random time traveling porn

[wizened_cynic]

kymess_jr prompted me with Febreze and umbrella, and here is her porn. I could not work in remote control, sorry! Anyway, it is time traveling porn. I'm too lazy to explain it, just read The Time Traveler's Wife. Or, just know that this is twice the number of naked Alexes for the price of one.

footfalls echo in memory

What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
- T.S. Eliot

One minute you're telling Lorelai not to Febreze the hamster, and the next you're lying face-down on a lawn somewhere, your head spinning and your stomach threatening to empty out its contents. It takes a minute and a few hard swallows before you can sit up and take in the surroundings.

Gray sky, brick house. You could be anywhere.

You borrow a T-shirt and some pajama bottoms from the clothesline and embark on your merry way.

You already know who you're here to find.

You find her amid a throng of umbrellas. She's holding a black one, and it makes you think of your funeral. Her funeral.

Her face brightens when she sees you. She looks so young for a minute, you could almost imagine her as someone else. Not Alex Cabot. Not you, not who you are now.

"Come on." You take her hand. She grasps, as if letting go would propel her back into her present, and her present, you remember, is worse than when you both are at this moment.

At this moment, you are together. She is not alone.

You're traveling, both you and your self. It's the past. The Boston Globe says it's spring of 1985. The gentleman whom you asked for the time tells you it's three-thirty.

Somewhere, there is a third you, rushing home from school, knee-socks and navy blazer and high hopes for the future.

You teach your self to pick someone's pocket. She widens her eyes, frowns. She spent years upholding the law; now you're asking her to break it. You remember the words from the first time around, when you were her. "It's about survival, Emily."

She freezes. Her hand is cold. "Who are you?"

"Claire."

"When are you from?"

"2006."

Her face falls as she counts up the dates. You take pity and tell her to stand there. Minutes later you return with a wallet you lifted out of a teenager's open knapsack. You take the cash, leave the ID in the wallet. You place it in a hidden corner outside the record store where the kid had been shopping.

You rent a room at the Holiday Inn two blocks down. "Sisters," you explain, even though the manager doesn't ask.

The room is small, but clean. She draws water for a bath while you read the newspaper at the dimly-lit desk, tapping your fingers against the Formica the whole time, wondering what Lorelai is doing, when you can come back to her.

She comes out fifteen minutes later, her hair slicked back and wet, glistening in the tepid light of the room. She's wearing nothing but the complimentary bathrobe, which dwarfs her, makes her look smaller than she is. She's thinner than you recall. You remember losing weight the first few months in Wisconsin, when you couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't close your eyes without leaving on every single light in the house.

This is me, you think. This is me before Stars Hollow.

She initiates the kiss. She climbs onto your lap, straddles you, pushes you down and back into the chair, her fingers weaving through your hair. Her lips are dry, cracked; she tastes like penny wishes and tears. She kisses you until both of you are fighting for breath, your lungs feeling so tight they might explode.

You break the kiss for a moment and say, "We can't keep doing this."

She says, "I have to."

"Alex," you say. "Alex, I'm not going to keep coming back for you. I'm only here for the first few times, to help you along. Once you get the hang of it, you're going to have to travel alone."

"No." Desperation cuts through her voice. She grinds against you, harder, reminding herself, reminding you, that she's alive and real. "No. You can't go. I need you, I need to remember who I am."

"Alex," you say again. "I'm not who we used to be."

Her smile is both wistful and predatory. She catches your earlobe between her teeth. "You're close enough."

You move her onto the bed for better access, because you needed this once, and she needs it now. She was you, but you are not her. She is not you, not yet. You will be the same person.

She shrugs off her robe and clasps your head against her chest. You graze the soft curve of her left breast with your nose as you circle her nipple with her tongue. Her cries spur you on, but you feel the vertigo returning, and you know it's almost time. Might as well cut to the chase.

She's wet, but not enough, and she yelps when you twist two fingers in. Your strokes are rough, careless, and she rides your hand forcefully, trying push more of you into her. You thumb her clit until she's near, then you replace it with your tongue and begin tracing the letters of your name.

She comes on the second A of Alexandra.

Afterwards, she is motionless, limp as a rag doll. Her eyes are pressed closed, her brow drenched with sweat. She's not asleep, but she wishes she were. She knows you will be gone by the time she wakes up.

You want to tell her, so badly, that it will be okay. That she will survive this, because you already did. But it's against the rules; she'll just have to live it.

It won't hurt to give her something to live on, you think.

Your vision is starting to blur again, and there's that white noise in your ears. You lean close, brush your lips against her cheek, and whisper:

Lorelai.





Merry Christmas, you stupid bastards! And to all a good night!