i don't think we're in kansas anymore
who's a bandwagon-jumper? me! me!
I am kind of confused by what this is, but it involves writing fic, as far as I can tell? After making the shiny masterlist, I am mostly cringing at half the stuff on the aforementioned shiny masterlist, but I am a masochist, why do think I love Logan. okay, so.
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I am kind of confused by what this is, but it involves writing fic, as far as I can tell? After making the shiny masterlist, I am mostly cringing at half the stuff on the aforementioned shiny masterlist, but I am a masochist, why do think I love Logan. okay, so.
( Read more... )
Kissing someone, even your half-sister, doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s a way of reaching out, trying to touch someone.
He’s not a man of faith, he doesn’t look for deeper meanings, but your head between your half-sister’s thighs, that, that probably means-
- something.
She's crushing on him, he knows, like his son is crushing on her, and they're both too young to know better. He's not. He's too old to not know better, goddammit.
She clutches too hard when he moves up, and he can feel her nails digging into his back, probably drawing out blood. Her movements are rough, and it’s too fast, much too fast, and there are times when he thinks he’s hurting her.
Slow down, he says, Claire, slow down.
She looks at him, eyes clouded over with lust and grief and he’s not just fucking his half-sister, he’s taking advantage of a gi-woman incapable of knowing better in the moment.
I can’t, she says in reply, I can't.
He can’t touch her, he realizes halfway through. He can put his hands and mouth where he wants, where she’s letting him, but he can’t touch her.
He comes, she doesn’t. It’s fitting in a way, he supposes.
-
The third time he fucks Claire, he can hear David moving around in his room; the occasionally sounds of things being shifted filtering through his consciousness.
He’s fucking his little sister in the room next to his son. He’s not a man of faith, but he thought he's always believed in ethics of the profession. Believed in not fucking his little sister in the room next to his son. Now he’s not sure what he is.
“You can’t fix me, you know” she shrugs, once, after. He’s tracing meaningless letters on the skin above her hip-bone, and he should get up, he really should.
That makes him look up, “I wasn’t trying-”
“Yes,” she says, steadily, “you were. But it’s okay. I don’t mind. You can try.”
-
“How is she doing,” Juliet asks him, quietly.
Last I know, he wants to say, grieving. Broken. Wet, hot, tight. In your bed. It makes him feel a little guilty, the thought. He should be feeling a lot guiltier. He bites his tongue down instead, feeling the copper fill his mouth.
Juliet holding David’s bag, for his weekend with her, and all he can think of is two days of more of the same; Claire’s body and his hands and Claire’s mouth on his and the sound she makes when he touches that spot on her back.
He knows her reasons; the medical conditions start right down from PTSD, he'd highlighted it once with neon marker in a book long forgotten. He doesn’t know what his excuse is, and he doesn’t know why he hasn’t made one up yet. He doesn’t know if there’s a theory for this feeling. Case studies, perhaps.
“She’ll be better,” he says, and wishes he believed that. Wishes he believed in something. Anything.
Wishes he wasn’t the guy fucking his sister, because she’s beautiful and he wants to fix her, and he has a habit of falling in love like that. Wishes he wasn’t half in love already with his father’s daughter. Wishes he hadn’t been from the moment she’d walked in and needed saving, because he always needs someone to save.
-
(Claire smiles at up at him, once, when he kisses her later. Fleeting. Gone before he can acknowledge it.
But he thinks he might. Believe. Just a little.
“I wish I was near the ocean,” she twists the sheets in her hand, “I don’t know why, but it’s just-I just wish I was.” Maybe that's Christian's genes talking, something in their shared blood that makes them want too much.
She tastes like the ocean; he realizes, suddenly, inexplicably; part water, part salt, part thirst.
And, for some reason, part homecoming.
He should stop, then, should have stopped all the times before. He kisses her again, instead; he's been lost long enough.)
[fin]
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She tastes like the ocean; he realizes, suddenly, inexplicably; part water, part salt, part thirst. LOVE THIS LINE. Like you have no idea.
I feel very very ashamed of my fic now, because this is gorgeous and eloquent in ways I can't comprehend.
Thank you!
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Also, your fic was gorgeouser, CLEARLY WE HAVE DIFFERENT TASTES ;) Thanks so much, really glad it worked for you, I was kinda worried!
(Also lol@you picking that line, I stole it from a fic I was writing- Logan surfs, and I'm nothing if not predictable- and agonized over using it, because it fit so much, SO I DID. I'll probably steal it and use it there too though, because I'm a terrible person.)
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