

*  *  *

It rained today. I know, I know-- for those of you with places where this isn't a forgotten and extinct phenomena, you're like "So what. It's been snowing here all week."

For us in California, it was magic sky water.

For the dogs, it was a signal to sit in the front room and howl for the hour beforehand, because dogs I guess.

But there was water. There might me a little more next week. This is very promising.

* * *

Looking at the weather to see if it would rain caused me to see THIS random factoid, which is that that record high for this day was in 2003, when it was 70 degrees in December.

I knew this.

Why fore?

Because Zoomboy was born in November of 2003. And it was 90 degrees, right up until Halloween, when suddenly the temperature dropped and it rained and Chicken's rat died from cold shock.

But that winter never really did get cold, and given that Zoomboy was supposed to be treated like a fragile flower after his week in the NICU, I can only be grateful.  But I can tell you this-- that kid was born ON my due date, at six o'clock in the morning, and that was the most merciful thing he could have done for me. Because it was November and it was eighty fucking degrees.

I shit you not, after I recovered from my shock at finding out that I was pregnant with Squish (a whole other story) the second thing I could think (after "Where will this go?") was, "Well, at least this is the last time ever that I'm pregnant in the summer."

Because 12 years ago today, it was 70 degrees in December, and I'd just had a baby and it felt like I was being punished by God. 

So today, I was so very grateful for the rain.

* * *

And that leads me to right now-- where I really need to go write!


 But don't forget Winter Ball of the awesome RT Review is available for Pre-Sale at DSP.   Get your copy early :-)  (Because I am jittery as HELL about this story, that's why. I'm sorry. It's been a day. I'm oversharing. Just know that it's on sale and leave me to my neuroses. SQUIRREL1!!)

How we decided to roofie Santa...

Okay, somedays are lived on Twitter. That doesn't mean I spend my entire day there, but it means that the highlights are short, pithy, and, well, sort of trivial.

(I'm going to diverge from my topic for a moment and say that it terrifies me how many political movements catch fire at 140 characters a shot-- people, important concepts demand more words and more brain pan than that, and dealing with things like, say, mass shootings on Twitter makes us little more than a flock of really dangerous starlings. The person with the shrillest cry steers the flock, and eventually a big cloud of idiot asshole parasitic birds are bringing down a jet airliner with their ignorance. *phew*  And don't get me started ripping the NRA a new one-- my thoughts in that direction are furious and dark, and I'm just going to keep signing online petitions and seething until I erupt.)

So, on to small stuff, which is where I swore I was going this round--

The following things happened today:

Squish and ZoomBoy were talking about how to trap Santa and prove he was real. Zoomboy was more than happy to relate the old urban legend about the guy who accidentally poisoned his cookies and killed an old, fat, bearded dude who was found sprawled in front of the tree on Christmas day.

"Do we really need to poison Santa?" Squish asked, upset. "I mean... can't we just give him a sleeping potion and-- wait. Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Do we have sleeping potions in this world?"

"As opposed to Hogwarts?"

"Well they use them a lot in games-- are they real?"

"Yeah-- we can roofie Santa's cookies, sweetie. That'll be awesome."

"Good-- because we don't want him to die!"

This is true. We DON'T want Santa to die. Especially because I've come to the conclusion that, now that we've weaponized most of our peaceful religions, Santa has become what we wish God/Allah was supposed to be. He's kind, he provides for us, and he accepts us for all of our flaws. All he wants is a little gratitude and for us not to beat the shit out of each other. With the exception of the evil Santa in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, who appeared to be the network reaction to the sweet liberal Santa in Santa Clause is Coming to Town, Santa has become the guy kids pray to at night-- particularly in December. So no. We don't want him to die. And I'll try to talk the kids out of slipping him a mickey too.

And then there was ZoomBoy, who was busy telling me that 3D printers could do all sorts of interesting things.

"I know they're awesome, man--but they still seem like something out of Science-Fiction."

"They're real mom--all you have to do is blah blah blah techno speak programing three-dimensional plastic tubes my kid is smarter than me about these things-- and the 3D printer works."

"No, ZB-- it's not that I doubt that they exist, it's just that, when I was your age, 3D printers were right next to flying cars in terms of stuff we'd be able to do in the future. I just always thought the flying cars would come first."

"Oh. Well. Yeah-- that's be cool."

"I'm saying."

And then, tonight, this Tweet hit the airwaves:

 Oh holy mother of hell-- where did that huge fucking spider come from? And even more important--WHERE THE FUCK DID IT GO?????

Which is sort of self-explanatory, really. But I'd like to add that it was about two inches long, it apparently bounced off my head after DROPPING FROM THE SKY, and possibly disappeared into Squish's yarn bag.

Which is not going to encourage her to knit any time soon.

Also-- it was scary and huge. Too big to squash without crunching exoskeleton-- the next time I see it, I'm going to have to stage a rescue. Wish me luck--but wish me luck tomorrow. I'm going to stay out of the living room tonight and write in the kitchen, and pretend that spider never happened.

Asshooooooooooooles....

So I sent Chicken a picture of the dogs on their walk one morning, to which she replied, "Look! Two assholes, straining!"

They have been "Assholes!" ever since.

*  *  *

This morning I dropped Squish off and took Geoffie in for her bi-yearly exam. Yeah, I think it's overkill for a dog too--and I also think it's a little weird that the vets calls our house twice a year for EVERY animal, including Gordie, who is mostly feral, in order to get us to bring our pets in for their well-doggie checkup, and yet our HUMAN provider could give a cat's ass about my kids once they get out of diapers. Weird.

Anyway...

We dropped Geoffie off, and I had to hand her off to the vet tech (and all of the vet techs at my Bannfield branch are AMAZING, kind, fun, competent, and really love animals, and this one leads the bunch!) and... well, she wouldn't stop moving.

*wiggle wiggle wiggle*  EEEEEEEEEEEEE IT'S MY PEOPLE!!!! *wiggle wiggle wiggle*

So, we barely got out of there without her trying to fly.

But as we were leaving, Johnnie had to stop by the dog-pee pole, and, well, pee.

And as I was cleaning up the dog pee, and went to throw away the paper towels in the clean up station, he took a dump.

And as I was CLEANING UP THE DUMP he had backed up his NEXT DUMP and I BARELY saved the ugly sweater display from a big Johnnie turd. Which meant I would have had to buy my dog ANOTHER ugly sweater, because currently he's wearing one from the drug store that cost five dollars.  Anyway... Asshooooooooooooles.....

*  *  *

We go back to pick up Geoffie, and as the tech brings her out it's all *wiggle wiggle wiggle*  EEEEEEEEEEEEE IT'S MY PEOPLE!!!! *wiggle wiggle wiggle*  and the vet tech (different one with the night shift-- still awesome) is like, "Yeah! She just loves us, doesn't she! She's awesome!"

And Geoffie is like, *wiggle wiggle wiggle*  EEEEEEEEEEEEE IT'S MY PEOPLE!!!! *wiggle wiggle wiggle* *lick lick lick lick* *wiggle wiggle wiggle*  EEEEEEEEEEEEE IT'S MY PEOPLE!!!! *wiggle wiggle wiggle*  *lick lick lick lick*  And the vet tech is laughing.

"Oddly enough, she did this all through the exam, too."

"Did this?" Because the dog was vibrating too fast to see. All I could catch were spazzy little kermit flail paws, like one of those turtles getting it's ass scratched, except in HYPERSPEED.

"Oh yeah-- Geoffie loves our Bannfield family!"

"Well, you guys must love her or this would drive me batshit!"

"Ha ha ha ha..."

It's a good thing they're sweet there, or I might have interpreted a teeny bit of hysteria in that laugh...

* * *

The vet calls, since we didn't get to consult during the visit.  (This is the vet who gave us the lovely, poignant, and really useful advice when it was time to put Chiquita down. I told her, by the way, about all of you who started to count your dog's "hobbies" and how knowing that if a dog starts losing his or her five favorite "hobbies" it was time to think about letting her go. I told her that lots of you have thanked her, and she was grateful she could say something that would help pet owners feel better about their beloved animals.)

Anyway-- she's awesomesauce. Amazeballs.

"So, how's Geoffie?" I ask.

"Oh, she's great. Does she ever stop moving?"

"Not even when she's asleep. Her paws are bald--is this a bad thing?"

"Nope-- no skin allergy, no itchiness, no scaliness."

"Just pink little hamster feet?"

"Yup. Doesn't bother her in the least."

"Great-- you had to express her anal glands?"  (This appears to be the equivalent of a high colonic for dogs-- Geoffie seems to think it's her beauty treatment, because her ass quivers even more.)

"Yeah--she was fine with it, but it got hard near the end."

"Should we worry about this?"

"No, it seems to be a food allergy. If needing to express her glands every six months is the extent of a food allergy--"

"I got off easy."

"Oh yes you did."

"So she's just a spazzy ball of health is what you're saying."

"Yup. A joy to have. A lot more excitement than Steve, but they're both sweet."

"Well, thank you Dr. Sanders-- have a good holiday!"

"You too!"

And there you go. She's a spazzy ball of health.

* * *

And so I took pictures (which for some reason won't load... argh... me and the technology, we are not friends so much...) Anyway-- the photoshoot went like this:  Geoffie! Geoffie! Look at mama... c'mon, Geoffie... Johnnie, stop making faces. C'mon baby, look at mama... stop licking your ass... stop biting your paw... stop chewing Johnnie's ear... Geoffie! Geoffie! c'mon, man, I'm trying to take a picture...

A spazzy, wriggling ball of health indeed.

The thing about Mate...

So, you all read yesterday's post, and the general consensus is that Mate is a hero.

I'm down with that shit.

And here's the thing.

I'm a feminist. I'm all about division of labor. I'm totally against me doing most of the housework--and I don't.

But when my husband comes home for ten minutes between work and a soccer meeting, I have dinner waiting if I can.  When I make dinner on other nights, I call the kids in to come get theirs--but I walk out his dinner, just for him.  And if it's something really tasty, he gets dibs on leftovers.

Because he's my hero. And a hero should get certain concessions.

And the really cool thing? The kids get it.

So, when McDonalds had no hot chocolate and I told them that I would make hot chocolate when dad got home?

Well, Dad's a hero.

So it's no problem.

Mate may never think he's EVERYBODY'S hero (although he totally is). But I don't want him to ever have any doubts that he's mine. 

I hope that comes out in my books. To me, that's sort of what romance is about--even after twenty-eight years.

MeOW!

Okay-- so, mortification.

You know that terrible feeling that a stranger just saw your unmentionables? You walk out of the bathroom, your skirt's in your pantyhose, you're on your period, and the whole world just got a doubleshot of your least favorite view of yourself?

Yeah. That.

So, Squish was sick last night-- twice. And there was the whole refrigerator dying before Thanksgiving and at the end of soccer. And Mate was in the middle of doing a room cleansing--still in progress--for Squish so we can have some use out of her bedroom and it's not just full of crap and she can't get to her clothes. Zoom boy was cleaning HIS room too--and it needed to be clean because... ew. And I was folding clothes for the first time in months. And I'd been sick too.

And I don't keep house for shit.

Okay--let's be real. That last one's the most important, but all the other stuff helped too.

So, the new refrigerator was delivered today-- sort of.  (This all relates, trust me.)

And the guys arrived just as I started clearing a rather complicated path through the utterly destroyed house.  BUT (and this is important) while it looks like we're in the middle of a hurricane, the fact is, most of our detritus is modular-- we know it is--and we know how to move it. Yes, yarn boxes/lego tables abound--but they are easily stacked.  And yes, the couch was in the way, but Squish can lift it-- so, yes. We looked disorganized--and certainly slovenly, but, well, we weren't on our game.
I'd

Anyway, the guys arrived, took one look at the chaos, and said, "We can't do it."

Mate said, "Dudes, by the time you get the refrigerator to the back door and we remove the door, we'll have a path."

They said, "We can't do it."  (And Big T and I were clearing a path while this was going on.)

Mate said, "Just get it to the back and look!"

Well, they got it to the back-- and we had a path. And they said, "We can't do it."

And Mate said, "The hell you can't-- look--I can do it."

They said, "We're already late. We'll have to come back."

Mate said, "Well you can come back and collect the old refrigerator which we'll have outside, because I'm going to do it, because you guys are full of shit."

They said, "It can't be done."

I was mortified a little.

Yes, I was.

Because my house was a shambles and it was literally too dirty to deliver the refrigerator.

Except it wasn't.

And Mate stood up for us, and said, "Disorganized, yes, but we're not hoarders, and it can be done."

And he did it.  He rented a dolly, and he and T moved it in themselves, and moved the old one out, and it's done.  (And our floor is much cleaner now :-D

I complained to Mate.

I said, "I'm so embarrassed about the house..."

And Mate  said,

"What a bunch of fuckin' pussies."

I know--the house was a mess, and I should be embarrassed--but can I tell you how dead sexy he was in that moment?

Purrrrrrrr.....

Real

It's funny-- people ask me all the time how I can write so "real". Where do I get my details? How do I ground everything so physically?

Fact is, I always think I skimp on some of the yuckier details. My writing is often optimistic-- I think real life is much more Immortal or Bells of Times Square and much less Clear Water--but that doesn't keep me from hoping for Clear Water or, even better, Shiny!

As to how I get my details?

I'm a mother.

I'm telling you, standing barefoot on the cold concrete in the 35 degree dark of the night to hose the industrial strength puke out of your daughter's only boots because she got sick on the potty--that's real.

If you can embrace that shit, you can write a moment of happy--because that has got to be what's waiting around the corner.

*ETA-- actually, what was waiting around the corner was more laundry. This time, sheets and a comforter. And I think I have a cold. Good news? Squish is pale and sort of listless, but feeling much better. And me? I will NEVER look at ANOTHER chicken fajita again as long as I live. EVER.

Before the Riot

Sorry this is actually on Saturday-- I'm afraid the holidays caught up with me and I was actually sort of sick.  But I DID write you fanfic--  and I thought I'd tell you that Vulnerable is available for FREE from DSPP today  and that Winter Ball is available for presale from DSP (at 35% off!).  So I hope you enjoy angst with your turkey-- I can't seem to write this fandom and keep it light!

***


Thanksgiving was usually pretty quiet--Bruce would do a couple of patrols and then go out to a charity benefit, catch a few hours of sleep and be out in time for Black Friday, when his day really began. Black Friday was actually sort of fun-- he could stop a Walmart riot with a single ninja throwing star and he liked doing that.

It made him feel badass, and it was really one of his few indulgences.

But that was in the past.

This present--the one in which a tight and mighty ass in a pair of blue tights blurred through his waterfall most nights--this confused him.

Today-- the day itself, not the charity benefit he planned to attend with a news anchor of astounding beauty and very little brains--he was apparently not allowed to go out on patrol.  In fact, he'd awakened that morning to find a little plastic slag pile on his dresser that used to be the key-card to the BatCave.

"What the--"

"No," Clark said sleepily from bed.

"How'm'I--"

"I'll take you."

"I can get there by myself, thank you."

"Yes, but it will take you hours, when, if you just behave, I'll take you there in seconds. C'mon, Bruce-- you're the one who's always complaining about time wasting. Now come back to bed."

Clark cocked his head from the melted slag to the sleepy man and then back.

He sniffed the air. "There's turkey cooking," he said in awe.

"Alfred cooks turkey for you." Clark propped himself up on one fist, the covers sliding from his bare chest.  Bruce glared at him longingly... he really did want to touch... touch... just slide his palm all over that smooth, hairless, be-muscled chest. But...Thanksgiving... self-imposed suffering... Walmart! 

"It's usually just a breast," Bruce explained, feeling like using the word "breast" in their bedroom was almost sacrilege. "He... I mean, I asked him not to... but..."

"It's small," Clark said softly. "We used to have my mom and dad, their nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles--hell, my high school friends. It was big."

"It's just us," Bruce said, shrugging. "Thanksgiving for three."  Dick. Tim. Barbara. Jason. Jason.  "Sometimes four or five," he said, voice choking. Okay, it hadn't always been small. There'd been a year or two there when it had been... family.

Clark knew all that. The Justice League had helped that search for Jason. Helped relocate Tim. Used Nightwing like the resource he was.

"Dick's coming," Clark said quietly, shocking Bruce from his grim contemplation of the melted slag. "So's Diana. And Barbara."

Bruce stared at him. "They hate each other."

Clark gave a toothy grin. "It'll be just like a regular family. Barbara's boyfriend. And Green Lantern--Hal."

"Why?"

"He's fighting with his girlfriend. And--"

"If you say Lois, I'm going to a soup kitchen."

Clark made a face. "No. I was going to say that nobody's going to be here for a couple of hours. And that Alfred canceled your date tonight."

"He what?"

"I told him to. Yell at me."

"But..."  Bruce flailed for a reason he should actually make that date. Besides appearances. And orphans. He liked the cause but--

"You made the date months ago. Before there was us." Clark nodded reasonably. "I mean, I know nobody can know..." His face fell, as though it had just occurred to him that nobody could ever know, outside the League and whoever he'd invited to this little shindig.  "But you don't have to go somewhere with someone you don't like. Not tonight. Not this time."

Bruce swallowed. "Walmart?" he asked cautiously.

Clark grinned wickedly. "If you get in bed, we can go together."

He bit his lip, because, oh God, the thought of Superman busting up a Walmart riot with his laser vision was both amusing and arousing.

But then...

"Company?" he asked, his voice strangled. "I mean..."

"Yes."  Clark's moment of wicked joy faded. "Not alone."

"How can you even say that--"

"Six years," Clark said, voice tight. "I watched as you and Dick tried to destroy each other, you and Barbara tried to heal each other--"

"Failed," Bruce muttered.

"Damn right you did. I watched..." His voice lowered gently. "I was there--I saw your face as you carried his body from the wreckage."

"Stop," Bruce whispered.

"And then it was my turn... I carried you out... and... you were just... God. You must have willed your heart to beat," Clark continued, inexorably, "because you looked worse than Jason did, and you were still... still..."

"Why are you--"

"Do you think I'm going to let you go?" Clark's voice cracked, and Bruce took the three steps to the bed and hovered, uncertainly. Because the Man of Steel's eyes were red-rimmed and shiny, and Bruce didn't know what to do with tears.

"I... I'm--"

"A neurotic bastard," Clark's half laugh did it--set the one tear free to spill down his cheek. "I'm well aware. You have more scars on the inside than the outside. I know that too. But..." He didn't meet Bruce's eyes, even when Bruce combed his fingers through that black, glossy hair. The strands were coarse and slick, like tensile steel, and Bruce wondered sometimes, if he could use them as a garrote or a tiny, undetectable blade. But weaponizing Superman's follicles was the last thing on his mind right now.

"But what?" he asked, when Clark's voice failed him.

Clark managed to look at him finally. "But I'm grateful for you. And I want a goddamned day to celebrate that. Not Valentines Day or Christmas-- I want a day of pure fucking gratitude, and this is it. This is the day when I get give someone a big hearty thank you that Bruce Wayne, have kept breathing in and out for the last six years and somedays... somedays..."

Bruce kissed him, salt tears and warm man, feverishly possessing his mouth. The kiss turned fierce, almost feral, as Bruce used hands and mouth to still the fall of tears, the intensity, the fear that spilled from the man in his arms. Clark Kent, small town boy, had planned a day for his lover--Bruce Wayne, lonely millionaire, wanted to give him everything he'd yearned for.

Heated kisses, bare skin, tangled sheets. The taste of Clark's cock on his tongue, against his palate, the spurt of spend down his throat.  When Bruce drove into that perfect, vice-like body, the man beneath him was mindless, wordless, head thrown back, abandoned to passion, to sensation, to sex.

Love hurt too much for this moment. Love was all of the things they could lose. Love was that moment, after Bruce had roared and climaxed, then collapsed, trembling against Bruce's side, naked and defenseless, vulnerable and weak.

That was love.

Bruce closed his eyes tightly, not wanting the fissure in his heart to open. He clenched Clark in his arms, praying he could be the strong one, praying he could keep his heart tucked in chest where it belonged.

"I'm thankful for you," Clark whispered, shaming him.

"I..." Bruce rested his forehead against a muscled shoulder. "I'm grateful," he whispered back. "I... I have no words..."

"Stay in bed," Clark said, and the air between them grew lighter. "We don't need words."

They got out in a couple of hours, and Alfred had, indeed, made a complete turkey, with fixings, and there were guests. Dick managed to stay civil, Barbara brought her new fiancee, Diana brought sarcasm and wine, and Hal brought all the other alcohol`.

And the next morning, there was, in fact, a rash of Walmart riots--but the news cameras couldn't catch anyone actually fighting or looting on camera. In fact, most of the riots seemed to be a wash of red laser lights and green power, with a fairy dust sprinkle of ninja stars shaped like bats.

Police Commissioner Barbara Gordon said it was possibly an invasion-- or a new super villain.

She very carefully hoarded all of the footage that involved three drunken super heroes tossing would-be rioters in the air like beach balls and bat-starring their wallets to the walls.

And she was very careful that only she alone saw the furtive, intimate brush of hands between the Man of Steel and the Dark Knight before they left the last crime scene... uh, riot scene... uh... Walmart imbroglio.

It was, as she told Dick Grayson that night as they left the mansion, the happiest they'd ever seen Bruce Wayne.

They were
grateful for that.

Happy Squishgiving

I took this photo after Squish got all ready this morning. What you can't see are the painstakingly chosen pink skirt, pink tights, and pink shirt that all went on under the big pink hoodie--but I think what you can see is enough.

Squish was ready to go out on the town.

This is, of course, about five minutes before she spilled milk all on herself, and cried.

And I felt that cry-- she'd been so proud. It was such a good outfit, and I'd fixed her hair so it spilled down her back and she was wearing matching wristlets and the lovely scarf (Thanks Rhae!) and earrings--and the purse? Do you see the matching purse? Yeah. She looked her best and most adorable Squishiness today.

It sucked to have her plans change.

We rinsed off her clothes and threw them in the dryer and she found another sweatshirt and, for the most part she got her groove back, but I do try to remember moments like the big cry, too.  Because we expect so much out of the holidays-- we expect to look good and be happy and have everything go well--and sometimes, it just doesn't.

So, for those of you who had the perfect holiday--I'm so glad. We need those days of family warmth and good food, those days of tradition and joy. They do make our lives so much more pleasant--so very fulfilling, if we are fortunate enough to have them.

But if you got into a fight with a family member or burnt the turkey or ended up alone in your apartment with a tin of beans--remember that not everybody gets the perfect holiday. You're not alone if you cried, or if you couldn't join the five-thousand people in the kitchen or if you're revolted by turkey. You're not a freak if this was a shitty day for you-- but that doesn't mean you won't get a quiet happy day of your own, with people who love you and some joy.

It just doesn't have to be this day, or this moment.

Have faith--it will come.

Happy Thanksgiving-- the fridge is empty but the buy links are up!

Description:Through a miserable adolescence and a lonely adulthood, Skipper Keith has dreamed of nothing but family. The closest he gets is the rec league soccer team he coaches after work—and his star player and best friend, Richie Scoggins.

One brisk night in late October, a postpractice convo in Richie’s car turns into a sexual encounter neither of them expected—nor want to forget. Soon Skip and Richie are living for the weekends and their winter league soccer games—and the games they enjoy off the field. Through broken noses, holiday decorating, and the killer flu, they learn more about each other than they ever dreamed possible. Every new discovery takes them further beyond the boundaries of the soccer field and into the infinite possibilities of the best relationship of Skipper’s life.
Skipper can’t dream of a better family than Richie—but Richie’s got real family entanglements he can’t shake off. Skipper needs to convince Richie to stay with him beyond winter ball so the relationship they started on the field might become their happy future in real life!    WINTER BALL, NOW AVAILABLE AT DSP 
So, today I...
* Emptied the refrigerator and cleaned it with bleach and fire*  Talked on the phone to my bestie*  Went out for lunch, since all our stuff is in the outside refrigerator*  Cooked for tomorrow-- and for the day after tomorrow when we're going to have our own turkey*  Edited in between cooking and dealing with the kids*  Skipped my nap to read Rhys Ford cause she's amazing*  Sorta cleaned the kitchen when I was done cooking*  Stared blankly ahead in exhaustion and knitted through two episodes of friends*  Got my buy links and got excited!  Now, you may notice I said "Links" and not "Link"--
See, Selfie is ALSO up for pre-sale (from Riptide, and not DSP.)  Now, Selfie has a much longer lead time, so it's not due out for a couple of months-- but you'll get to see the pre-buy link (and the blurb and the warnings!) if you go RIGHT HERE.   (If that doesn't work, go to www.riptidepublishing.com and look up Selfie by Amy Lane-- that should!)  
Now, normally I'd totally post my artwork right here, but if you go to the website, you may notice that the artwork is covered, and that's because we're going to have a big cover reveal a little closer to publishing time.  But in the meantime? I've got stuff UP and I'm totally excited. WHEEEEEEEEE!!!!
And now to totally have Turkey Day-- and to be grateful for my family that helped exorcise the refrigerator and for the dogs who are exhausted for having ALL THE PEOPLE at home, and for my cat who wants all the affection NOW, and for my friends who answered bizarre phone calls and goofy texts all day because I didn't WANT to do my chores and for fun books to read.
And for all of you :-)
Amy