June 17th, 2005

children of dune - leto 1

whee! took leave from work!

The only time that I'm really tempted to quit smoking--other than watching the lung cancer specials on Discovery Health--is summer.

It's weird, actually I was born and raised here. My body is *adapted* to temperatures above ninety. I don't even sweat at below one hundred anymore unless there's physical activity, which only happens when I see the trampoline and think I'm actually ten and could pull off that somersault if I really, really, *really* try. Which isn't often.

But outside, while I smoke between nine-fifty and ten-fifteen--my nicotine window of sanity, if you will. It's *hot*. It's freakishly hot. But it's not unbearable by any means. But--and it hit me halfway through a chat with Dan about experimenting with pavement and fried eggs--this is what people call *small talk*.

And wow, so *that's* what people mean.

It's rote. I can easily think about porn while mouthing temperature-related obscenities and never notice. It's *common ground*. I have, in fact, finally come to the place in my life where I can carry on a normal conversation and not panic halfway through wondering if I've said something that has no reference point in the conversation whatsoever. I can do this with *groups* of people. Legions, even.

Cool.

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waiting

(no subject)

Took day off today--in advance, even! So it was a totally supervisor-okayed day off, and I am happy like a happy thing.

Happiness, in this case, leads to catching up on LJ in a serious, serious way. There was once a time I could not stop reading until I'd read *every Lj entry on my friendslist*. Those days are past. Now I cannot live if I don't read every *porn post*. Over time, I'm getting more comfortable with my role as an amateur pornographer and smut writer. It makes me happy.

WiPs Collection

Strangely, no matter how much I post, it never seems to get shorter.

Landscape

One day. *waves fist at sky* One day, this story will come easily to me. I remember the good old days where I could whip out a few thousand words before dinner. These days, with this story, I get excited when I get five hundred words down that I don't want to erase. I've been working on it--God, has it been a year now? At Slumberparty, I'd just finished the first part. Now I'm at part v, and it still crawls by.


With another dopey smile, Clark's eyes fall shut, with a snort like a sleepy puppy. Lex doesn't move from his seat on the edge of the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of Clark's chest. The Clark of his world hadn't looked this young in years. Decades. Aged by the world, maybe, by being a superhero, by being a reporter, a husband to a driven woman, a son who lost his father too early. That's not all it was, though.

Touching the dark hair, Lex thinks of Clark's shuttered face in memory, years and years of it, the Clark that he'd hated so much it had been like acid, corroding everything it touched. It had never occurred to him until now that it ate at Clark just as surely, just as viciously.

In all those years of hating Clark, wanting to hurt him as deeply as he'd hurt Lex, he'd never guessed the hate would almost be enough to do it.

This Clark hadn't had a Lex who knew him too well, who could strike wounds that could never fully heal, be a living reminder of failure, a blighted friendship, and the thousand wrong choices they both made. Clark's sleep-smile widens as Lex strokes his hair, the rhythm a sharp counterpoint to the maelstrom in his head.

There'd been a time he'd have done anything not to hurt Clark, and an eternity after he'd done nothing else. This Lex had done something--said the right thing, like Lex never had, done the right thing, like Lex never quite could--and history had changed.



Working title: Breathe Dust

I don't know if anyone knows that svmadelyn has me on a time limit. I have until July fourth to continue the Somewhere snippet I posted a couple of months ago, or she starts--doing things. I don't know what those things are. I don't *want* to know, cause she's an *organizer* and she's saved a disturbing number of our AIM conversations. This scares me in so many ways.


Clark didn't leave, after.

Lex didn't expect him to, not really--Clark was as sensitive to political currents as anyone who'd lived in them for over a decade could be. He *knew*, and that's why Lex could breathe, even with Clark a room and a wall away, restlessly typing his nights away, going in front of a thousand cameras every day, smiling and laughing and acting so perfectly that Lex could almost forget that anything had changed.

That made it worse, somehow. That he *could* forget, that he could start to say something, make a joke, touch, and feel the world *stop* for just that second, when a brief flash of reality froze everything in place, reminding him that he's abdicated his rights to anything from Clark. They didn't share a room or a bed, they didn't share a life, and Lex had--forgotten, was out of practice, being lonely.

Two terms, five more years, and Clark will walk away without a backward glance. Lex knows that, but he doesn't know how he'll live through it.



Pretty When You're Mine

I'm beginning to think my strategy of writing far ahead of posting might be backfiring. Maybe if I posted as I wrote, it would be more--motivating.


He's not sure how long he lays there, just watching--the spalsh of moonlight slowly crawls up the bed, a hazy square of silver that seems destined for Lex, and Clark watches it flow over long legs, narrow hips, up the slim, boneless body that's collapsed into a liquid sprawl, just touching his chest when the blue eyes open, suddenly and completely awake, like Clark is at Marian's, when he's never sure what he'll wake up to. A flickering second where Lex doesn't even seem to be breathing, just watching, then that slow, thick smile. "I've missed you."

Clark takes it as an invitation, permission, and moves, almost too-fast but not quite, Lex-skin under his hand, so perfectly smooth, like Lex has never needed to shave. "I--"

"I have plans for you." And like he was never asleep, Lex is sitting up, no bleary-eyed groping, just pushing Clark down on his back, and kissing him with slow intensity. Hands on his shoulders push Clark into the pillows, and Clark is perfectly happy to just lay here, Lex straddling him with a pleased grin, like everything in the universe was here just for his entertainment. Life is so much *easier* like this, it's like he could just stay right here and be *this*.



The Yard

We will never speak of this story again. Like, *ever*, okay? Just wash it from your mind. Poof. There! Yay!

Other Things

I just wrote this to traumatize svmadelyn. *tongue in cheek* That's fun, isn't it?

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I need more icons. Maybe I shall spend my day icon-hunting. Or making. Hmm. More toasters, perhaps.
children of dune - leto 1

happy is cookies and porn, but almost as good

Ooh. Well this is partially GIP, because whee! Frogs! Cause I need a new animal theme so much, since teh snails have grown weary and want rest.

Second, this is mostly for a couple of people on my friendslist I told about this story I read in what amounts to being a book of professional fanfiction Batman. Without the smut. How sad, in retrospect. Anyway, the book was The Further Adventures of Batman, the story "Subway Jack", a reinterpretation of the Jack the Ripper legend that I just *loved*. It's from 1989 or so, and I got it in the nineties at some point. There are, surprisingly, out of fourteen stories, about six to eight that are worth the price of the book all by themselves. There's also an absolutely *stunning* Mary Sue who is, I kid you not, Joker's secret daughter who Dick falls in love with. Her name is Sue-Ellen. She wears Victorian pink lace gowns around the house. It's very--that. Yes. It's very that. He'll always love her, you know. He says so. There's also an Isaac Asimov that's quite good, and has no one named Sue-Ellen.

But besides that. Really cool book. Happy Place.