Fanfic: The Seven Loves and Otherwise of Logan Echolls, 1/1
Title: The Seven Loves and Otherwise of Logan Echolls
Fandom Veronica Mars
Tech stuff: PG-13, 1315 words, spoilers through 2.22
Disclaimer: Don't own, so don't sue me. Please.
Summary: A look at women in Logan's life: Lynn, Lilly, Caitlin, Kendall, Hannah. You get the idea. Ultimately L/V.
Author's Note: This is a bit of an experimental format, so do let me know if it works (or if it doesn't), so I can correct stuff before I post it on veronicamarsfic.
Lynn Echolls
Because mothers always come first. The reverse isn’t always true, of course.
She was famous and then she was very famous and then she wasn’t. He remembers her smiling and happy and premieres and his mother transformed for the lights. She never transformed for him. Or maybe she did and he is the one who transformed her into shadows, human shaped, glass in hand, still impeccably manicured. Though if he snaps out of maudlin self-pity and is honest with himself, it wasn’t him, it was Aaron. But of course, if he is really honest, any imprint is better than none, so maybe he should keep on blaming himself and thinking it was him. That he affected her somehow.
His enduring image of his mother is standing at the edge of the pool, ready to dive in. Graceful body, perfect face, detached and untouchable. So it’s probably fitting she dove into the ocean, at the end. But he dreams, night after night, of her wrapped in plastic. It would probably be something to tell a shrink if he had one, but when he wakes up, he doesn’t remember any of this, which is just as well.
Lilly Kane
Lilly’s hair is in her mouth, pale strands even paler against the sun. The wind is whipping her hair as she runs, and he runs to keep up with her.
Lilly is all energy and shining eyes and choked giggles. In fact, she is breathless from laughing, some joke only Lilly finds hilarious and that she won’t share, or even some joke that doesn’t exist. He won’t find out even if he asks. He knows that.
Lilly has secrets. He likes it.
He is 15 and stupid and absurdly in love with her.
As he catches up to her, she pirouettes suddenly and looks up at him. Before he has a chance to ask why are they here, on a windy day with no sane other person in sight, the answer is out of her mouth: “Hey, lover!”
The way her mouth shapes around the ‘o’, lipstick vibrant against her skin, makes him experience the comfortably uncomfortable tightening in his groin.
“Hey, lover. Ever make love on the beach?”
She grins again and removes her top.
The sand is getting in his shoes, and a few fine grains get into his mouth. He has never felt so ridiculously alive.
Caitlin Ford
Caitlin loves pink. Her mouth drips with pink lip-gloss, her bras are pink, and the new scooter her parents get her because she pouted for two days is…what else? Pink. Her features are smooth and porcelain, no sharp edges anywhere in sight.
Caitlin is safe.
She comes into his house regularly and they lounge around the pool and she sips fruity drinks and he drinks something stronger. Sometimes, all the time, they go up to his room. She waxes every Thursday so he’s never had a chance to find out if she is blonde all over.
When he would remember her later (not very often, but sometimes), that is what he’d remember: a collection of traits, characteristics, things done and not done. As if there was no person there, no reality outside of physical mannerisms. No puppeteer behind the puppet, no creator behind the mask. He is usually pretty drunk by the time he gets to that particular metaphor.
She cheats on him with a biker. It’s the thrill of it, bringing a tough guy to her heel, walk on the wild side. Or maybe he, Logan, is just not enough. If she is asked, she’d respond that adulation is only her due. He doesn’t think she knows the word, though.
If he knew about it (and he does know, of course, later), that makes a second girlfriend in a row that prefers the scum of the town to him. He is never enough. A part of him is still probably shocked, somehow, that Veronica didn’t cheat on him with Weevil. Took Duncan instead. Never enough.
And that is Caitlin. Fading into obscurity of memories, not even Queen of her own chapter, fading into background for Veronica.
Veronica.
Veronica Mars
Veronica Mars is all edges: sharp elbows, hard eyes, even hair strands that look pointed.
He is broken and she is brittle and is it any wonder that when they come together they exacerbate the breaks, all the places where crazy glue shows and where the edges have broken off.
What an insane, insanely good, insane thing to discover that she is soft underneath the shell. That her breaks and his breaks fit together in a crazy quilt pattern and the noise she makes as he kisses her neck is something he had needed to hear without knowing it. They are desperate hands and nervous glances and pure giddy joy, and for a bizarre interval he hopes they can actually work, that everything will be all right.
Of course, no good can come of it. Not for him. Not with Veronica. Broken. No good.
He should know, he helped break her. Now she shatters him in return.
He hates her.
He hates her.
He hateshateshateshatesVeronicapleasecomeback.
Kendall Casablancas
Brown hair, tanned skin, expertise (you can do that sort of thing, really? Wow. Who knew that obscure porn movie was for real), figure to die for, no lack of lingerie.
Nothing much to say about Kendall. She is hot and good in bed and tough as nails and the one woman he can’t hurt or disappoint. The fact that she seems to have read up on Kama Sutra doesn’t hurt.
Ken-dall. There is ‘doll’ in her name and it’s appropriate to her detached, hard-worked-for perfection, but not to the rest of her, unless the toy in question is Bride of Chucky.
Kendall. The doll that doesn’t break.
Hannah Griffith
She is innocent kisses and teasing and laughter and everything easy and good and right. He tangles his hands in her hair, he kisses the line of her jaw. Her face is open and her heart is open and she is uncomplicated and he is tired of complications, and he just wants to rest. Stop.
Stop.
He doesn’t.
He is tired of chasing after what he can’t have, cutting his hands on edges, wanting what he can’t have, screwing up over and over.
She looks at him as if he is savior and saved. He has always had a weakness for blondes, but this time the weakness is not for her hair, but for the look in her eyes, shining and trusting and as if he matters and doesn’t fuck up and can be healed and will be all right.
It’s the best lie in the world and he lives to believe it.
Veronica Mars, Try Two One Hundred and Fifty Don’t Fuck It Up.
Veronica is in his arms and her head fits under his chin. When he kisses her, she grins into his mouth and when she shifts and puts her lips against his neck, he can feel the outline of her smile blossom on his skin.
They are done and drowsy and very very tired, and if he lives to be a hundred, he will always remember the look in her eyes. Her eyes opened wide right then and he’d be reliving that and the flush of her skin, and the noises she made against him, except that would get in the way of right now.
She makes the sleepiest sound he’s ever heard and he grins again.
She is naked and he is naked and the sheets are crumpled and it’s the best damn room he’s ever seen. Hell, he’d buy the place to commemorate it, except it’s already his.
He fights gravity for his eyelids but he loses, and as his eyes close, he can feel Veronica’s breath on his skin.
In-out-in-out-in-out.
He falls asleep, smiling.
The End.
Fandom Veronica Mars
Tech stuff: PG-13, 1315 words, spoilers through 2.22
Disclaimer: Don't own, so don't sue me. Please.
Summary: A look at women in Logan's life: Lynn, Lilly, Caitlin, Kendall, Hannah. You get the idea. Ultimately L/V.
Author's Note: This is a bit of an experimental format, so do let me know if it works (or if it doesn't), so I can correct stuff before I post it on veronicamarsfic.
Lynn Echolls
Because mothers always come first. The reverse isn’t always true, of course.
She was famous and then she was very famous and then she wasn’t. He remembers her smiling and happy and premieres and his mother transformed for the lights. She never transformed for him. Or maybe she did and he is the one who transformed her into shadows, human shaped, glass in hand, still impeccably manicured. Though if he snaps out of maudlin self-pity and is honest with himself, it wasn’t him, it was Aaron. But of course, if he is really honest, any imprint is better than none, so maybe he should keep on blaming himself and thinking it was him. That he affected her somehow.
His enduring image of his mother is standing at the edge of the pool, ready to dive in. Graceful body, perfect face, detached and untouchable. So it’s probably fitting she dove into the ocean, at the end. But he dreams, night after night, of her wrapped in plastic. It would probably be something to tell a shrink if he had one, but when he wakes up, he doesn’t remember any of this, which is just as well.
Lilly Kane
Lilly’s hair is in her mouth, pale strands even paler against the sun. The wind is whipping her hair as she runs, and he runs to keep up with her.
Lilly is all energy and shining eyes and choked giggles. In fact, she is breathless from laughing, some joke only Lilly finds hilarious and that she won’t share, or even some joke that doesn’t exist. He won’t find out even if he asks. He knows that.
Lilly has secrets. He likes it.
He is 15 and stupid and absurdly in love with her.
As he catches up to her, she pirouettes suddenly and looks up at him. Before he has a chance to ask why are they here, on a windy day with no sane other person in sight, the answer is out of her mouth: “Hey, lover!”
The way her mouth shapes around the ‘o’, lipstick vibrant against her skin, makes him experience the comfortably uncomfortable tightening in his groin.
“Hey, lover. Ever make love on the beach?”
She grins again and removes her top.
The sand is getting in his shoes, and a few fine grains get into his mouth. He has never felt so ridiculously alive.
Caitlin Ford
Caitlin loves pink. Her mouth drips with pink lip-gloss, her bras are pink, and the new scooter her parents get her because she pouted for two days is…what else? Pink. Her features are smooth and porcelain, no sharp edges anywhere in sight.
Caitlin is safe.
She comes into his house regularly and they lounge around the pool and she sips fruity drinks and he drinks something stronger. Sometimes, all the time, they go up to his room. She waxes every Thursday so he’s never had a chance to find out if she is blonde all over.
When he would remember her later (not very often, but sometimes), that is what he’d remember: a collection of traits, characteristics, things done and not done. As if there was no person there, no reality outside of physical mannerisms. No puppeteer behind the puppet, no creator behind the mask. He is usually pretty drunk by the time he gets to that particular metaphor.
She cheats on him with a biker. It’s the thrill of it, bringing a tough guy to her heel, walk on the wild side. Or maybe he, Logan, is just not enough. If she is asked, she’d respond that adulation is only her due. He doesn’t think she knows the word, though.
If he knew about it (and he does know, of course, later), that makes a second girlfriend in a row that prefers the scum of the town to him. He is never enough. A part of him is still probably shocked, somehow, that Veronica didn’t cheat on him with Weevil. Took Duncan instead. Never enough.
And that is Caitlin. Fading into obscurity of memories, not even Queen of her own chapter, fading into background for Veronica.
Veronica.
Veronica Mars
Veronica Mars is all edges: sharp elbows, hard eyes, even hair strands that look pointed.
He is broken and she is brittle and is it any wonder that when they come together they exacerbate the breaks, all the places where crazy glue shows and where the edges have broken off.
What an insane, insanely good, insane thing to discover that she is soft underneath the shell. That her breaks and his breaks fit together in a crazy quilt pattern and the noise she makes as he kisses her neck is something he had needed to hear without knowing it. They are desperate hands and nervous glances and pure giddy joy, and for a bizarre interval he hopes they can actually work, that everything will be all right.
Of course, no good can come of it. Not for him. Not with Veronica. Broken. No good.
He should know, he helped break her. Now she shatters him in return.
He hates her.
He hates her.
He hateshateshateshatesVeronicapleasecomeback.
Kendall Casablancas
Brown hair, tanned skin, expertise (you can do that sort of thing, really? Wow. Who knew that obscure porn movie was for real), figure to die for, no lack of lingerie.
Nothing much to say about Kendall. She is hot and good in bed and tough as nails and the one woman he can’t hurt or disappoint. The fact that she seems to have read up on Kama Sutra doesn’t hurt.
Ken-dall. There is ‘doll’ in her name and it’s appropriate to her detached, hard-worked-for perfection, but not to the rest of her, unless the toy in question is Bride of Chucky.
Kendall. The doll that doesn’t break.
Hannah Griffith
She is innocent kisses and teasing and laughter and everything easy and good and right. He tangles his hands in her hair, he kisses the line of her jaw. Her face is open and her heart is open and she is uncomplicated and he is tired of complications, and he just wants to rest. Stop.
Stop.
He doesn’t.
He is tired of chasing after what he can’t have, cutting his hands on edges, wanting what he can’t have, screwing up over and over.
She looks at him as if he is savior and saved. He has always had a weakness for blondes, but this time the weakness is not for her hair, but for the look in her eyes, shining and trusting and as if he matters and doesn’t fuck up and can be healed and will be all right.
It’s the best lie in the world and he lives to believe it.
Veronica Mars, Try Two One Hundred and Fifty Don’t Fuck It Up.
Veronica is in his arms and her head fits under his chin. When he kisses her, she grins into his mouth and when she shifts and puts her lips against his neck, he can feel the outline of her smile blossom on his skin.
They are done and drowsy and very very tired, and if he lives to be a hundred, he will always remember the look in her eyes. Her eyes opened wide right then and he’d be reliving that and the flush of her skin, and the noises she made against him, except that would get in the way of right now.
She makes the sleepiest sound he’s ever heard and he grins again.
She is naked and he is naked and the sheets are crumpled and it’s the best damn room he’s ever seen. Hell, he’d buy the place to commemorate it, except it’s already his.
He fights gravity for his eyelids but he loses, and as his eyes close, he can feel Veronica’s breath on his skin.
In-out-in-out-in-out.
He falls asleep, smiling.
The End.