VM: Aphorisms on Something (L, V, L/V) 18+ 1/1
So . . . I turned off my mind and said 'fuck it, write whatever just write' and this is what came out. Naturally, I couldn't do that on any of the stories that mean anything or they'd come out 'the suck' so this was just practice, I'm still working on what I owe - nobody panic. It's suitably depressing but actually less depressing than I thought it would be given how I feel about everything.
Title: Aphorisms On Something
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Ship: Logan, Veronica, Logan/Veronica
Summary: They are each other’s greatest tragedy and sweetest relief. It’s a hopeless situation, really.
Spoilers: Post-Episodic for 3.10, but with 3.09 spoilers.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted in this fanfic are not mine, I swear, and I'm making no profit off their use.
Rating: R18+ (Warnings: coarse language, sexual references)
AN: (1) Er . . . experimental stuff written during writer’s block to get those cobwebbed creative juices flowing again. It’s nothing spectacular. Aphorisms are looped with character analysis and super mild smut. It’s a thing. Not your thing? Let me know either way. (2) I was thinking about my favourite nihilists (Benjamin, Kafka and Nietzche) and then wondered if they could help me shake out the writing cobwebs. The first section is inspired by Walter Benjamin’s ‘The Destructive Character’ because I’ve always found it interesting (in terms of Logan’s darker predilections). The second and third parts are all Franz Kafka and his aphorisms, baby.
*******
Something Dark: The Destructive Character Gets Creative
“The destructive character knows only one watchword: make room; only one activity: clearing away. His need for fresh air and open space is stronger than any hatred . . . For destroying rejuvenates in clearing away the traces of our own age; it cheers because everything cleared away means to the destroyer a complete reduction, indeed eradication, of his own condition.”
He gets that old urge sometimes, the tinder spark ripping toward a powder keg still stored somewhere in the valves of his heart.
It’s an impulse that poses a question . . . and he can’t respond with anything but static now: all the itch without the scratch.
Piz smiles and she blushes but she radiates fauxclueless so he can’tsayathing and somewhere in another universe a pool burns down.
He whispers bangbang my baby shot me down, but only to a dial tone because she never answers his calls.
There’s always a choice: be himself / be what she wants. He’s had it both ways in consecutive runs: with her / without her. He’s never tried it this way before: with her / without himself.
Platitudes and lines and quotes and political spin roll off his tongue into his voicemail every day and he knows when it comes to relationships they all say the same thing: compromise. He tries.
There’s always a choice: be himself / be what she wants.
He bends because he hates himself without her anyway. But there’s only so much weight you can hold when your backs parallel to the ground.
He wonders what Duncan’s role in this show would be if the Donut hadn’t gone for a run a long time ago. There seemed no place for Duncan when he was bent so far backwards he was certain only his toes were scraping the shadow of the thing he was before. But he’s not Duncan, never Duncan, hasn’t a clue what that means for them. She’s got the cast for perfectboyfriend perfectly sculpted in her head and he doesn’t know if he can beat himself into a soft enough pulp so he can force his bulk into that mould.
There’s always a choice: pain now / agony later.
He breaks her heart and it makes him feel alive; it’s sucking air through a straw but it’s saying ‘yes’ with a pained ‘no’. A break is more clean than a bend after all; quick snap, dry and without strain.
He inhales.
He gets that old urge sometimes. Each second: a palpitation. He wakes with the jerk and the feeling of glass cutting up his skin in a gentle shower; is it sick that his heart is pounding faster than fucking her could ever push it to?
But the numbness doesn’t recede with the separation and maybe there is no choice any more; how do you separate blood from tissue - bones from muscle - and expect that broken body to work? If he could believe he’d be more than a regret to her ten years - ten seconds - from now, he’d put them back together in a second. But he’s too tired to chase her when it’s pointless in the end.
He rolls with his board and ducks under a wave, feels the water pull around him drawing along all the nerves on the surface of his body until his scalp is pulled taut when it drags through his hair. He breaks the surface and slides upright again; Dick is paddling out ahead of him, blond hair on fire in the setting sun. And he thinks about turning upside down again and clinging to his board while he drowns.
Everything is a choice. He could pine and mope about love lost (thrown away) or he could unzip his fly and feel the reduction and the grounding and this salty girl’s bleached hair scratching up his thighs as she sucks his cock. Never a hypocrite, never ever a hypocrite, this is all he has left and either he has to embrace it or shut the fuck up because this was his choice.
He comes; he doesn’t taste the same on her lips as they laugh in triumph against his own - kiss/smack - his fist scrubs the wet touch from his mouth and his eyes glaze over like the black ocean rolling up the shore through his window.
“You’re so bad,” she laughs. Yes. Again. This is back to him again; the beginning of the old regime. It has to be. “I can’t believe I just did that with Aaron Echolls’ son.”
Fuck.
Hit pause. Stop. It’s time to question the next second of his life in the toss of a coin. Fight for what he is, stand still for what he wants:
Fuck, he stopped fooling himself a long time ago. He’s nothing without her and nothing can make her run like seeing everything he really is. It’s the endless riddle, a twisted joke, a conundrum without an answer.
Denying the urge rips through him like a chainsaw on some days. But he knows he can’t be that guy any more, not unless he wants it to be over again. And he can’t go back, can never go back.
He bobs up and down on his board and watches Dick surf a wave to shore, cheering in glee when he steps off and disappears into the ocean before the water gets too shallow. For now, his shell is content to float.
There’s always a choice: be himself / be what she wants.
The line that forms the distinction disappears when he opens the door. She’s crying and she’s so unsure and there’s nothing but air between them and when she tilts her head - fuck it - there is no choice. Breathing is instinct and this is a compromising position he’s wanted to be in for years.
Something Lost: A Cage Went In Search of A Bird
“If you were walking across a plain, had every intention of advancing and still went backwards, then it would be a desperate matter; but since you are clambering up a steep slope, about as steep as you yourself when seen from below, your backward movement can only be caused by the nature of the ground, and you need not despair.” - Aphorism 14
The relationship was a treadmill - and maybe her ass looked as nice as Kendall’s by now (he would be the one to tell her, not that she’d ask) - she was constantly running but not creating any distance between here and there.
Distance wasn’t the point; it was the movement that mattered.
Standing still was a frightening prospect considering the constant presence one step behind her. But then he switched off the machine and suddenly running meant distance: a lonely prospect. The imposing figure looked less frightening from miles away: just a tiny dot in the vanishing point of her rear view mirror.
“But I’m here . . . if you need anything-”
She didn’t.
This wasn’t about need.
She’s surprised when he breaks her heart; her breath catches and she fears that feeling will never stop, catchcatchcatch . . . never an exhalation to relieve the ever-building pressure. But she doesn’t say a word and lets the distance stretch.
This was inevitable and hadn’t she been running the whole time? This was why. She doesn’t understand why he’s doing this though and she spends the day - stuck - in contemplation. Constantly on pause - “Veronica?” / “I’m fine!” - as she tries to remember the moment she didn’t notice.
Didn’t he tell her he loved her last week?
Two days after her heart broke she was the hero of the day again. It seemed a rusty trophy. Weathered like the kiss on her forehead that was fading every second . . . only an impression and a ghostly touch.
A long time ago she swore she’d never get married so there was no point mourning a journey with a dead end (literal if their history was a map to the x-marked spot). She’d been waiting for the end before they’d even started. Since the moment he kissed her, saved her, gave her the key to his soulless home . . . she listened to the ticktock in his heartbeat and couldn’t sleep.
Living the moment in preparation for the end should have deadened her nerves against the shock. But it’s like something’s missing, something’s disconnected and nothing is substantial enough to fill the gap.
Parker tries. Cut and stitch. Stick and paste. Any boy would do.
She didn’t remember how tiring this was, couldn’t remember the process of putting the puzzle together: thousands of pieces tumbling down into a pile and the tedious processes of pushing jagged edges together until she finds one that clicks. She’s already found two pieces that fit and it didn’t matter in the end anyway - they were torn away from her, one way or another. How many more pieces could there possibly be that fit perfectly along one of her edges?
Piz is a breath of air during asphyxiation: relieving but nonetheless pointless. What’s one breath without another?
He’s calm and he makes it sound so easy; she doesn’t need to run, doesn’t need to click with faulty pieces that fray the edges of her own curves. What’s the point of settling or forcing something for the sake of having . . . something? She knows what it is like to have something, she can’t fool herself into appreciating anything less.
She’s never turned around before without being called back first; never walked the long-since-ran distance back to the point of origin. She stands at his door with her fists locked and wonders how many beginnings, endings, beginnings began with one of them staring at a wooden surface and taking one last bracing breath.
She knocks once and in the ensuing stillness knocks again; it was too hard to walk this distance once on her own with no hope of a different outcome, no promise he’d changed his mind when she still had no memory of what she’d done to lose him. She couldn’t do this again; he had to be here.
The door opens and his shock at her arrival is equal to her shock at his departure.
There’s nothing to say, only an insignificant space to be filled: the last steps on a long journey.
Maybe it’s sliding backwards but it feels like sliding home. His face - locked in vulnerable fear and apprehension - is a mirror of her own desperation. She could run into the world and continue the search for the perfectsomething that never frightens or questions or infuriates . . . one day she could put her sleuthing skills to the task of finding the grail. It all seems pointless when the end of every quest is its origin.
She moves and there’s no pause before he joins her, breath catching in the exhilaration of reunion. Their lips slide home with graceful precision, arms and torsos locked in intimate connection. She slides her tongue into his mouth and glories in the instinctive tightening of her every muscle around the corresponding line of his. She exhales into his mouth and smiles as the door slams shut behind her.
Something Borrowed: The Trick is to Keep Breathing
“There is no having, only a being, only a state of being that craves the last breath, craves suffocation.” - Aphorism 35
They spin with the movement of his kicking foot. Winded, he crashes back against the door but it’s more his force then hers - she’s nowhere near in control of this. They spin - she’s smaller - but she’s safe beneath him, held up against the wall by his weight.
His hands clutch her like he’s just as desperate: part tearing at her clothes, part trapping them against her body as he pins her to the door, unwilling to separate himself from her for the time it takes to undress properly. Her legs are around his waist and their hands clutch and fumble under each other’s shirt - desperate for the blaze of skin that ignites under a palm stroke.
She refuses to release his lips because they’re making her feel like Veronica for the first time in six weeks. Since he was such a heartless bastard, it’s only fair that he let her keep him captive until he’s branded that fire back into her spirit again.
“Logan-” She whispers and cups his face again; her fingers clutch his cheeks, flexing as the texture traces memories from her fingertips over her mind.
He was right-
She breathes desperately, helping him tear his shirt over his head to bare his torso.
-She can already feel the dread-
His nails scrape over her hip, dragging her jeans down with her underwear; she hisses over his chin, bites down.
-The next time they separate the pain will be unbearable. Like severing her soul from her skin.
When he’s inside her - that first crushing movement - it stings sharp and stunting and she squeezes her eyes shut to grit down against it. Simultaneously he revels in the slick pleasure of her warmth, impossibly tight - if uncomfortable - in the crush of barely removed denim constrictions.
But it’s only a moment and then her body is shaking from the heady anticipation and frustration. The heavy fullness inside her is relieving then exhilarating and heartbreaking and everything he’s ever been. His face softly buries itself in the cup of her neck; shuddering pants letting her know what he’s feeling in the momentary collapse.
The pause is reverence and release-not of this tension (which is only unwinding), but another that they’d rather never think about again.
She squeezes the muscles in her thighs in gentle tugs, pulling him closer in subconscious synchronicity to the mouth sucking along her pulse. His lips quiver against the taut stretch of her neck, like his greatest desire is to bite down and tear that soft flesh open . . . but he’s too awed by her submission to dare.
Her eyes open heavily, dragging covers over the sticky gloss of tears. The clutching grip of his hands on her ass shift and he’s touching her face, angling those eyes until they’re meeting his own: equally reverent.
This movement - rocking, constant, coming and going - doesn’t feel like running, it feels like reality catching up.
She breathes shallowly and moves with him, smiling timidly as his eyes glitter possessively over the amorous grimace on her face. The pace is slow and intense and the pain is nothing but a moment lost behind them like every other moment. They’ve been through too much for any instant to be anything but incidental to the meaning beneath.
“I . . .,”she needs to say it, whisper it, voice it, “I-lo-” Her breath catches between her teeth and can’t get free. Her hands clutch his neck and she loses herself arching up against the door and the hot compress of his chest.
He was lost long before her and trembles with hope that this is found. Nothing else works, nothing else feels stable and he just can’t live if this doesn’t work.
He comes and it’s everything a casual fuck could never be, all his pleasure coalescing and centring on the feel of her desperate little pants against his ear. His hand curls under her nape and holds her head against his crown, revelling in his own personal collapse into her haven.
He wonders how many times he’ll break himself down until she can’t put him back together again.
She wonders if she’ll run too far next time and never find her way home again.
They try to catch their breath and cleave to the hope of each other; nihilists desperate to imagine a rainbow.
The end might be coming, when the break can’t be fixed and the distance between them becomes their relief.
It isn’t now.
-Finite.
Title: Aphorisms On Something
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Ship: Logan, Veronica, Logan/Veronica
Summary: They are each other’s greatest tragedy and sweetest relief. It’s a hopeless situation, really.
Spoilers: Post-Episodic for 3.10, but with 3.09 spoilers.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted in this fanfic are not mine, I swear, and I'm making no profit off their use.
Rating: R18+ (Warnings: coarse language, sexual references)
AN: (1) Er . . . experimental stuff written during writer’s block to get those cobwebbed creative juices flowing again. It’s nothing spectacular. Aphorisms are looped with character analysis and super mild smut. It’s a thing. Not your thing? Let me know either way. (2) I was thinking about my favourite nihilists (Benjamin, Kafka and Nietzche) and then wondered if they could help me shake out the writing cobwebs. The first section is inspired by Walter Benjamin’s ‘The Destructive Character’ because I’ve always found it interesting (in terms of Logan’s darker predilections). The second and third parts are all Franz Kafka and his aphorisms, baby.
*******
Something Dark: The Destructive Character Gets Creative
“The destructive character knows only one watchword: make room; only one activity: clearing away. His need for fresh air and open space is stronger than any hatred . . . For destroying rejuvenates in clearing away the traces of our own age; it cheers because everything cleared away means to the destroyer a complete reduction, indeed eradication, of his own condition.”
He gets that old urge sometimes, the tinder spark ripping toward a powder keg still stored somewhere in the valves of his heart.
It’s an impulse that poses a question . . . and he can’t respond with anything but static now: all the itch without the scratch.
Piz smiles and she blushes but she radiates fauxclueless so he can’tsayathing and somewhere in another universe a pool burns down.
He whispers bangbang my baby shot me down, but only to a dial tone because she never answers his calls.
There’s always a choice: be himself / be what she wants. He’s had it both ways in consecutive runs: with her / without her. He’s never tried it this way before: with her / without himself.
Platitudes and lines and quotes and political spin roll off his tongue into his voicemail every day and he knows when it comes to relationships they all say the same thing: compromise. He tries.
There’s always a choice: be himself / be what she wants.
He bends because he hates himself without her anyway. But there’s only so much weight you can hold when your backs parallel to the ground.
He wonders what Duncan’s role in this show would be if the Donut hadn’t gone for a run a long time ago. There seemed no place for Duncan when he was bent so far backwards he was certain only his toes were scraping the shadow of the thing he was before. But he’s not Duncan, never Duncan, hasn’t a clue what that means for them. She’s got the cast for perfectboyfriend perfectly sculpted in her head and he doesn’t know if he can beat himself into a soft enough pulp so he can force his bulk into that mould.
There’s always a choice: pain now / agony later.
He breaks her heart and it makes him feel alive; it’s sucking air through a straw but it’s saying ‘yes’ with a pained ‘no’. A break is more clean than a bend after all; quick snap, dry and without strain.
He inhales.
He gets that old urge sometimes. Each second: a palpitation. He wakes with the jerk and the feeling of glass cutting up his skin in a gentle shower; is it sick that his heart is pounding faster than fucking her could ever push it to?
But the numbness doesn’t recede with the separation and maybe there is no choice any more; how do you separate blood from tissue - bones from muscle - and expect that broken body to work? If he could believe he’d be more than a regret to her ten years - ten seconds - from now, he’d put them back together in a second. But he’s too tired to chase her when it’s pointless in the end.
He rolls with his board and ducks under a wave, feels the water pull around him drawing along all the nerves on the surface of his body until his scalp is pulled taut when it drags through his hair. He breaks the surface and slides upright again; Dick is paddling out ahead of him, blond hair on fire in the setting sun. And he thinks about turning upside down again and clinging to his board while he drowns.
Everything is a choice. He could pine and mope about love lost (thrown away) or he could unzip his fly and feel the reduction and the grounding and this salty girl’s bleached hair scratching up his thighs as she sucks his cock. Never a hypocrite, never ever a hypocrite, this is all he has left and either he has to embrace it or shut the fuck up because this was his choice.
He comes; he doesn’t taste the same on her lips as they laugh in triumph against his own - kiss/smack - his fist scrubs the wet touch from his mouth and his eyes glaze over like the black ocean rolling up the shore through his window.
“You’re so bad,” she laughs. Yes. Again. This is back to him again; the beginning of the old regime. It has to be. “I can’t believe I just did that with Aaron Echolls’ son.”
Fuck.
Hit pause. Stop. It’s time to question the next second of his life in the toss of a coin. Fight for what he is, stand still for what he wants:
Fuck, he stopped fooling himself a long time ago. He’s nothing without her and nothing can make her run like seeing everything he really is. It’s the endless riddle, a twisted joke, a conundrum without an answer.
Denying the urge rips through him like a chainsaw on some days. But he knows he can’t be that guy any more, not unless he wants it to be over again. And he can’t go back, can never go back.
He bobs up and down on his board and watches Dick surf a wave to shore, cheering in glee when he steps off and disappears into the ocean before the water gets too shallow. For now, his shell is content to float.
There’s always a choice: be himself / be what she wants.
The line that forms the distinction disappears when he opens the door. She’s crying and she’s so unsure and there’s nothing but air between them and when she tilts her head - fuck it - there is no choice. Breathing is instinct and this is a compromising position he’s wanted to be in for years.
Something Lost: A Cage Went In Search of A Bird
“If you were walking across a plain, had every intention of advancing and still went backwards, then it would be a desperate matter; but since you are clambering up a steep slope, about as steep as you yourself when seen from below, your backward movement can only be caused by the nature of the ground, and you need not despair.” - Aphorism 14
The relationship was a treadmill - and maybe her ass looked as nice as Kendall’s by now (he would be the one to tell her, not that she’d ask) - she was constantly running but not creating any distance between here and there.
Distance wasn’t the point; it was the movement that mattered.
Standing still was a frightening prospect considering the constant presence one step behind her. But then he switched off the machine and suddenly running meant distance: a lonely prospect. The imposing figure looked less frightening from miles away: just a tiny dot in the vanishing point of her rear view mirror.
“But I’m here . . . if you need anything-”
She didn’t.
This wasn’t about need.
She’s surprised when he breaks her heart; her breath catches and she fears that feeling will never stop, catchcatchcatch . . . never an exhalation to relieve the ever-building pressure. But she doesn’t say a word and lets the distance stretch.
This was inevitable and hadn’t she been running the whole time? This was why. She doesn’t understand why he’s doing this though and she spends the day - stuck - in contemplation. Constantly on pause - “Veronica?” / “I’m fine!” - as she tries to remember the moment she didn’t notice.
Didn’t he tell her he loved her last week?
Two days after her heart broke she was the hero of the day again. It seemed a rusty trophy. Weathered like the kiss on her forehead that was fading every second . . . only an impression and a ghostly touch.
A long time ago she swore she’d never get married so there was no point mourning a journey with a dead end (literal if their history was a map to the x-marked spot). She’d been waiting for the end before they’d even started. Since the moment he kissed her, saved her, gave her the key to his soulless home . . . she listened to the ticktock in his heartbeat and couldn’t sleep.
Living the moment in preparation for the end should have deadened her nerves against the shock. But it’s like something’s missing, something’s disconnected and nothing is substantial enough to fill the gap.
Parker tries. Cut and stitch. Stick and paste. Any boy would do.
She didn’t remember how tiring this was, couldn’t remember the process of putting the puzzle together: thousands of pieces tumbling down into a pile and the tedious processes of pushing jagged edges together until she finds one that clicks. She’s already found two pieces that fit and it didn’t matter in the end anyway - they were torn away from her, one way or another. How many more pieces could there possibly be that fit perfectly along one of her edges?
Piz is a breath of air during asphyxiation: relieving but nonetheless pointless. What’s one breath without another?
He’s calm and he makes it sound so easy; she doesn’t need to run, doesn’t need to click with faulty pieces that fray the edges of her own curves. What’s the point of settling or forcing something for the sake of having . . . something? She knows what it is like to have something, she can’t fool herself into appreciating anything less.
She’s never turned around before without being called back first; never walked the long-since-ran distance back to the point of origin. She stands at his door with her fists locked and wonders how many beginnings, endings, beginnings began with one of them staring at a wooden surface and taking one last bracing breath.
She knocks once and in the ensuing stillness knocks again; it was too hard to walk this distance once on her own with no hope of a different outcome, no promise he’d changed his mind when she still had no memory of what she’d done to lose him. She couldn’t do this again; he had to be here.
The door opens and his shock at her arrival is equal to her shock at his departure.
There’s nothing to say, only an insignificant space to be filled: the last steps on a long journey.
Maybe it’s sliding backwards but it feels like sliding home. His face - locked in vulnerable fear and apprehension - is a mirror of her own desperation. She could run into the world and continue the search for the perfectsomething that never frightens or questions or infuriates . . . one day she could put her sleuthing skills to the task of finding the grail. It all seems pointless when the end of every quest is its origin.
She moves and there’s no pause before he joins her, breath catching in the exhilaration of reunion. Their lips slide home with graceful precision, arms and torsos locked in intimate connection. She slides her tongue into his mouth and glories in the instinctive tightening of her every muscle around the corresponding line of his. She exhales into his mouth and smiles as the door slams shut behind her.
Something Borrowed: The Trick is to Keep Breathing
“There is no having, only a being, only a state of being that craves the last breath, craves suffocation.” - Aphorism 35
They spin with the movement of his kicking foot. Winded, he crashes back against the door but it’s more his force then hers - she’s nowhere near in control of this. They spin - she’s smaller - but she’s safe beneath him, held up against the wall by his weight.
His hands clutch her like he’s just as desperate: part tearing at her clothes, part trapping them against her body as he pins her to the door, unwilling to separate himself from her for the time it takes to undress properly. Her legs are around his waist and their hands clutch and fumble under each other’s shirt - desperate for the blaze of skin that ignites under a palm stroke.
She refuses to release his lips because they’re making her feel like Veronica for the first time in six weeks. Since he was such a heartless bastard, it’s only fair that he let her keep him captive until he’s branded that fire back into her spirit again.
“Logan-” She whispers and cups his face again; her fingers clutch his cheeks, flexing as the texture traces memories from her fingertips over her mind.
He was right-
She breathes desperately, helping him tear his shirt over his head to bare his torso.
-She can already feel the dread-
His nails scrape over her hip, dragging her jeans down with her underwear; she hisses over his chin, bites down.
-The next time they separate the pain will be unbearable. Like severing her soul from her skin.
When he’s inside her - that first crushing movement - it stings sharp and stunting and she squeezes her eyes shut to grit down against it. Simultaneously he revels in the slick pleasure of her warmth, impossibly tight - if uncomfortable - in the crush of barely removed denim constrictions.
But it’s only a moment and then her body is shaking from the heady anticipation and frustration. The heavy fullness inside her is relieving then exhilarating and heartbreaking and everything he’s ever been. His face softly buries itself in the cup of her neck; shuddering pants letting her know what he’s feeling in the momentary collapse.
The pause is reverence and release-not of this tension (which is only unwinding), but another that they’d rather never think about again.
She squeezes the muscles in her thighs in gentle tugs, pulling him closer in subconscious synchronicity to the mouth sucking along her pulse. His lips quiver against the taut stretch of her neck, like his greatest desire is to bite down and tear that soft flesh open . . . but he’s too awed by her submission to dare.
Her eyes open heavily, dragging covers over the sticky gloss of tears. The clutching grip of his hands on her ass shift and he’s touching her face, angling those eyes until they’re meeting his own: equally reverent.
This movement - rocking, constant, coming and going - doesn’t feel like running, it feels like reality catching up.
She breathes shallowly and moves with him, smiling timidly as his eyes glitter possessively over the amorous grimace on her face. The pace is slow and intense and the pain is nothing but a moment lost behind them like every other moment. They’ve been through too much for any instant to be anything but incidental to the meaning beneath.
“I . . .,”she needs to say it, whisper it, voice it, “I-lo-” Her breath catches between her teeth and can’t get free. Her hands clutch his neck and she loses herself arching up against the door and the hot compress of his chest.
He was lost long before her and trembles with hope that this is found. Nothing else works, nothing else feels stable and he just can’t live if this doesn’t work.
He comes and it’s everything a casual fuck could never be, all his pleasure coalescing and centring on the feel of her desperate little pants against his ear. His hand curls under her nape and holds her head against his crown, revelling in his own personal collapse into her haven.
He wonders how many times he’ll break himself down until she can’t put him back together again.
She wonders if she’ll run too far next time and never find her way home again.
They try to catch their breath and cleave to the hope of each other; nihilists desperate to imagine a rainbow.
The end might be coming, when the break can’t be fixed and the distance between them becomes their relief.
It isn’t now.
-Finite.