lalikeslichto - Tumblr blog

lalikeslichto · 2 months

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One of the lesser known side effects of your condo getting blown up and a lamp lancing through your car like a bullfighter's verduguillo is that when you move to the outskirts of a city and have to rely on the failing public transport system, your commute to work starts to take two hours if you're lucky. Most of the time, I'm not lucky. I leave for work an hour before sunrise and still arrive a half hour late. Coming home is worse.

Public transit could be good. Everyone says it. Tyler tells me, in the future where we've burnt civilization to the ground, we won't need transit at all since the suburban dream will have died and everything you could ever need will live right with you in the nestled bosom of a ruined city. Kudzu vines will let you climb the exposed concrete and rebar until you're twenty stories tall. Stations of gliders, made with the skins of the cattle we keep. We'll need nothing beyond flight radius. There will be streams, broken back out of the pavement and basements, rivulets to ride back home to the shore. The world will close again, small and destroyed and hurting. A seedling.

For now, I ride the bus home.

The later it takes for the bus to show up, the worse the crowd gets. A man with his hand in his pants. The growing smell of piss from another. Someone laid out along the back bench seats, two stops from death. Of course, the fifteen-odd witnesses who won't move a muscle. Avert your eyes and thoughts and path.

Sometimes, when the buses are running especially thin, mid-route the driver will get a call on his radio instructing him to take the B route through another section of downtown. There, we pick up worse.

College students. Young couples. Those nights, this night, I have plenty of young hot things sliming into each other's mouths for the rest of my trip. It's unavoidable. Surround sound. The crinkle of hands gripping through jackets and all the wet smacks mix together with the creaking and squeaking of the bus like it's a roadside motel. I am forced to look at these fresh, vacant twenty year olds and I wonder — how much could one person want to disappear?

You could bring an Armalite AR-180 carbine gas-operated semiautomatic on here. Open carry. Maybe that would make everyone stop. Sit in your seats quietly. Legs together. Follow the implicit rules. Walk home quickly and don't react to any calling. Switch sides of the street as needed to avoid the footsteps behind you, but not so much that the chase is interesting. Ignore how they speed up, you speed up, and you hear two laughs. Oh, the power of a rifle.

When I get to Paper Street, we've entered eternal twilight. The smog crests over us like a dome, blotting out the stars and lowering the atmosphere within reach. Industrial lot lights shine their way to the edges like the stars of the Truman show. Everything smells like ass.

If I called it home, Tyler would probably light it on fire. Between the asbestos and the gallons of water soaked into the house, it'd smolder for months. Our yard is littered with glass, tetanus, and leptospirosis. I've got this ache carving away at my insides, like I took Tyler to work with me and she's been tunneling out.

I open the door, set down my briefcase, and think about the fact that I have to do this tomorrow and the day after and until I die.

She's in the kitchen, in her robe. Tyler has her sunglasses on, she has to barely be able to see me with that gaze. Lit up by the lamps littered through the room like electric storm candles. She's smoking.

Tyler says, "Take off your skirt. I'm tired of seeing that thing."

Vertigo can be associated with presyncope. It feels like you're falling. It feels like you're going to vomit as the failing floorboards split apart and swallow you up.

Tyler says, "I don't know why you bother. We both know how you feel about this." She steps closer, blows smoke in my bloodless face. I wish I could take it on, I wish I could lock us both in an old fridge and infuse us with her breath. With all the soap Tyler makes, she still smells like shit. If she died I'd sleep in her corpse until it faded.

"You flatter me sometimes, psycho girl." Tyler reaches a hand past me, cages me to the door. On the other side, there's the edges of our little set, with the door closed you can't see the dollhouse way the world gives up past a hundred feet. The other hand, it trails down my side like it's made of fire, unbearable and intense. She's looking down, cigarette tugging at her lip, hooded eyes probably tracking how I twitch and jump under her fingers. I can't not look at her. The chip in her tooth. The intensity to her eyes. Her mouth. I'm too loose, I'm going to slip out of her arms and under the door and down the street.

She finds the zipper. Tugs it down, my skirt falls around me like the goddamned Berlin wall. It lies in a limp pile around my legs; she can see my tights. My underwear. She's exposed me. The cavern in me is massive. Yawning.

Tyler stubs out her cigarette on the door and presses me into it, too.

Right by my ear, she murmurs, "You always make me take what you want." Her hands slip around me — gripping my shirt at my shoulder, slipping around to my lower back, my ass — I don't know what to do with mine. I've got them splayed out. I'm staring at the ceiling, her hair half-obscuring it.

Her lips, against my cheek. Brushing, she's making her way back and I know and I'm not ready.

Tyler bites at my lip, pulls it soft and gentle between hers with the same sincerity and focus that she's used to fracture my jaw. My heart at the derby. It's one of those horses running so hard their lungs fill with blood and their organs explode. I open my eyes, I didn't know I closed them, the lights blind me.

Her hand slides up my shoulder, my neck. She's got to feel my pulse. Pile driving. She cups my face, right where she broke it. Tyler directs me into her kiss.

She says, into my mouth she breathes and says, "Let yourself do something, why don't you?"

I know she's looking at me. My eyes fell shut again, I'm trapped in the feeling of her lips on mine but I know she's looking at me, close, half-lidded and intense. Trembling, I ache and creak and try. I try.

Tyler could be eating me, I would still try to feed myself to her.

I'm rewarded with her tongue. On my lips, in my pliant, confused mouth. Volcanic hot springs. Earthquakes, fractures, overflowing. I imagine Tyler and her tongue elsewhere. I make a noise, it's so pitiful you could take it out back and shoot it.

She leans on me, puts her whole body weight on me and the rotten wood miracle holding us up. Her hand slithers out from behind me to grab my wrist. Caught red handed, stricken, full of nothing and twitching.

Tyler slips her thigh between mine, it's pressure so impossibly hard I could cry. I am crying. I'm such a hopeless participant that when she kisses her way to the corner of my mouth and drinks up my tears, I welcome her back all the same. My thighs open up and hug her all the same. I am perpetually the beaten dog, fleeing and running back to its owner.

My other hand, my left, free hand finds its home on her nape. Tangled in her short, greasy hair. Tyler needs to kiss me until the world caves in.

She brings my hand down. A ventriloquist, she kisses me deep and my wooden fingers slip through her bathrobe. The edge of her boxers. I am crying, I am kissing Tyler Durden as she flattens me so I cannot escape this perfect misery as she brings my wooden fingers to her folds and I feel. Wet.

My fingers twitch. It's impulse. It's inverse familiarity. It's feeling, labia minora. Something more. Tyler would have the words for this. She pushes my hand against herself, the meat of my palm against her pubic mound as she devours me. She could do it all herself.

The way it feels, sliding, warm. Warm like my whole body is trapped in between Tyler's thighs. It could be my head. My tongue. My tongue curling around her clit. These images flash through me like full-body phantoms. On my knees, my hands on the sensitive meat of her inner thighs. Like I'm getting buckshot to the chest point blank. Our positions reversed. My tongue in her mouth. My leg between hers. Reload. Her hand, held by mine.

I push my hand against her.

Tyler moans into my mouth.

I push my hand against her, and slide my palm over her clit, her chest flutters against mine. God would kill for this. Tyler is all around me, my index finger is slick and wet with her and it's easy. It's pressing into melted butter.

Tyler's falling apart, Mona Lisa, she's saying nothing and burying me in her lust. There's new tears and they aren't mine. I'm tugging at her hair, she's forcing me into a single point. Singularity.

I have two fingers in Tyler, she's holding me there and I'm arching up into her when she cracks, splitting apart and all over me like an egg. Everywhere. She shoves her face into mine, foreheads together, noses, her shades are off and her mouth is open as she shudders and mixes my breath with hers.

Her other hand lets go, finds its way up to the other side of my face, she's still leaning on me. I'm still keeping my hand on her. I want her to drown it. I feel every shiver. She presses, synchronous, hands down my neck, my shoulders, Tyler buries her face in my hair. Right next to my ear. She bites my earlobe. She lets a hand slip up my shirt. Her hand cups me, I haven't worn a bra since moving in with her, her thumb slides over my nipple. She slips her fingers into my tights.

Her fingers on my bare skin. Tyler puts a palm on me, over the wet patch soaking through my underwear, and her fingers are stuck between my clit and her thigh.

And I wake up.

I'm on the bus.

I'm on the bus, and I'm surrounded by young couples giving each other 9-hour anniversary STDs, and I've soaked through my underwear.

When I arrive at my stop, I walk for fifteen minutes to get to Paper Street. There's a hot, heavy mist beading on my skin. Thickening my breath. It's fat with the fart smell of paper processing and rich in heavy metals.

I open our door. It barely stays in its frame, sort of opening like a twice-hinged, fully-sized, single-doored saloon.

Tyler's in the kitchen, in her robe. She's smoking.

She stares at me through her sunglasses.

I set down my briefcase. I stand there, and she still smokes.

She's looking through me. She's seeing all my stains.

Tyler expects something of me.

Her eyes track me, all the way up the stairs. all the way to my room, to my moldy mattress. They see me shower in brown-red water and scrubbing furiously on my clothes. They see me wide awake, waiting for the bus the next morning.

I am always failing Tyler.

#OH MY GOD I'M GOING CRAZY THIS IS AMAZING #I love your female fight club au so much #ughhh

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