(no subject)
Fic: Saturninity (Logan, Veronica) R
Title: Saturninity
Author: Morgan
Pairing/Character: Logan, Veronica
Word Count:
Rating: R
Summary: intimate moments aren't always about sex
Spoilers: Season One
Lilly Kane had been their light. Sparkling, blinding, flickering. Extinguished. And now they live their lives at the speed of sound.
Their public relationship has always been (will always be) noisy, chaotic. The snarky almost bad boy and the abdicated innocent whose brain has morphed into a football playbook of vicious, stinging comebacks. Crack about her dad? Quarterback sweep out of a double wing formation. Snide remark about her outcast status? Hail Mary pass to the wide receiver. Touchdown. Bustling hallways provide ringside seats for their patented verbal volley. Head tilt, winning smile. Ever present mocking laugh. Back and forth. Back and forth. Louder and louder. Even with her tongue discovering the secrets of his tonsil she never forgot that he was the only worthy adversary. The music didn't die with Lilly, at least not while measly 09er tips were being crumpled, shoved into delivery boys' hands. Silence had no place in their paparazzi ready lives. Escalating arguments. Passionate make-ups. A relationship of constant white noise to drown out the prying eyes.
They know that the rest of the Neptune student body imagines that they return triumphant to the Echolls' mansion everyday. Bookbags, car keys, the last vestiges of responsibility are flung carelessly aside in favor of furious panting. Of quickening moans and hitched breaths. Of squeaking bed-springs and sweat-drenched bodies because sex isn't always candles and rose petals. It's quickies at four in the afternoon before their stomaches start grumbling. And it can be pretty fucking amazing. He sometimes imagines his mom arriving in the middle of their afternoon fuck fest, looking all the world like a high society version of Alice's hookah-ed Caterpillar. Cookies (store-bought, of course) and milk in the right hand. Valium and Scotch in the left. Who. Are. You? Daydream-Lynn is water-logged, a medicated, Botoxed Venus whose first inkling of Veronica is the painted toes of a foot curled around her naked son's back. He thinks that there is surely a polysyllabic, Latin-rooted word for the condition of always laughing at really fucking inappropriate things. She used to blush furiously and avert her eyes embarrassedly. She used to paint her toenails in delicate shades of pink or a modest red if Lilly goaded her. Once after Lilly had been particularly moody she had alternated between Vamp and Vixen for an entire month. Now Veronica paints her nails in kaleidoscopic shades of blues, greens, and purples and laughs along with him. She eschews his opinion that she would bring oatmeal raisin cookies. As she tries to summon the energy to move, her skin melted to his, she muses that the Happy Homemaker incarnation of Lynn always struck her as a traditional chocolate chip cookie kind of gal.
Lilly had once remarked that the two of them were so much alike. Veronica had squelched yet another of Lilly's crazy ideas, and she wasn't sure what Logan had done. Logan and Lilly were many hings. Stable was not one of them. Dramatic hair toss and worldly sigh from Lilly. Veronica's eyes had widened with disagreement and more than a little bit of insult. She had received a "very well-written Veronica" on her history paper. Logan had been summoned to his best pal Clemmons' office for the third time that week. But they both loved Lilly in spite of her manipulations. In spite of her bossiness, her controlling nature. In spite of her tendency to be a heinous bitch at times. Or maybe because of it. Funny how it took wide unblinking eyes and blood matted blond hair for them to finally understand what Lilly had always known. That when they shatter their bruised hearts implode into corresponding jigsaw puzzle pieces of sharp, cutting glass. Angry resolve, wounded, fierce pride, and imperfect healing.
But sometimes the air-conditioning is on the fritz and being seventeen-almost-eighteen does not make you a Karma Sutra master. Supine afternoons are pased on the couch watching a truly awful barrage of melodramatic soap operas and Japanese anime children's cartoons. They imagine they exist in alternate universe chock-full of normality. She will navigate her way through lunchtime crowds, waitressing at the local diner. He will rent out surfboards and jet-skis at the shop on Carrillo Street. They will meet during their lunch-breaks to bitch and moan about unreasonable bosses, annoying co-workers. And of course, make-out. But they are both intelligent enough, both worldly enough to know that they will never be normal. But at least they're screwed-up together.
Bodies are crammed, overwhelmed with the abundant joy of artificial flavors. Teasing tongues blue from icy popsicles. Wandering fingers orange from cheese doodles (also available for use as packing material). They are always touching. Her calves draped across his thighs or his head in her lap as her fingers caress pictures in his hair. They play whose life is more fucked-up with the husband-stealing, incestuous, bisexual dwarfs trying to decipher their babies' paternity on Springer. Two absent mothers, one a tuition-stealing, alcoholic and the other a pill-popping bridge jumper. One abusive, statutory rapist murderer father. One father in hospital rehab. One best friend/ex-boyfriend finally leaving his drug-induced haze to journey through the stages of grief. One murdered best friend/ex-girlfriend. They remain undefeated.
Sometimes, they simply sit in silence, their breathing in measured synchronization. Come the next morning at 7:45 am the omnipresent yellow XTerra will roll ito the parking lot of their fine academic institution. And they will crank up the volume of their relationship. Because some things are just meant to be private.
Title: Saturninity
Author: Morgan
Pairing/Character: Logan, Veronica
Word Count:
Rating: R
Summary: intimate moments aren't always about sex
Spoilers: Season One
Lilly Kane had been their light. Sparkling, blinding, flickering. Extinguished. And now they live their lives at the speed of sound.
Their public relationship has always been (will always be) noisy, chaotic. The snarky almost bad boy and the abdicated innocent whose brain has morphed into a football playbook of vicious, stinging comebacks. Crack about her dad? Quarterback sweep out of a double wing formation. Snide remark about her outcast status? Hail Mary pass to the wide receiver. Touchdown. Bustling hallways provide ringside seats for their patented verbal volley. Head tilt, winning smile. Ever present mocking laugh. Back and forth. Back and forth. Louder and louder. Even with her tongue discovering the secrets of his tonsil she never forgot that he was the only worthy adversary. The music didn't die with Lilly, at least not while measly 09er tips were being crumpled, shoved into delivery boys' hands. Silence had no place in their paparazzi ready lives. Escalating arguments. Passionate make-ups. A relationship of constant white noise to drown out the prying eyes.
They know that the rest of the Neptune student body imagines that they return triumphant to the Echolls' mansion everyday. Bookbags, car keys, the last vestiges of responsibility are flung carelessly aside in favor of furious panting. Of quickening moans and hitched breaths. Of squeaking bed-springs and sweat-drenched bodies because sex isn't always candles and rose petals. It's quickies at four in the afternoon before their stomaches start grumbling. And it can be pretty fucking amazing. He sometimes imagines his mom arriving in the middle of their afternoon fuck fest, looking all the world like a high society version of Alice's hookah-ed Caterpillar. Cookies (store-bought, of course) and milk in the right hand. Valium and Scotch in the left. Who. Are. You? Daydream-Lynn is water-logged, a medicated, Botoxed Venus whose first inkling of Veronica is the painted toes of a foot curled around her naked son's back. He thinks that there is surely a polysyllabic, Latin-rooted word for the condition of always laughing at really fucking inappropriate things. She used to blush furiously and avert her eyes embarrassedly. She used to paint her toenails in delicate shades of pink or a modest red if Lilly goaded her. Once after Lilly had been particularly moody she had alternated between Vamp and Vixen for an entire month. Now Veronica paints her nails in kaleidoscopic shades of blues, greens, and purples and laughs along with him. She eschews his opinion that she would bring oatmeal raisin cookies. As she tries to summon the energy to move, her skin melted to his, she muses that the Happy Homemaker incarnation of Lynn always struck her as a traditional chocolate chip cookie kind of gal.
Lilly had once remarked that the two of them were so much alike. Veronica had squelched yet another of Lilly's crazy ideas, and she wasn't sure what Logan had done. Logan and Lilly were many hings. Stable was not one of them. Dramatic hair toss and worldly sigh from Lilly. Veronica's eyes had widened with disagreement and more than a little bit of insult. She had received a "very well-written Veronica" on her history paper. Logan had been summoned to his best pal Clemmons' office for the third time that week. But they both loved Lilly in spite of her manipulations. In spite of her bossiness, her controlling nature. In spite of her tendency to be a heinous bitch at times. Or maybe because of it. Funny how it took wide unblinking eyes and blood matted blond hair for them to finally understand what Lilly had always known. That when they shatter their bruised hearts implode into corresponding jigsaw puzzle pieces of sharp, cutting glass. Angry resolve, wounded, fierce pride, and imperfect healing.
But sometimes the air-conditioning is on the fritz and being seventeen-almost-eighteen does not make you a Karma Sutra master. Supine afternoons are pased on the couch watching a truly awful barrage of melodramatic soap operas and Japanese anime children's cartoons. They imagine they exist in alternate universe chock-full of normality. She will navigate her way through lunchtime crowds, waitressing at the local diner. He will rent out surfboards and jet-skis at the shop on Carrillo Street. They will meet during their lunch-breaks to bitch and moan about unreasonable bosses, annoying co-workers. And of course, make-out. But they are both intelligent enough, both worldly enough to know that they will never be normal. But at least they're screwed-up together.
Bodies are crammed, overwhelmed with the abundant joy of artificial flavors. Teasing tongues blue from icy popsicles. Wandering fingers orange from cheese doodles (also available for use as packing material). They are always touching. Her calves draped across his thighs or his head in her lap as her fingers caress pictures in his hair. They play whose life is more fucked-up with the husband-stealing, incestuous, bisexual dwarfs trying to decipher their babies' paternity on Springer. Two absent mothers, one a tuition-stealing, alcoholic and the other a pill-popping bridge jumper. One abusive, statutory rapist murderer father. One father in hospital rehab. One best friend/ex-boyfriend finally leaving his drug-induced haze to journey through the stages of grief. One murdered best friend/ex-girlfriend. They remain undefeated.
Sometimes, they simply sit in silence, their breathing in measured synchronization. Come the next morning at 7:45 am the omnipresent yellow XTerra will roll ito the parking lot of their fine academic institution. And they will crank up the volume of their relationship. Because some things are just meant to be private.