Green's Hill-Amy Lane's Home - News

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

GRL Ho! But don't forget...

So I'm leaving for GRL tomorrow, and that's exciting!  I'm sort of hanging out on the quiet profile there, which is unusual for me, but I look forward to hanging out with a lot of friends I haven't seen in a while. So WHEEEE!!! I am, as usual, SO BEHIND on my packing--but I'm also so happy to go.

BUT when I get back, I'll have a book out before I can even post about it!  So I'll post now, to remind you, because this is exciting!

This is the companion book to A Few Good Fish 3, as well as Racing for the Sun--but (and I swear this is true!) I'm pretty sure it can be read on it's own. I mean it's great to know Ace and Sonny beforehand, and you do get up close and personal with Ellery and Jackson-- but Hiding the Moon is pure romance. It's when two of the most unlikely people meet-- a hardcore government assassin and a flaky psychic--and somehow fill in the void in each other.

I am surprised at how much I loved this book. 

So remember it-it's coming next Tuesday, and it should be a wild ride!

Blurb:


Fish Out Of Water: Book Four - A Fish Out of Water/Racing for the Sun Crossover
Can a hitman and a psychic negotiate a relationship while all hell breaks loose?

The world might not know who Lee Burton is, but it needs his black ops division and the work they do to keep it safe. Lee’s spent his life following orders—until he sees a kill jacket on Ernie Caulfield. Ernie isn’t a typical target, and something is very wrong with Burton’s chain of command.

Ernie’s life may seem adrift, but his every action helps to shelter his mind from the psychic storm raging within. When Lee Burton shows up to save him from assassins and club bunnies, Ernie seizes his hand and doesn’t look back. Burton is Ernie’s best bet in a tumultuous world, and after one day together, he’s pretty sure Lee knows Ernie is his destiny as well.

But when Burton refused Ernie’s contract, he kicked an entire piranha tank of bad guys, and Burton can’t rest until he takes down the rogue military unit that would try to kill a spacey psychic. Ernie’s in love with Burton and Burton’s confused as hell by Ernie—but Ernie’s not changing his mind and Burton can’t stay away. Psychics, assassins, and bad guys—throw them into the desert with a forbidden love affair and what could possibly go wrong?











Poor Mate

Once again, Mate got home exhausted, just when I was ready to stay up and work.

I sent him to bed, and sat down to my news feed and found something that made me laugh.

And I needed to share it with my Mate.

"Mate! Mate! Are you still awake?"

"Mmfffine, here, whazzzouwant?"

"No, I gotta tell you about this thing I just read, about people having sex in Disneyland, right? And they got stuck on the Pirate of the Caribbean ride, right?"

"Din you tell me bout this yessserday?"

"No! I swear! I just read this right now! Anyway, guy had his girlfriend go down on him when the Pirate ride got stuck, and the actor and the tech guy were just watching from the tech booth and they couldn't really do anything, and then they saw the girl about to spit over the side and--"

"Spitting is for quitters. Tha'ss the punchline. It's a fake story."

"Oh. Okay. Well, sorry. Just made me laugh. Wanted to share it with you."

"Mmmmmfffffff...."

I pat him. "Don't worry, Mate. Sorry. Won't bother you again. And I swear, I'll NEVER try to give you a blowjob on the Pirates of the Caribbean--"

Mate sits bolt upright in bed. "What? What'd I do! I"m awake! Do I need to get up? Fine! Fine! Whatever you need me to do--"

"Go back to sleep! It wasn't a threat--I swear! You'd be horrified if we did that in public."

"Oh. Yeah. I would."  He falls back against the pillows. "Are you coming to bed yet?"

"No. I gotta work."

"Fine. Go work."

"Sorry to disturb you."

"Yeah, whatever. I gotta get some sleep."

"Sorry Mate."

"Fine."

Honestly, I'm lucky he's still with me at all.

Monday, October 15, 2018

Long Weekend

Today was sort of awesome because we did very little. But yesterday...

Yesterday was a tournament, which meant we were there all day, cheering the girls to... well, we tied once. Yay! Other than that it was all, "Well, I don't know what happened."  *sigh*  The girls are fine, but Mate doesn't take it well.

Anyway, the day wasn't over when it was over.

Mate had tickets to a concert with his friends in downtown Sacramento, and the tourney was on West side.

Big T was begging us to help him with his laundry--he had to take a train to Davis today to see a play for his class, and he has a really full schedule.

ZoomBoy had been home alone all day, living on shredded cheese and pepperoni, and we needed to bring him something to eat.

Squish was dying for ice cream.

We had one of Squish's teammates whose family can't give her a ride in the back of the minivan...

So of course our only option was to drop Mate off, stop by the kids' apartment for laundry, go to Adalberto's for food, drop Squish off at home first, drop her teammate at her home next (that's just the order I was passing the house in, otherwise teammate would have been first), drive to the grocery store for gelato and then drive home.

Whew.

And collapse in my chair nearly two hours after the tournament ended and call it a day.

And then wait up for Mate.

Now something you should know about that stop for food.

The clerk at the window had given away all her fucks earlier in the day, and had no shits to give either. As we were waiting in line, one of the sodas Mate keeps in the car started to shoot soda all over teammate and Squish had to run it up to a trash can, still in her soccer uniform, and then shake her hands out and run back, and we didn't even get a raised eyebrow.

I ordered an everything burrito, and instead of, you know, making a burrito, they apparently dumped everything onto TWO tortillas and folded it loosely, like you'd fold underwear because why bother, then sort of drape it in crinkled paper wrap.

Squish pulled it out to take a bite on the way home because it was nearly eight o'clock and they hadn't eaten since 11:30 and it was as big as her head. She got a bite in and said she'd eat the other thing we ordered--it was like eating one of the dogs--not in flavor, mind you, just in sheer volume.

So Mate got home at 11:30 and he was... listing. To his right. In the extreme. He'd had four--FOUR--vodka and tonics and ZERO dinner, after a day like the one we'd had.

Four.

He was very sweet. (He's a very sweet drunk.) But I was like, "Can I get you something to eat?"

"What's this? It looks GREAT!"

"I'll put that on a plate for you... here we go... to the left... the left..."

"I know what I'm doing!"

"You're headed for the table. It's full. Now this way... through the doorway... there you go. The couch. We're all good."

"Mmm... this burrito... it's really amazing."

"Anything's amazing when you haven't eaten for twelve hours."

"It's like the best thing ever. And there's so mu...."'

And that's when he fell asleep, about eight bites into the burrito the size of his head.

I took the plate away and left the lights on so he wouldn't wake up disoriented, and went to bed. He crawled in with me about three hours later, with a crick in his neck. Apparently when you're as cute as he is, your only hangover glitch is (his words) "A really weird poop."  Lucky duck.

When I got up this morning, he was up, with motrin, finishing off the burrito and watching SNL with the kids. I got up, got dressed, said, "Taking the dogs out! Anyone want to go with me?"

And he said, "I was thinking I might go back to bed."

"You know, I thought you were going to go another way with that. I was just about to say, 'No, hon, it's okay, I don't need any company, you should get some sleep.'"

That earned me a laugh and a high five for superlative sarcasm.

And when I got back, the burrito had been completely devoured.

All things considered, it might be easier on him if we win a game or two at the next tourney--but I'm not counting on it.

Thursday, October 11, 2018

That Sort of Day...

So, it's been that sort of day...

... the sort of day in which two orders at KFC result in three sodas, neither of them the diet pepsi your friend asked for when we sat at the speaker.

...the sort of day in which you realize your love/hate attachment to the Conjuring movies stems from the fact that "omigod I lived in houses JUST LIKE THAT in the seventies!!!!"

...the sort of day in which you spend all your writing time doing Avengers Swag Assemble with Berry Jello and then wonder why there's no writing done.

...the sort of day in which your daughter has the following conversation with you over the misassembled KFC order:

"Mom, are there any spoons for the mashed potatoes?"

"No--here's some Wheat Thins--use one as a scoop!"

"EEWWWW!! No, I'm gonna use a chicken bone because I've got CLASS!"

...the sort of day in which you are jerked from deep within the deep psychological morass of editing by your son, who asks, "Do you know why there are symbiotes?"

"Uh.... in which universe?"

"Marvel. Like Venom and Carnage and--wait. This is one of those times, right? When you were somewhere completely different and I asked you something totally random?"

"Yes."

"Sorry."

And then he leaves and you have no idea why there were Spiderman symbiotes in the Marvel universe.

...the sort of day in which you post on Social Media that you're going send boxes to Pennsylvania, join them in Delaware, and get driven to Virginia only to have your husband say, "You're not flying to Delaware."

And you realize you've just confused Baltimore with Delaware in front of a whole bunch of people and one of them is a city and one of them is a state and who cares, you're an idiot it's time for bed.


Tuesday, October 9, 2018

All Hail the Victory Poop!

Short blog tonight!

I finished String Boys--it was 122k, so not short-- and I will probably submit it tomorrow, but for tonight, I just stood up and wiggled, trying to get the feeling back in my ass.

Squish said, "So, are you going to take a nice victory poop?"

I was like, "I'm sorry?"

"Some people pop the cork on champagne. You either go for the Dulcolax or the Advil. So what's it gonna be? A nice victory poop, or a victory headache instead?"

"Chocolate! And Advil. But first I have to go to the bathroom."

I got back a minute later, and she was like, "Too short for a victory poop--must have been a victory pee! Go mom! Way to celebrate!"

So I posted on Twitter about dancing, crying, and eating chocolate in the middle of my living room.

That was the plan, I swear, but I think Squish was right.

It's gonna be Advil and Dulcolax, and knitting.

And some crying.

And a little bit of dancing.

And hopefully tomorrow, we can all hail the nice victory poop.

String Boys

Okay-- this book is almost done, and I'm going to be spinning down the rabbit hole trying to finish it and another project before I go to GRL.

Anyway--I love this book. It's sort of a book of my heart. And I haven't talked a lot about it because I love it so much, I don't want to jinx it. But if I don't finish tonight I'm going to finish tomorrow, and it's all I can think about.

So here's a pivotal moment, from the beginning, when Seth makes a rather startling new revelation about Kelly--


One day in November they were riding the bus together, late because Seth was practicing for the winter holiday performance, when Kelly gave a little yawn and slumped sideways against him. 
Seth wrapped his arm around Kelly’s shoulders and let him rest his head on Seth’s chest, and he had a small revelation.
Kelly’s face wasn’t round anymore.
It wasn’t rectangular like Matty’s, though. He still had dimples in the corners of his cheeks. He still had a little cleft in the center of his pointed chin. His eyes were round, with long, dark, thick lashes, and he had a tiny black mole on his cheek, back by his ear. 
And he smelled good.
Same soap Matty used—Seth could smell it off of Matty when they had gym class together the year before. Matty had taken gym again this year, because they had a special weight class and he took so many academic classes gym was a fun elective, and Seth knew the fresh smell of Matty’s soap.
But it wasn’t the same on Kelly.
On Kelly it seemed sweeter and sharper. Like cedar shavings. More real. 
His lips were a pink shade of the pale bronze of his skin.
And soft. And pillowy.
Seth stared at Kelly for the rest of the bus ride, trying to fit this new Kelly into his mind and wishing he didn’t have to.
This was Matty’s kid brother. Seth’s life would be… incomplete if he wasn’t there, all hours of the day, insinuating himself into Seth’s blood.
He couldn’t be seeing Kelly any different than he had since they were little kids, could he? Kelly. Who still talked the ears off a chipmunk if you let him. Who could prattle on about his English teacher and how she looked old but she was going to go out and start a revolution single handedly if it killed her, and about the young math teacher who had just had her third kid and looked like death all the time and how Kelly was going to ask his mom if she could make poor Mrs. Hennessy some hot chocolate for Christmas because that woman needed a mommy like nobody else and his mommy was the best.
Kelly.
Who sat in Seth’s living room and listened to Seth play and drew random pictures and smiled just at the sound of scales.
Seth must have made a sound or something—something different about his breathing, maybe—because Kelly’s eyes flew open, sparkling brown, lively, and definitely not stupid.
“What?” Kelly asked, wiping a self-conscious hand across his lips, looking for drool. “I totally got spit all over you, right?” He made to pull away and for a moment, Seth’s arms tightened.
No. Kelly was warm in his arms, and again, his smell. 
Kelly stopped for a moment, and a little red-bronze crescent appeared on his cheekbones. “Keeping me warm?” he whispered.
Seth gaped at him, unable to find a good reason for holding him so close. The moment suspended there, breathless, as the two of them stared at each other, until Kelly suddenly bounded up. “Hey, that’s our stop!”
“Sorry, kid,” the bus driver responded. “I’ll let you off on the next block.”
“Dammit,” Kelly muttered. “It’s raining outside.”
“I’m sorry,” Seth whispered, feeling stupid and caught completely unawares. “I’m sorry. I just… zoned out—”
Kelly met his eyes and shook his head then, reminding Seth so much of Kelly’s father that Seth’s tongue stopped babbling. “I know what happened,” Kelly told him, voice surprisingly mild.
And then he winked. 
Seth swallowed and stood, waiting for the bus to come to a stop.
They got out just as the rain kicked in harder, and the two of them hustled to the nearest shelter.  This stop used to open up into a small strip mall, little store fronts close together with alleyways between them and overhangs. The stores had all closed down, and the windows had been broken and boarded up and broken and boarded up and broken again. It wasn’t a safe place, no—they had to dodge needles and condoms and trash to get to the place between the buildings where the overhang offered shelter. The good news was, the back opened up to a small field, and if they could cross that field they’d be in the back porch of the first fourplex of their block, and they knew almost everyone in their set of fourplexes, and they’d be safe.
But for the moment, they’d walked to the back of the tiny alleyway and were looking out from the overhang, waiting for the rain to stop pounding like it was going to drill a hole in their heads.
“Sorry about the bus stop,” Seth muttered. “This place is pretty gross.”
Kelly nodded. “Yeah—Matty says Castor Durant hangs out in the old laundromat—but not when it’s raining. The roof’s no good. It floods.”
Seth grunted. They’d all kept an ear to the ground for Castor Durant—he was back in the high school Matty had been headed for before he got his grades up. The rumors about him were unsettling—he’d been suspended once for hitting a teacher with a balled up roll of tape. The only reason he hadn’t been expelled was that she hadn’t seen him do it, but everybody knew. 
And what he did to students unwary enough to fall in his sway was worse.
“So we’re lucky it’s raining?” Seth wrinkled his nose and Kelly laughed at him. They’d both grown, but where Seth probably had two or so more inches to go, Kelly had stopped about two inches from where Seth was now.  He was going to five-six, maybe five-seven, for the rest of his life, and his childhood plumpness had washed away, leaving him slender and tightly built. But the smallness never seemed to stop him. He always stared up at the world with that same laughing-eyed joy that he was giving Seth now.
Seth stared back at him, just as entranced as he had been on the bus, but now it was worse, somehow. 
Kelly was biting his lip, his eyes wise.
“You just saw it, didn’t you?” he asked, the dimples popping out.
“Saw what?” Seth asked, helpless. He wanted to touch Kelly’s cheeks, feel the little dent in skin.
“Saw my face and thought, ‘Oh, it’s Kelly,’ and not ‘Oh, it’s Matty’s little brother.’”
Seth shook his head. “You’ve always been Kelly,” he replied with confidence. And then, shaken. “What’s different?”
Kelly let out a soft chuff of air. They were standing so close it brushed Seth’s chin, and he moved his finger to his own face, trying to still the tingle.
“Last year, I went to dances,” he whispered. “Remember?”
Seth nodded. “Yeah. Your mom got mad because she couldn’t chaperone.”
“Thank God,” Kelly returned with feeling. “So I made out with two girls at those dances. Cause they were funny and they wanted to dance, and making out seemed like what you were supposed to do.”
Seth’s stomach went cold. “Awesome,” he muttered. He hadn’t made out with anyone. It was just… just… getting home and practicing his next piece always held such a fascination. Being there to walk Kelly home, to have their own quite after school club, just the two of them, seemed so much more important.
“No,” Kelly said, shaking his head sadly. “I mean, pleasant, but not awesome. And then, Jimmy—you remember him? We used to sit at lunch together because the grades couldn’t mix?”
“Jimmy Durreson?” Seth remembered. White kid, which wasn’t that common. Dark blond hair, a big dent in his chin. Green eyes. 
A wave of panic crashed into Seth, like it had just been waiting to douse him as he stood on the shore of oblivion.
Cute. 
Jimmy Durreson was damned cute.
Kelly nodded, the mischief in his smile. “Yeah. Jimmy frickin’ Durreson. We were at the dance together, and we got bored, and we went outside to use the bathrooms and didn’t come in right away. And it was spring and just us, and he stops me. Says, ‘Wanna make out?’ And I did. And it was awesome. And he wanted to do it again. Wanted to be boyfriends.” 
Oh God. “You have a boyfriend?” Panic in his voice.
Kelly patted his cheek gently. “You’re so pretty, but oh my God. There’s shit you don’t see. No, I don’t have a boyfriend. Not yet.”
Seth nodded, trying to still the surge of jealousy that had followed the panic. “But if you thought it was awesome—”
Kelly kissed him.
Oh dear heavens, Kelly kissedhim. 
His plush little mouth soft on Seth’s, that amazing smell Seth had just discovered filling his senses. His warmth blocking out the chill of the November rain.
Seth gasped, and Kelly pushed his tongue in, just enough to taste, and Seth closed his lips and sucked lightly. 
Kelly pulled away and smiled, biting his lip. 
“It wasn’t that awesome,” he whispered. “It was good. Jimmy Durreson is a good kisser. But he doesn’t taste like you.”

Sunday, October 7, 2018

Wow, what a weekend

Okay-- so, I may just make a list--

It's been THAT busy--and frankly, I need to spend a long time working this weekend off my body, because a lot of it was eating.

Oi.

Anyway--so...

Friday...

Squish decided to get her hair cut anyway--and as sad as I'll be to ship that envelope off to the Wigs for Kids place, I have to say, she looks lovely. And growing up looks lovely on her. I think we both can deal.

Also, we got to go out to lunch with my friend, Berry Jello whom I love so very much.

And then out to dinner for Bryar's birthday--everybody. Like, EVERYBODY got to go to Wongs. It was GREAT because my sister was there and Berry Jello and Chicken's friend Stevi and my parents.

It was wonderful.

*happy sated sigh*

Anyway...

So Saturday, Squish and Mate had soccer.

And THEN we drove from the soccer field to a small country faire in Rio Linds (Levee Oaks, for those who remember the Promise Rock books) There was a Johnny Cash tribute band called the Cash Prophets--and yeah. The lead singer really DID sound like Johnny Cash.

Today--after sleeping in with the dogs a little-- Mate and I got to take Damon Suede out to... well food. Mostly it was food. I guess because that's just what the weekend was. Steak and that place where you get the ice cream sandwich in the doughnut and churros made of fruity pebbles



He professed to be enchanted and I'm going to take his word for it.

I had a wonderful conversation and my friend made me feel like I did him a favor which was funny, because he saved Mate and I from an everyday average Sunday and made it extraordinary.

So yeah.

Whew.

Next?

I need to finish the goddamned book.

And then I need to work out a little. Because I'm probably ten pounds up after that weekend!

Thursday, October 4, 2018

Squish Postpones Puberty

 So, let's talk about hair for a minute.

When I was about two years old, my father's mother took me on a "fun day" while my mom got a break. My hair was bright red, right up until my twenties, and very curly, and when I was two, it was that adorable toddler ringlet stage--until grandma took me to the barber and got it shorn because she had hair issues.

When SHE had been a kid, her father MADE HER keep it long, right up until she turned eighteen, when she got it bobbed and thought that was THE BEST THING EVER.

She liked short hair so much that when her grown son--my uncle--came back from Korea and wanted to grow a beard while he lived at home and earned his MBA, she snuck into his room the night before Easter service and shaved a strip out of it so he could be clean shaven for the pastor at Easter.

So, when she had a granddaughter (me) she took every chance she could get to take me to the barber and chop my hair off to above my ears.

The last time was in sixth grade.

My stepmother was furious.

Dudes.

If there is one thing I have learned from being her pixie-cut surrogate it was to let girls wear their hair ANY MOTHERFUCKIN' WAY THEY WANT TO. It's THEIR GODDAMNED HAIR. Sure. Tell them that you love their hair when it's long--I mean, the pictures here are shit, but have you SEEN my daughters' hair when it's long? Both of them? It's stunning. Just... *flails* FRICKIN' GORGEOUS.

But Chicken got her hair bobbed to her ears and it's adorable. And Squish has just liked her hair in her standard braid for the past four or five years, and I'm good with that. Every morning she wakes me up and I braid it for her, and she goes off to school and I usually fall back into bed for an hour.

But Squish wanted her hair bobbed.

She was gonna get it cut.

Today was going to be her last hurrah--she told all her friends she was going to chop it off to her ears--she'd pulled up pictures of Molly Ringwald (one of three redheaded teenaged actresses that's not bullied or dead in a supernatural swimming pool, thank you very much), and she was going to get her hair bobbed and adorable and be cuter than a bug in a rug.

I was... well, I wasn't fine. But I was honest. "I love your hair, and I'm going to miss it. But it's YOUR HAIR. I want you to be happy with your hair, and I'm pretty sure once it's bobbed, I'll wonder why you didn't do it sooner because it will be super super cute."

She was game.

So tonight I took the above pictures, to prove to her friends that it was down to her bottom when it was washed and combed, and then I braided her hair.

She started to cry while I was braiding it. She was inconsolable.

"It's okay, sweetheart. You don't have to. Nothing's irrevocable until the first cut's made."

"Let's just not," she sobbed. "Let's just not."

So she's not.

And I'm frankly relieved.

Because she'll have time to look like Molly Ringwald, I hope. She'll have time to bob it and be waifish and pouty and worry about her boobs.

But right now she's my Squish for just a little longer, and gotta admit, I'm fine with that.

But I know it's around the corner.

Some day, she's going to be fine with it and I will no longer have to wake up to braid it down to her ass and then fall asleep.

But I was honest. It's her hair. It's her choice. And when it happens, she'll look super super cute.

But not today, puberty.

Not today.

Tuesday, October 2, 2018

Quick! Write something!

Okay-- so, having no luck on the adorable little anecdote front here--sublime thoughts all used up in my fiction. (Which I need to get back to!) So, I think what we're getting tonight is a random list of blog topics that I do not have time to get to tonight.

Oi, I suck at this...

*  Squish's enjoyment of the chicken in disco pants

*  Little old misogynist women in the pool and how I let them live

*  The drunken douchewaffle frat boy is more credible than the poised psychologist because why?

*  My weird visual aesthetic and why I no longer pick out my own cover art and why my cover artists are probably super super relieved

*  I've managed to botch plane tickets AND hotel reservations in the same week. Why are we letting me leave the house again?

* So, Amy, how long is your book NOW?

* Dogs with bed face, and why they still deserve treats

* What do you furry freaks have against knitting again?

* Thank you, Chicken, for walking with me in the morning and fondling my dogs when you get home

*  So missing Clayne Crawford on Lethal Weapon, but Sean William Scott is kind of flipping my switch, and why that's embarrassing af

* Thin yarn and big needles and why it's a cheat but one I'll come back to time and again

* The unexpected allure of middle aged men in purple

* Mate's hilarious birthday T-shirts

* The many ways Karen Rose, Rayna Vause and I have come up with to kill people with weapons disguised as otherwise harmless items from our knitting kit. No, stabbing people with standard knitting needles is NOT an option.

* The new guy on 9-1-1-- will he end up with Buckley, the new guy from last season? Because the show's already pretty watchable, but I would pay money to watch that

* The last holdout for the pet door--surprise! It's NOT one of the dogs!

* ZoomBoy, your cat... do something with it!

*  The new Magnum PI-- finally, more fast paced brain candy I can knit to!

* Mate's sweater and why it will take me until the next ice age

*  Oh SHIT--I have til WHEN to ship to GRL?

* No, no, Ms. Editor in Chief...I should have the book done by... uh... uh... THE END OF THIS WEEKEND SURE I'M NOT LYING AT ALL!

And on that note, I should probably get back to work...








Monday, October 1, 2018

October Kermit Flail--YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!

YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!!!

So I admit it--it's been a little bit hectic around here. DSP weekend, prep for GRL (I'm being a lazy writer with very little initiative there--but I DO have to send some swag to Andrew Grey because he's picking me up from the airport and we're driving to Virginia. Believe me, it's even more complicated than it sounds!)  And yes, tonight (when I post) is my birthday, and it's funny how even if I wanted a quiet birthday, I'm not gonna get one, which is fine, because even when you're turning 15 in dyslexic years, you still like a little bit of happy to celebrate your entrance into the world. 

Anyway--I didn't pimp the flail this month, but that doesn't mean we don't have some AWESOME people to flail anyway!

Kim Fielding is coming out with a Dreamspun Desire--and it looks amazing. Kim is like I am-- we both like writing the angsty stuff and the happy stuff, and sometimes, when the mood hits us, the popcorn stuff too. I so want to read this--it looks like the perfect little bite of happy in paperback form!

E.J. Russell--whom I got to see at DSP weekend--and Kim as well (she of the Superbris inspiration ;-)-- is coming out with another quirky, hilarious paranormal romance. I think if I could categorize E.J.'s paranormal, I'd put her in the same place as Mary Janice Davison (and yes--I read Queen Betsy up to book 14 and pretty much slobbered all over poor Ms. Davison in Las Vegas one year. I even read about Fred the Mermaid. I'm a fan.) E.J. is funny, quirky, with unexpected warmth and a sweet pathos--this next one looks perfect, PNR light, and I urge you to check it out!

Elle Keaton's offering has a GORGEOUS cover (I'm a fan of drawn covers... sorry...) and a childhood friends to grownup lovers storyline--but one that might rip your heart out. So, you know-- a perfect autumn read when you're feeling a little melancholy and need to just let the feels happen. Another good pick this autumn-- sweet!

And speaking of sweet, Melanie Jayne--who writes het--is a sweet woman who is all for the highly satisfying happy ending. Like E.J., she's submitting a bit of paranormal this time out, and her story--about a pack alpha in love with his seer, looks funny and sweet and everything romance should be. Hey-- Halloween is around the corner--you can never have too many vampires and werewolves, right?

And at the end there, finally, is the companion novel to A Few Good Fish, called Hiding the Moon. Hiding the Moon features Lee Burton, who first appeared in Racing for the Sun, and then reappeared, superhero fashion, in Few Good Fish. This is how Burton met Ernie, and how the two of them--the cover ops genius and the rather freaky psychic ended up lovers--and then made a life together when they should never have met in the first place.

It also explains how they sort of ended up in the middle of Jackson and Ellery's mishegas, and how, without meaning to, Jackson and Ellery provided sort of a blueprint for how two guys who shouldn't even know each other can actually get along.

So it's a modest offering but a mighty one this month-- thanks to everybody who sent in their stuff. Happy reading, folks--and may your Samhain be happy vampires, solicitous werewolves, and gorgeous psychic moons. 


The Spy's Love Song

by Kim Fielding




For a singer and a spy, love might be mission impossible.

Jaxon Powers has what most only dream of. Fame. Fortune. Gold records and Grammy awards. Lavish hotel suites and an endless parade of eager bedmates. He’s adored all over the world—even in the remote, repressive country of Vasnytsia, where the tyrannical dictator is a big fan. The State Department hopes a performance might improve US relations with a dangerous enemy. But it means Jaxon’s going in alone… with one exception.

Secret agent Reid Stanfill has a covert agenda with global ramifications. Duty means everything to him, even when it involves protecting a jaded rock star. Jaxon and Reid’s mutual attraction is dangerous under Vasnytsia’s harsh laws—and matters get even worse when they’re trapped inside the borders. Romance will have to wait… assuming they make it out alive.

Buy at DSP

Buy at Amazon



Single White Incubus

by E.J. Russell 
Supernatural Selection #1



Does a bear shift in the woods?

Well, partially. That was what got grizzly shifter Ted Farnsworth into trouble. He wasn’t trying to break the Secrecy Pact. He just wants people to see the real him. So he signs up with the mate-matching service Supernatural Selection — which guarantees marriage to a perfect partner. Not only will Ted never be lonely again, but once his new beaver shifter husband arrives, they’ll build Ted’s dream wilderness retreat together. Win-win.

Quentin Bertrand-Harrington, scion of an incubus dynasty, has abstained from sex since nearly killing his last lover. When his family declares it’s time for him to marry, Quentin decides the only way not to murder his partner is to pick someone who’s already dead. Supernatural Selection finds him the ideal vampire, and Quentin signs the marriage agreement sight unseen.

But a mix-up at Supernatural Selection contracts Quentin with Ted. What’s Ted supposed to do with an art historian who knows more about salad forks than screwdrivers? And how can Quentin resist Ted’s mouthwatering life force? Yet as they work together to untangle their inconvenient union, they begin to wonder if their unexpected match might be perfect after all.



Buy at Publisher


His Best Man

by Elle Keaton


Rod Beton and Travis Walker have known each other almost all their lives, since the third grade when Rod was the new kid in town and Travis befriended him with Pok√©mon trading cards and a fruit snack. Apparently Rod’s easy. Since that day they've had each other's backs, like bread and butter, biscuits and gravy...and so on.


Along the way, Rod fell in love with Travis. He's been hoping for some kind of signal from Travis that he returns Rod's feelings. When Travis announces his surprise engagement—to a woman—over Thanksgiving dinner, Rod decides he's done waiting for the impossible. He packs his belongings and heads for Skagit and a new life. Even if Travis suddenly decided Rod was the man for him, would Rod be able to put aside his insecurities?

Travis always knew he was destined to take over the family business. As the only son, he’s expected to take the helm of the Walker farming operation, and he’s good at it. An engagement to a local girl he’s pals with seems like the perfect solution, gets his mom off his back and ensures the family line. Eventually. When his best friend abruptly leaves town, Travis’s eyes are finally opened to the difference between what is expected of him and what he could expect for himself.

His Best Man is a stand-alone in the Accidental Roots series, a friends-to-lovers mm romance with an HEA. Bisexual/gay


See Me

by Melanie Jayne

The Novus Pack Book 1


Throughout history, The Lady, Goddess of the Lycan world, has gifted werewolf packs with humans who carry her mark. Theodora Morrissey’s plans to return to college for her graduate degree are ended when she is awakened by an otherworldly voice on a rarely used airstrip in Nebraska. Injured and disoriented, she has no idea the discoloration on her back has marked her as a Seer, and that she is now a possession—and the prisoner—of the Novus Pack of Lycans.  

To the Novus pack, the word of their leader, their Laird, is the law. With compelling gray eyes and long dark hair, Raider Black rules his pack with intelligence and ruthlessness. To cement the security of his pack, Black has committed to mate another Packleader's daughter. But he’s finding it impossible to fight his attraction to the pack’s alluring new Seer, claiming her as his own.

Sweet, fearless, and unintentionally funny, Theo upends Black’s world and pushes the boundaries of his rules. How far is Raider willing to go, and what will he sacrifice, to save both his pack and the human Seer who’s found a way not only into his bed, but his heart?





Hiding the Moon

by Amy Lane
Fish Out Of Water: Book Four - A Fish Out of Water/Racing for the Sun Crossover
Can a hitman and a psychic negotiate a relationship while all hell breaks loose?

The world might not know who Lee Burton is, but it needs his black ops division and the work they do to keep it safe. Lee’s spent his life following orders—until he sees a kill jacket on Ernie Caulfield. Ernie isn’t a typical target, and something is very wrong with Burton’s chain of command.

Ernie’s life may seem adrift, but his every action helps to shelter his mind from the psychic storm raging within. When Lee Burton shows up to save him from assassins and club bunnies, Ernie seizes his hand and doesn’t look back. Burton is Ernie’s best bet in a tumultuous world, and after one day together, he’s pretty sure Lee knows Ernie is his destiny as well.

But when Burton refused Ernie’s contract, he kicked an entire piranha tank of bad guys, and Burton can’t rest until he takes down the rogue military unit that would try to kill a spacey psychic. Ernie’s in love with Burton and Burton’s confused as hell by Ernie—but Ernie’s not changing his mind and Burton can’t stay away. Psychics, assassins, and bad guys—throw them into the desert with a forbidden love affair and what could possibly go wrong?

Sunday, September 30, 2018

Birthday

So, someone posted on FaceBook, "I hear you turned 15! Who said dyslexia is all bad?"

I love that guy.

Anyway...

Yes, it twas my birthday, and I'd planned to have a regular day, followed by a nice dinner at Tahoe Joes w/Mate.

Except Mate got sick. Like, he's falling asleep now after his two hour nap sick. And suddenly, all the regular day things-- walk the dogs, pick up Big T, go grocery shopping, drop stuff off at the Goodwill, cook dinner for the kids--became... well, sort of sad.

Except Big T cooked the pizza while I napped, and then served me pizza while I sat and watched a favorite movie, and then, just when I was thinking, "Oh, crap, I need to take him home," Chicken showed up. He'd texted her while I was napping, and said, "Let's not make Mom and Dad take me home--it'll be a birthday present."

And my stepmom called, and so did my stepbrother, and real-mom sent a card and of course, Mate got the pet door...

And the kids did the dishes and cleaned the bathroom.

And it's funny, how even the smallest shit can be huge when you're fifteen.

It's been a good birthday.

I'll make it to steak dinner eventually. Hopefully Mate feels better tomorrow for HIS birthday.

Hopefully we can do enough small things to make 15 feel like a much grander number.

Beauty and the Beast

When I wrote Sidecar, and Casey didn't know about the AIDs crisis in 1988, people wrote me and said, "But he was only 150 miles north of San Francisco. How could he not?"

Well, I didn't.

I mean, I'd heard of it, but nobody talked to me directly, and even though some of my friends were gay, they didn't seem to have it, so why would it affect me?

And I'm not sure when I realized that it should affect everybody. Was it an episode of Designing Women? Was it And the Band Played On? (I hope not--that was so long afterward!) Did a friend finally tell me to pull my fucking head out of my ass, I wasn't the only princess on the goddamned planet?

I don't remember what it was. Maybe it was the combined weight of all those things. Maybe it was when Magic Johnson told the world he was HIV+ and a friend of mine had a full blown crisis.

Maybe I just grew up--when I talk about being a girl from the hills, I'm not kidding. Sure, now Loomis is a bustling metropolis with over 10,000 people in it, but when I was in high school it had less than 3,000, and Rocklin, where I went to junior college was not much bigger. We looked shit up in encyclopedias and microfiche then, and the internet was a thing that other people had, or that made that weird grinding noise when you turned on your modem.

Maybe it was when I went to San Francisco State for a year, and people were passing out condoms all the frickin time.

Or when I became sexually active, the summer before, and I realized that I was really lucky that neither of us had a sexual history to discuss and that the pill was great because I didn't have to worry about where Mate's penis had been prior.

But realize, I did--eventually. And as the full scope and horror of the situation descended upon me, I realized how stupid, how self-involved I'd been to not know.

And how many potential friends passed away when I didn't even know there was a monster out there to take them.

 When I started writing gay romance, I knew that fear, that history, was a thing I could only touch on peripherally--I hadn't lived through it. It had been reported to me. I had very little right. It wasn't mine.

Tonight, Squish--age 12--and I watched the live action Beauty and the Beast-- while she was shopping for a new book, by the way--and just before Gaston started to sing "Kill the Beast", I paused the TV and told my daughter about Howard Ashman, and why this song was about something bigger than Beauty and the Beast, and about all of the horrible things I know about that time now that I had been blind to when I was a dumbfuck teenager from the hills.

I told her about the things I've read since, the movies I've seen, stories from people I know who had to go to a funeral a week, articles about the woman who gave her family inheritance to bury people whose families wouldn't even come claim their bodies.

And some people may be going, "She's twelve! Does she really need to know that?"

But she's reading Rainbow Rowell and John Green and probably secretly looking up m/m fanfic on her phone, and I felt like if she was going to be part of that reading culture, she needed to know the things that I hadn't. She needed to feel some of the history, be made part of the larger world. I pieced together my empathy a bit of information at a time.

I gave it to her in blanket form, and we both cried as we looked at all the pieces.

It was so fucking tragic, and nobody in her class knew about it.  "It's the punchline to a joke," she said in disbelief. "And now I'm mad about that, because this is awful. How can we not know?"

I know where my shell of cluelessness and innocence came from--I built it to keep me safe from the awfulness of my own world which I don't talk a lot about, and probably never will. Maybe it flaked away a piece at a time as I got strong enough to deal with the world at large and learned to compartmentalize my own damage where it couldn't corrode my empathy for other people.

But my children have had a good life. The things that hurt me have been kept far away from them, and I always hoped that would make them stronger.

Today my kid saw a thing I was afraid to face, and she cried, and then she took the knowledge to her heart and let it make her a better person.  I think she's going to take that knowledge out into the world and help make it a better place.

And while I'm not proud of the clueless little space cadet I used to be, I'm proud of the children that girl grew up to raise.  If I've contributed nothing else to this world, I've given it better human beings than I ever was, and maybe they can make the difference I could not.









Thursday, September 27, 2018

Politics


So, I was going to write a post and say--honestly, I thought--that I had never been sexually assaulted, but I lived in fear of it.

I was going to say that I believed the women who'd come forward, because I am the most likely person in the world to just be quiet, just hold it close, just eat it to death and maybe tell four or five people in my life that it ever happened and think that was good--that made me an open book. 

I was going to stand with my sisters and say I'd been fortunate--so fortunate--that I'd never had to deal with the trauma of being criminally assaulted. 

Just groped, you know. Harassed. Laughed at. Just put into the uncomfortable position of having to say, "Uh, no, I've got a boyfriend, you shouldn't do that."  Just forced to ask my daughter if I should tell her grandparents about the incident or if she'd rather we kept it quiet because it was her discomfort we needed to respect, and the rest of it could go to hell. Just confided in during college and uncertain as to what she was saying because was she really saying what it sounded like she was saying until my friend said, baldly, "No, this was coercion," and I grew up and said, "Did you report it?" And she said, "No. I went to a rape counselor instead." 

Just told again and again and again by people I knew and loved and respected that it had happened and stood in awe of their strength, helpless, because there was nothing I could do to make it better, I'd never be able to make it better, and every small incident I remembered in my own past paled in comparison to the abuse of others I've known and yet even those things were awful and humiliating and frightening and they weren't anything, just small things, just a drop in the bucket of rape culture, not even worth talking about.

I've never been criminally assaulted.

Bully for me.

Fuck anybody who thinks that means it doesn't happen. Fuck anybody who thinks it hasn't happened to people they know. Fuck anybody who thinks its rare and it can just be gotten over and all these women should just get over it because it's all in the past and it doesn't matter any more.

It's a splinter in the soul. Shrapnel near the heart. A festering wound waiting to burst. It's human pain and the staggering indifference to it on behalf of the politicians who are supposed to represent us is symptomatic. These are the people who starve children, separate families, back sexual predators, cheat companies, fuck over education at EVERY opportunity, and have sold our country to the highest bidder.

Their gross and bilious fuckery does not lessen the importance of what we know.

Real men don't assault women. They don't rage at them. They don't intimidate them. They don't beat them.

The politicians can fuck off. Can fuck ALL the way off. We will raise our sons to be gentle and our daughters to be strong, and dammit, we will start to fix the world. 

It is time to NEVER let puckered angry white men speak for us again.




Pet Door

So Connie Bailey (*all the love in the world for this woman who is my soul mate and my sister*) took pictures at the workshop, and sent us the files. I used one of them for a new picture on FB but figured I'd let you get a look at them.  It's funny--I would have said the top one--eyes squinched shut and smiling--was the most me, but Connie really loved the last one. The one where I look mysterious and thoughtful.


I'll take it. Mysterious and thoughtful? Not usually my thing. But I'll take it, just this once.

So, still tired--today I got up super early and my nap? It was epic. It was also a day of communication--Elizabeth, Mary, and, later, a podcast interview with Geoff Knight of Geoff and Will's Big Gay Podcast--I'M SO EXCITED--it's coming out right when Hiding the Moon is, and whee!

Anyway...

So news here?

Well, I regret to inform you that my dogs are too stupid for the pet door.

The cats? They get it. It makes it possible for them to go in, then out. Then in. Then out. Then in.

Then out.

Which seriously is like third on the list of things a cat needs to live, right after sitting exclusively in YOUR chair and nowhere else, and a bottomless food bowl.

But the dogs?

The dogs are...

Oh my God.

They're hideously dumb.

The whole family has taken to shuttling them out the pet door and then calling their names to get them to come back in. And yet, they come into the living room and look helplessly at the door, as if trying to say, "I know you're trying to tell me something... something... anything... I just don't know... can I get a clue? Wait... why are we doing this again? Let me in let me in LET ME INNNNNNNNN...."

Yes.

All of that.

They're trying to show us all of that.

And Mate and I are catching up on television.

There's a new young hottie on 9-1-1, and he's supposed to be the fresh meat that makes the old young hottie jealous.

I'm like, "For fuck's sake, if these two guys are not shirtless and making out by the end of the season I'm gonna be SO disappointed."

Anyway-- just to let you know I"m not dead, and that SuperBat is not my only default mode.

Oh!

Speaking of which--I'm putting it all together to make a document for Instafreebie, so people can download it and put it on Kindle.

Cause I'm good like that ;-)






Tuesday, September 25, 2018

Superman’s Bris

I LOVE my DSP weekend. I really do. I meet and plan and talk and even have an occasional panel to be on (which I forgot about and still showed up with an audio-visual aid!)

Anyway-- it was wonderful, and I may pull out stuff to talk about in the next week, and I have a few stories to tell about kids and dogs etc.

But while I was there, this started, and I felt it was important to finish it because... I mean, you saw the title!

While I was in Orlando, I got a very cool birthday present from a reader. She came to chat  and she sat down at our table and met me and Andrew Grey and Kim Fielding. The mug was a big hit, and the conversation turned—like they do. Of course, it was fueled by the recent Batdick controversy (and the fact that I have a picture of the original graphic novel frames on my phone that show very clearly that Bruce Wayne was circumcised) and Kim Fielding said she wanted THIS fanfic. It was important, she said. Necessary to life. The mohel, by the way? Was someone she actually met to perform a service for her family— she said I had to include him. It was NECESSARY.

Now I adore Kim, and would do ever so much to make her happy.

And of course, Andrea who gave me the mug deserves some happiness too.

So, here we go. Happy dinner table conversation—welcome to Superman’s Bris.

Superman’s Bris

Bruce kept telling Clark that the important thing was he was okay.

Six weeks recovery? Not a problem.

Broken leg, concussion, contusions? Batman had seen worse.

Superman had been there for worse.

Not a big deal.

But after their first night’s lovemaking, a couple of weeks before Bruce was allowed back in the field, Clark was driving everybody crazy.

Bruce would be up in the Eye in the Sky, analyzing data, putting together models of criminal activity to see if it linked to larger patterns, and Superman would buzz in through the electromagnetic airlock, slide his hand along Bruce’s back like he was checking for wounds, and then just buzz the fuck back out.

Bruce would be at work, laughing glibly about a skiing accident, when a mighty wind would haul through his suddenly open window, blow away all the papers, ruffle his hair, feel him up, and blow the fuck back out.

They would be sitting quietly, eating dinner, and Bruce would concentrate on his food—because Alfred cooked and fuck it all, he needed to concentrate on that shit—and when he looked up, Clark would be still be there, but Bruce would have the feeling of being surreptitiously triaged.

And Clark’s eyes would be glowing which meant he was X-raying his body through the table as he sat.

“Stop it,” he snarled.

“Stop what?” Fucking Kansas farm boy—guileless blue eyes. You could almost believe he was as innocent as all of that.

“Stop expecting my bones to shatter and my heart to stop. It’s sort of insulting. I work hard to stay fit. Unless there’s a bomb or a gun or a sword or something, I’m usually okay.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Bruce set down his knife and fork and glared at him. “You. Lie.”

Clark fiddled with his own cutlery, a complete uneaten steak on his plate. “Superman does not—“

“Maybe not, but Clark Kent just told a solid gold whopper. Christ on... on... on fucking crutches—“

“Which you still have to use!” Clark muttered.

“You’re being a child,” Bruce snapped. “Oh my God—did you never skin your knee as a child...”

And it hit him then. Like a clock to the jaw.

“You never skinned your knee as a child.”

The silence fell, a jagged granite boulder, plummeting through a black lake.

“No,” Clark said simply.

Bruce had a sudden thought. “You’re uncircumcised.”

The shock that washed Clark’s face scoured away Bruce's irritation. “Uhm...”

Bruce Wayne's smile was not sweet. It wasn’t pleasant. But it must have done something, something hot and wicked, because Bruce could see Clark's face flush from across the table.

His next words were enough to make Bruce strangle on his own tongue.

“They tried to have a Bris.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Kents. Martha’s family was, uh, Jewish. They were adopting me. They tried to have a Brit Milah. A Bris.”

Bruce put his elbow on the table and balanced his chin in the palm of his hand. “Do tell.” He may even have batted his eyelashes.

“It didn’t work.”

Bruce let out a positively filthy chuckle. “I know.” Clark's foreskin was wonderfully sensitive. Bruce particularly liked pulling it back and licking under the head, because Clark made the most delicious noises.

Just thinking about it, Bruce could almost smell his come.

And Clark was still stammering, still fumbling for words that didn't send the erotic flush rolling off him in waves.

“The, uh, mohel was... well I met him as an adult. He was sort of terrifying. Like, you know, this tiny man from Poland. He glared at me. We went to temple with Martha's family sometimes. Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur... you know. Most of the time we did midwest Methodist, but... I guess..." He gave a weak smile, and Bruce got it. Jewish/Christian, Kryptonian/Human--theirs was not the first mixed marriage in Clark's family history.

"So, a circumcision," Bruce said, to get the conversation back where he wanted it.

On Superman's penis. Because who wouldn't want to have a conversation about Superman's penis?

"Yes."

"And the mohel held a grudge."

Clark fidgeted with his silverware some more. "I... uh... apparently broke his favorite Kvellar. That's a, uhm--"

"Bris knife. I know. You broke it?"

Clark started to roll his knife. Like, a tube of toothpaste. Into a tiny little tube.

"Well, it, uh... you know. Broke off. On, my, uh..."

"Superdick."

He started to mold the ball of silver in between his thumb and forefinger. The knife was no longer a knife, it was now malleable silver clay.

"Foreskin." Still not meeting Bruce's eyes. "He, uh... broke three of them, actually. So, like, his favorite, and his two backups, and in the end, he just said I wasn't really Jewish. Cause, you know, you have to draw blood."

"So you're not Jewish."

He started to roll the little ball around on the table, like a marble, and Bruce wondered if it would be worth it to point out he was putting a divot in Alfred's favorite antique banquet table.

"No Bar Mitzvah," he said with a shrug. "But, uh, you know. Dad didn't take advantage, so no baptism either. Just... sort of let me choose what I wanted."

Bruce stood, without crutches, and used the table to balance as he walked over to take Clark's chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"What you wanted," he repeated.

Clark met his eyes, his cheeks a blooming red, white teeth sinking into his plump super-lips. "What I wanted."

"Do you want me, Clark?"

He dragged in a breath, and Bruce could hear the rasp. "So bad."

"I bleed."

Those Kansas-sky blue eyes closed. "I've noticed."

"I'm circumcised."

That lush mouth, sinful really, curved upward. "I've noticed."

"Would you like to know what I believe?"

Bruce could hear the bob of his adam's apple. "What?"

He bent his head until his lips brushed Clark's ear. "As God is my witness--any God--as long as I'm breathing, as long as my heart beats, I'll love you. And when I stop breathing, when my heart stops beating, the love will still be there. But I won't be able to play with your glorious, amazing body then, so you should use me while you can."

He nibbled along Clark's jaw, surprised when Clark tried to evade his kiss.

"I'm afraid," he whispered.

Bruce tried to make him smile. "You? Even your foreskin is stronger than steel."

But Clark would still not be tamed. "My heart--"

Bruce captured his mouth then, not wanting to hear it. Of course his heart was fragile. Tissue paper and promises fragile. Cornsilk thin. As substantial as a cloud in a a blazing sky.

But he opened for Bruce, groaning in need, and Bruce took over, straddling him carefully as he sat. Kiss, plunder--taste.

Clark returned then, hauling him close, and Bruce nibbled another path to Clark's ear. "We can eat later. Care to fly us to bed now?"

"Why bed?" Clark panted, and Bruce slid his hand between them, pushing the heel of his palm against Clark's burgeoning erection.

"I want to show you the blessings of a foreskin of steel."

Clark laughed--a fractured, needy sound--but Bruce wanted to tap-dance in triumph. "That's terrible."

"I'm going to tongue it, and nibble on it, and play with it and--"

The world swooshed around his ears and he found himself in their bed.

Naked.

A very naked, very muscular Clark Kent was underneath him, bucking up against his stomach, leaking a copious puddle of pre-cum.

"Hungry?" Bruce taunted, worming his way down, making sure the corrugated muscles of his stomach rubbed harshly against Clark's cock.

"You made promises," Clark growled. "Or were you all talk--alk!?"

Bruce loved his taste. Loved his width and thickness. His foreskin. All of it.

But as he played and nipped, nibbled and sucked, what he loved most was having Clark Kent at his mercy.

He was not feeling particularly merciful this night.

He teased and played until Clark gibbered with need, practically sobbed with it. "Bruce! Oh my God! Please--I need to-- you can't-- please--"

And then Bruce oiled his own aching cock and slid upward, thrusting into him without warning, knowing--after three years, knowing--that the roughness, the quick bite of pain, the intensity would put him over in the first stroke.

And render him helpless as Bruce pounded inside him, chasing his own climax.

He held it off as long as he could, watching Clark--flushed, sweating, head thrown back, eyes closed, body shaking with pleasure, with stimulation, with an orgasm that was still rippling through his cock, his taint, his ass.

Watching him abandoned, naked, losing all knowledge of his immortality, of his carefully instilled mores and manners, with his adorable farm boy shyness stripped away.

Just as vulnerable in spirit as Bruce was in body.

More so.

Afraid.

Afraid of losing the man he loved.

Bruce's climax roared through him, a cleansing fire, screaming out of his chest, his balls in a pump and a throb of come.

Bruce collapsed on his chest, still rutting, even after he'd slid out in a sticky gush.

"I'm afraid too," he whispered between their harsh breaths that filled the room.

"Yeah?" Clark's hand slid through the lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead, pulling it back into place.

"Of losing this. Of losing you. You've never skinned your knee, Clark. But you've had your heart broken plenty of times. It's no different for me."

Clark chuckled rustily.

"But you've skinned your knees."

"It was a warning," Bruce agreed. "That's all." He closed his eyes, his face buried against Clark's throat, and then opened them quickly. "Did I give you razor burn?"

Clark grunted. "Mm hm. It's that thing I do. During sex."

"Where we vibrate in quantum resonance." Bruce wasn't going to say it, but he had to. "I could hurt you. When we're together. Right?"

Another grunt. "I guess."

"I won't," he said softly. "Who needs a bris when you've got a foreskin of steel."

Another rusty chuckle and Bruce knew he would be okay. No more super-whooshing and triage-on the fly. Clark could deal now. Thank the deity of choice.

Whoever that may be.

*  *  *

Clark listened to him fall asleep, thinking about skinned knees and razor burns, quantum resonance and sex.

Bruce Wayne and how his fragile body held Clark Kent's fragile heart.

He started to plan then, for the end. For the many ways Bruce Wayne could die.

For the many ways Clark Kent could use the quantum resonance of his heartbeat to end his own life.

Bruce would never know. Clark would never tell him.

It was Clark's own covenant though. Bruce would love him after death--he'd promised.

Clark would be there, wherever Bruce was. Sustaining that love in whatever realm and whatever form they'd become.