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nothisis-ridiculous · 3 years

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Take Me Home Now: Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve: In Your Head, In Your Head, They are Dyin'

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

Geez, open my big fucking mouth much? Oh Jane, could you go to the Citadel? But why shouldn't you? You said you had spent time there; you're the one person who knows how to get around. She half-assedly kicked at the locker at the foot of her cot, besides, Rogers is too green. We need someone with experience leading the team. It would be best if you kept busy; civilian life doesn't agree with you.

They couldn't order her around.

Jane craned her head, taking in the entirety of the beam that would catapult her into the Citadel. A frown was the sole betrayal of her panicked nervous system, she would never be ready to go back there. But this was not the time for fear, not when Biotic's Division looked to her guidance. At least she could hide the apprehension- they looked like they could piss themselves at any moment. Jane knew the beam wouldn't lead to death but they were not so confident. It seemed insane, she got it.

Roy and Helen talked amongst the students, leaving Jane some time to collect herself. The last time she had approached the beam the entirety of Hammer had died to get her here, it seemed too easy now that it was a simple jaunt down a hill.

"You sure this thing won't vaporize us?" Roger's question interrupted her solitude.

"I'm not saying it's going to be pleasant, or you'll like what we're going to find-" distress crossed the 2nd lieutenant's face, this was the wrong approach, "if Anderson's team could make it to activate the Crucible, I think we will be fine. Besides, think of the bragging rights- being the one to restore communications with the Citadel, and eventually with the rest of the galaxy. It's not a small thing."

"But I'm not leading the operation," Rogers's hadn't taken the forced deference to the Recruit well.

"Believe me, kid, you'll be glad for all the calls you didn't have to make." She had refused to lead on principle, even after several others had tried to guilt her for refusing the mission. Jane wouldn't have stepped up if not for a series of harsh conversations from Mr. Alenko, most of them implying he would take the mantle if she would not, "get the team into place, we leave in two."

Roy and Helen naturally separated from the group, not away from the mass of students but toward her. Roy led a step ahead and Helen fixing her with the usual judgmental stare from behind her husband.

"I'll be fine," the woman snapped the M-77 into a ready form, "it should be easy."

"Be careful."

How many times had she heard that? To boot, in the same somber tone. The last time, so physically close to where they stood now. It was an odd irony that his father stood closer to the beam than Kaidan had managed to get.

"Thank you," regret was a hell of a thing, so unprompted she grasped his hand unflinching under that whiskey-hued gaze. For a blip of a moment, she looked forward to coming back. Hope returned in a microdose.

The students lined up as ordered, each reaction as individual as the person who stood before the blue light while they wouldn't argue with the mission: it didn't mean they had to trust it. Jane would question flinging herself blindly into the beam, she had at a couple of points. On Illos, she at least had the Mako to give her the illusion of safety, here for the second time only experience made her undaunted besides the emotional toll.

"Alright, the mission is simple. Meet with Bailey or whoever is left in charge. After that, we worry about setting up the long-range commlink," it was better to put this off as a simple run, when things got complicated, they would deal with it then, "on arrival, where exactly we'll end up is a mystery. This functions much like a Mass Relay, so small groups and make sure your ass is out of the way."

Jane nodded to Rogers and the female that stood beside him, "anyone else want to go first?"

She didn't wait for a reaction before sauntering brazenly into the beam.

The Spectre had thought she was used to running into the unexpected. She had made a career of dealing with the strange, but awe of circumstance truly never went away. This time it was far more physical than expected. Pulling herself over the lip and onto the metal path, water violently expelling from her nose and mouth. If she were a little more with it, she would have pulled a gun on the Keeper scuttling by- but she was a little more focused on breathing. The next concern was the two in line behind her; one was lucky and ended up straddled over the railing the next erupted from the water much in the way she had.

Once it was clear all was fine, Jane rolled onto her back. Dark laughter barking from her diaphragm. It was a far cry from the body-lined hallways and corridors she had dreamed up, the relay monument looked down on her. God, she felt nauseous. Her sides didn't stop seizing until all breath left her body, eyes stinging with tears. Rolling to all fours, then finally upright the world swirled into sudden clarity.

This was the Presidium. Behind her, the partially broken statue that honored the krogan. A white spire jutting into the sky, a brave blue flower standing tall, heat speckled metal walkways, and the white-walled building. Her fingers raked through a tangle of wet hair, shook out her pistol, pulled Rogers from the railing, and tightly squeezed her fist until the twang of her muscles bid for release. The relay fired again, splashing followed, and the approach of footsteps came from her right side. The tepid water running down her face made pinpointing smells impossible, but she could sure taste the strange flavor of the unfiltered liquid.

"Holy shit."

"See, you should have never doubted me."

The Lieutenant did not find it quite so humourous.

"Lighten up, Kid," she remarked blithely, turning her attention to the squad that corralled them into the center of the walkway, "it's nice to see C-Sec arrive promptly."

The turian officer scoffed but lowered his weapon, "Bailey will want to see you."

"Good, we're looking for him."

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

"How is it always you?" Bailey hardly looked up at her, "but I've got to admit, nobody else is crazy enough to walk through a beam on foot."

The man was one of the few who could recognize her immediately, even with grown-out and natural hair. He had seen the scarring left behind after the Lazarus Project before they had faded for the first time. It took only a little imagination to see past the more extensive facial scars.

"The first or second time?"

Bailey's head craned up, concern crossing his face, "Com-"

Jane waved a hand, "please, Bailey, that person is gone. Let her die with her crew."

The concern grew behind the glow of his omnitool "if anyone ever asks, you waved your Spectre status in my face. But I don't think you are here to catch up."

"No, I am not."

The team back on Earth had tried to reconnect with the Citadel, but all attempts to reach them had failed. So a mission to the station became necessary. Bailey attempted to skirt the subject, but life on the Citadel was not easy. Slowly some peace was restored but at a snail's pace. Whatever jammed the comms slowed any hope of a unified force on the station. It also explained their failure to find a tech expert who might fix the issue and perhaps the lack of a Spectre or someone of a higher rank to authorize it—security measures as usual were great until they hindered progress.

"I'll need you before you try and disappear again," Bailey warned, swirling the scotch in his lowball glass. He figured this was special occasion enough, even if the hero returned as little more than a ghost.

"I'll consider it my retirement party," she mused, finishing off the bitter liquid, "seems easy compared to a Reaper invasion."

"Nothing with you is ever simple."

"Hell, this could all be a dream... for both of us." It felt a little cold for a dream, but it was all surreal. For now, she put it off as walking old hallways and the memories of the companions that haunted the place.

"The scotch must be hitting you hard."

"I haven't hit the hard stuff since-" the statement crossed into territory painful for both of them, "but I say there is no time like the present. Must be driving my squad nuts waiting."

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

"Shepard before-"

Jane flinched, and Bailey retracted for a moment. Equal parts confusion and frustration with the jumpy woman. Perhaps it was time, untold horrors of war, or the alcohol that made her weird, if not mentioning the other multitude of reasons the Spectre seemed off her game. She went by a different name to the men she led, and it was becoming apparent the problem was far out of his wheelhouse.

"I have to give it to you plain, we found Anderson's body in here. It looked like he was shot."

"I know."

She had shot him after all. For a long time, she had tried reasoning that it was not her fault; after all, the Illusive Man had made her do it. Those strange cybernetic eyes had stared at her in her dreams, one of the thousands of voices taunting her. Those blue eyes had found her again as she walked the hallways to the Council Chambers.

"He must have activated the Crucible before he died, it's funny because we all assumed you had done it."

Jane hadn't activated the Crucible. That was true. Maybe Mary had; it was all a little foggy.

"We gave him the best funeral we could, I can take you there later if you like," Bailey offered, trying to rouse her with a touch.

Jane shook her head, "another time, this is enough."

Too much.

Bailey nodded, falling behind a few paces so she could absorb the room. Mentally, she remarked on little other than it had become a bit overgrown in disuse and that she liked it better without the constant trickle of running water.

"Nothing unusual up here, Ma'am," buzzed the comm.

"Roger, roger."

"It wasn't funny, even when the Major did it."

Fine, "hold position, I want eyes on anything that could go wrong. I'll place the shunt."

Jane moved slowly across the catwalk, the face staring at her accusingly grew clearer as she approached. The simple frame wreathed in upkept foilage, plants, and candles of all sorts making up an altar. She tried to move through littered petals and papers with reverence, but some wound up disturbed fluttering into the pit below. Jane crouched to cradle the picture gently, "Admiral."

Her blue eyes scanned upwards, resting on the bloody handprint covering the virtual interface sensor.

The total weight of another being crashed onto her, attempting to wrestle her from the catwalk. Even after weeks without combat, Jane dislodged the man with ease throwing him over the unprotected edge. The unnatural steel blue eyes, shocked with bright blue patterns, brimming with fury. Quickly as they had entered her vision, the figure went still and dark.

Coldly, empty, she returned the broken frame to its spot. Her complete attention turning to the console that lit up at her presence. The only break from her attention was the dramatic slam of her fists on the sides of the railing behind the console- it wasn't working.

Before she could release her temper upon the undeserving railing again, a keeper nudged her aside. Compiling the necessary commands with ease, the sudden noise of a system erupting in a blastwave. As quickly as the creature arrived, it scuttled back away. Leaving Jane to complete her task.

Bailey looked over the ledge, approaching the woman slowly once he was satisfied.

"Commander Bailey, you should have access to all Citadel systems," her bright blue eyes turned to him with a terrifying hollowness, "don't make me regret it."

"You- but, he," Bailey swallowed, running a hand over his cropped hair, "it's never simple with you."

He grabbed her arm before she slipped by him, "take this."

"I should go."

"Don't worry, you weren't here," he called after the stumbling figure.

Jane didn't recall stumbling back through the relay, or for that matter, picking her way back to the mall. Or the time she had left, or if she had bothered to warn anyone in the meantime. Reality was a persnickety thing at the moment, failing to anchor her securely to the present.

It was dark, the mechs hadn't stopped her, and not even her body was warning her of exhaustion. It was all instinct.

The room she stole into, that was not so much a call of instinct but of desperation. Her world grew colder, and it was beginning to tumble at a speed that she could barely withstand.

"Rahna."

Nothing.

"Rahna."

"Jane?"

#kaidan alenko #shenko #fshenko #mass effect fanfiction

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dadolorian · 4 years

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A Second Chance - Part 1 Whiskey x F!Reader

A/N: I had an idea for a slow burn with Whiskey i couldn’t shake. Reader is Agent Schorle ,a short, curvy female employee at Statesman (Not a field agent). She works in the ‘PR’ department and is good friends with Tequila. This is a mix between canon and Fanon Whiskey, set after Golden Circle so it rewrites canon and he’s not a secret bad guy, living past the events of the movie. But he is still a womanizer while he is single. Like with most my x reader fics its more OFC than a traditional reader but i change it up so it can be read as a reader fic, meaning the reader is more of a character. This chapter is just their introduction/first impressions. Also! I AM NOT American, so if i get any shit about America wrong, IDGAF. Credits: No Beta reader. HMU if you wanna be one for this series

Title: A Second Chance Fandom: Kingsman; the Golden Circle. Ship: Agent Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels/Reader Warning: Bit of womanizing behavior from Whiskey (Surprise surprise), it’s not rejected by the reader character so its consensual. Nothing else for this chapter. Heads up before you get invested, not in this chapter but there will be triggering stuff as part of the plot in later chapters, and there will be kids in later chapters too, just in case either of those things aren’t your cup of tea. No use of Y/N in this chapter. There are two narrative perspectives in this story, 3rd person Whiskey perspective and 2nd person Reader perspective. Promise not to flip between them too often. Word count: - 2K Master List - coming soon Request status AO3 Link - coming soon Next part - coming soon

The first thing Jack Daniels noticed was not the way her pencil skirt hugged her ass, or the way her blouse struggled to contain her breasts, as much as his colleagues would later claim. He was well aware of his reputation as a womanizer and didn't exactly blame them for that immediate assumption, it was what most people noticed first about her anyway, why would Jack Daniels, the womanizing Cowboy be any different? No, the thing he noticed first was her laugh. It was so warm, angelic, he was entranced hopelessly from the first moment he first heard it in the Statesman hallway. He would give his damn hat to hear that sound grace his ears again.

He had gravitated over to her immediately, joining in on the little conversation she was having with Tequila. He tried to be subtle, he really did, waltzing up to the two of them with his best, charming smile, checking her out as he did so and nodding a greeting at his colleague. She was short, and curvy, her attire was office professional, meaning she probably wasn't a field agent, tidy, small heels showing her shapely curves of her legs, and soft, professional curls hung loosely, framing her round face. She was gorgeous. “Hey there Tequila,” he smiled, before nodding in her direction. “You gonna introduce me to your pretty lil friend here?” She blushed slightly, he noticed, as she pushed some of her neat hair behind her ear, she had a small shy smile on her face too, ‘cute as a button’ he thought. “Ahhh come on Whiskey, leave her alone,” Tequila groaned dramatically, making her giggle. Jack couldn’t help his smile growing at the sound. “Now now Boy,” he chuckled, patting Tequila's shoulder. “You can’t be hiding this pretty little thing from me and not expect her to catch my eye,” he added, shooting her a playful wink. She hugged the files she was carrying closer to her chest, blushing more and avoided his eye contact. Jack might have assumed she was uncomfortable if that smile wasn’t still playing on her lips. “She’s off limits, Whiskey,” Tequila sighed. “I think she can make her own mind up about that,” Whiskey grinned, elbowing the younger agent. “She’s a big girl. Now come on, show some manners and introduce me.” She giggled again and Tequila groaned, pissed off that already Whiskey’s stupid southern charm was working already. “Whiskey,” he sighed, already expecting the ungodly amount of flirting that was about to rain down upon his friend. “This is Schorle. One of our ‘behind the scenes’ agents.’PR’ department.” Jack flashed her a crooked smile as Tequila continued, motioning to the senior agent. “Schorle, this is Whiskey. I’ve told you ‘bout him before.” “Oh, have you now?” Jack chuckled, he put his hands on his hips and faced her more directly. “All good things I hope?” he asked her. She gave him another shy smile and Jack felt his heart soar. “I am well aware of you Agent Whiskey, and not just from Tequila here,” she said, now his heart felt like it had skipped a beat. Her voice was as angelic as her laugh! “Again, I hope it's all good things,” he laughed. “Most the time, yes,” she hummed playfully. “My main job is hiding Statesman true existence from the public eye.” She flashed him a more coy smile and his grin grew. “Which means i tend to hear about certain escapades, such as a cable car sledding down a mountain.” Jack rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, laughing nervously. “You certainly don't make my job easy sometimes, Agent,” she teased. Jack's expression was one of pleasant surprise, she wasn’t as shy as she appeared. Tequila laughed, pleased his friend was at least able to bite back at the other man. “She’s still off limits old man,” the younger agent muttered to him. “I am not that much older than you,” Jack retorted, making her giggle some more. “And as i rightfully pointed out earlier, she can make up her own mind about me i am sure.” Tequila was about to bite back but she interrupted whatever thought he was about to say. “He’s right on that Tequila. I can make up my own mind,” she said, giving Jack another smile. “And right now my mind is telling me i need to get back to work.” She gave Jack a nod and Tequila a friendly wave as she turned on her heels and went back to wherever her office was. Whiskey let out a long whistle when she was out of earshot, admiring her ass as her hips swayed. His staring was interrupted by Tequila wacking him in the chest with the back of his hand. “Hey! I’m only looking!” he pouted. “She didn’t seem to have a problem with me.” “Dang it Whiskey she's my friend!” Tequila groaned. “Just leave her alone, she don’t need none of that. “ “She’s not married,and I know she ain’t your girl,” Jack remarked. “She’s still my friend Whiskey,” the younger agent sighed. “I don’t want her gettin’ hurt.” Jack frowned at him. “Hey now that’s not fair,” he said sternly. “I know I have a reputation an all but you’re acting like I plan on breaking her heart.” “She’s one of the nicest people I ever met, she doesn’t deserve to be your current flavor of the month,” Tequila defended. “Now I take personal offence to that Tequila,” Jack countered. “I would like to think myself a gentleman and my intentions are purely honorable.” “The way you were staring at her ass tells me otherwise,” Tequila mumbled. “C’mon Whiskey, you don’t even know her. She’s just another pretty piece of ass to you and we both know it.” Whiskey gave him a disappointed look. Slightly upset his friend would think so lowly of him, but he had to admit his reputation did nothing to counter it. “It’s really bothering you isn’t it?” he asked, sighing when Tequila nodded. “Fine, look, I won’t chase her. If it means that much to you,” he sighed in defeat. He was still enamored with her, but if hooking up with her bothered Tequila so much he wouldn’t in good conscience be able to do so. “That a promise?” Tequila asked, holding his hand out for Jack to shake and seal the deal. “Yeah,” he sighed, taking the offered hand. “She must mean a lot to you,” he added, only getting another nod in return from the younger man as they shook hands.

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You first noticed Whiskey long, long before the two of you ever actually met in person. You hadn’t been joking about dealing with the results of his missions, constantly having to kill stories in the press or send out false reports to police and media so that Statesman’s business remained out of the public eye. Your ‘PR’ department was often quite busy, constantly searching social media to kill any evidence that might have been captured by the public. It was a 24 hour job, one you were in charge of now.

Years ago, when you were a new hire, just one of the lackeys, your first assignment was to comb through social media to kill any evidence of Whiskey’s latest mission. You hadn’t slept for two days during that time, surviving on caffeine and an ambition to make a good impression at your new job. You could vaguely remember complaining to one of your co-workers about the agent who had gone in guns (and Lasso) blazing without considering the fact that smart phones were now a thing and that the target was a very public figure. That was the first time you heard of him, as your more experienced co-worker gushed over his skills as an agent while you sat and seethed at the ungodly amount of work he had caused you on your first assignment.

You could look back on that memory fondly now, and since then your opinion of him had changed as you heard more and more about him. He was a skilled agent, had a strong sense of justice and always got the job done. Sure, his methods were sometimes a little unorthodox and he was often quick to jump into the fray, but there was no denying his skill. He was a senior agent for a reason after all. And of course, you had heard about his reputation, no woman in the office hadn’t. He would flirt with any pretty thing that caught his eye. You used to think that your co-workers that fell for his charm were foolish for falling for it, given his well known reputation among Statesman, but that was before you met him in person. You had seen him in passing before, from afar, or glimpses of him in the social media posts you killed, he was handsome, sure, but it was a whole different level when you met him face to face. You thought you were safe from his charm, believed you were smart enough not to fall for it should it happen to come your way, but you also doubted you would ever be on the receiving end of it. You had been in the same room as him plenty of times in the past and he had never paid any attention to you, and not to mention you didn’t exactly fit his usual type. You were short, plump, nothing like the field agents he was used to working with, women who were physically fit enough to work alongside him and fight. Not to say you thought you were completely unattractive, sure it sometimes bothered you that your blouse could barely contain your breasts and that your stomach and thighs were a little too soft for your liking, but you weren’t blind. You could see the not so subtle looks as you walked past, the way people would try to discreetly check out your ass as you walked. It was a confidence booster for sure. It just never occurred to you before that you would be Whiskeys type. So the day the two of you met officially, you couldn’t help the blushes, he was attractive, and paying attention to you, perhaps it wasn’t so hard to see why women fell for his charm even with his reputation. You were just like every other woman he flirted with, but when he spoke to you it made you feel special. You supposed that was the appeal, why it was so easy for him. It wasn’t until you had excused yourself from his company and were able to calm down that you began to chide yourself for falling for his charm. You reminded yourself of his reputation, as handsome and charming as he was you didn’t want to be just another roll in the hay for him.

You sighed as you made your way into your office. Now the head of Statesman’s ‘PR’ department you were officially considered an ‘agent’, the perks in which included your own private office. You dropped your files off before making your way inside, ready to get back to work, trying to ignore the way Whiskey's attention had made your heart flutter and pretend you weren’t looking forward to seeing him again.

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#Agent whiskey x reader #Agent Whiskey x you #Agent Whiskey x ofc #jack daniels x reader #jack daniels x you #jack daniels x ofc #jack whiskey daniels x reader #jack whiskey daniels x you #agent jack whiskey daniels x reader #agent jack whiskey daniels x you #kingsman the golden circle #kingsman fanfiction #agent whiskey fanfic #my fic #Second chance #SC #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader

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sicklyscribe · 4 years

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hey so if you wanna hit me with that sweet sweet elijah’s characterization meta anytime please feel free. or direct me to any previous posts because my dumb ass is using this time to re-obsess over vampire melodrama.....

It appears that most of my non-tag and non-petty-casual commentary is still in drafts... so instead of finishing the ‘What the hell is wrong with season 4: an itemized list’ meta and finishing answering the ‘What would you change if you could rewrite any of the show?’ ask from a while ago, I’ll just pick out the Elijah bits and add on to them for garnish. (Those posts might exist at some point. But honestly not soon enough for me to worry about people getting annoyed with copy/paste so PREVIEW TIME: ELIJAH FLAVOR)

This is way sloppier and un-cited than I usually meta, by the way, but what the hell, The Fandom is Dead and I Only Have Friends to Entertain Now, so if anyone gets angry and tries to step into my asks then it’ll just be nostalgic rather than annoying. Here’s the starter, which is from the F*CK YOU SEASON 4 meta and quite a few of these points will be repeated later because you asked for it technically so.

The cracks in the narrative began to show as early as season two, and believe me when I say I’m not saying this because I love him - it began with Elijah. I can make a lot of arguments to this effect, but the only one that I am certain is not propelled by my very strong bias concerns the presentation of the Red Door.

Initially, I was ecstatic at the opportunity to explore Elijah’s past, his perspective, his darkest moments. I was a bit wary in that it seemed as though the narrative wanted to Explain Everything about Elijah through this device, but he was finally getting some attention so I tried to hold back judgement.The result was pretty promising. One of the most gorgeous moments on the show occurs when Klaus enters Elijah’s mind and tells him how much he needs him. It showcases the main pillar of the show - the structural trifecta of Hope, Klaus, and Elijah. And afterwards, as usual, Elijah pushes the experience away.Until it’s convenient.

Elijah begins to be erratically vicious. At first, I felt as though it wasn’t handled poorly, I could explain away my worries easily, and that was all I needed. But it happens over, and over, and over again, with the same excuse - protecting the family, protecting Hope. Elijah’s triggers, once so crucial, begin to break down, but we don’t see why or how that process occurs. He begins to be the character that is level-headed when it is convenient, and a violent one-track-mind when it’s convenient. Eventually, in order to maintain balanced tension with a softening Klaus, Elijah became violent without nuance in every situation. His continued development is no longer possible, since his character no longer displays depth.

Which is annoying, as a fan. But as a person who loves to analyze narrative, it’s a huge red flag. Elijah is necessary for this story. His love for Klaus, and Klaus’ relationship with him, is one of the things that holds the narrative together as it goes forward. The two of them need each other in order to experience growth, but cannot grow from each other any longer - and that friction is what provides energy and substance that can help drive a multi-year melodrama. This is why I mentioned above that Elijah’s violence was likely intended to balance with Klaus’ changing heart - but there is no balance in the level of development the two brothers experience. It has been shoddy in many places, but attention has been given to Klaus’ journey towards peace and kindness, while Elijah has been given a single metaphor, a single psychosis, and is expected to carry half of the narrative weight. The story has no choice but to make a plot device out of him - he simply does not have the required depth to be anything else, which is made obvious by the attempt to do so in the ritual to bring Inadu to the material plane, which I will discuss later.

When his development is ignored, when he is used as a tool to get from point A to point B time and time again - that’s when the pillar starts to crumble.

Zooming back in on s1, this was actually my only major structural gripe with season 1, so it comprises the entirety of the ‘what would you change’ for that season:

The poison that rotted the whole dang show started very small — casting Elijah too strongly as a white hat, to offset the darkness of the rest of the main family. This was the right move, of course, but it was pushed a twinge too far and it was the tiny weight that set everything wobbling. As an offshoot of that, this was also done with Hayley to a degree. I would have had them bond very similarly to the way they do in the show, but I would have had them connect at least once over the skeletons in their closets. (Only once or twice, again, since their ship relied in this season on the fallacy of each other being saviors). In fact, this was one I felt so strongly about that I actually did rewrite their scene in 1x07 ‘Bloodletting’.

Then season two when it gets more pronounced:

The rift in the show widened with the swing-and-miss that was The Red Door arc. Elijah became a Problem when it was convenient for the plot and A Fixer/Sounding Board when it was not. They used probably the most INTERESTING and INTEGRAL part of his characterization -- which had been a mystery for YEARS counting The Vampire Diaries appearances -- and Elijah discovering that either from trauma or his mother’s magic, he has repressed the moments which forged him. This lack of knowledge, this lack of control, should have been something much more cataclysmic and its effects should be clear when comparing ‘Elijah Before’ to ‘Elijah After’. Instead, it kind of served to take off Elijah’s ‘White Hat’ that he’d been illy-fitted with in S1, and allow him to accessorize with it or whatever version of Elijah fits the episode at hand.

This tension, and this chaos should have been much stronger and much more messy than simply putting the Suit back on and being Pretty Much Okay (barring one plot-insignificant diner massacre) only a few episodes later. It would make the therapy scene later with Camille even more gorgeous than it already is and it would then place Elijah’s moment of catharsis, and the beginning of his attempts to move on, with Klaus’ monumental forgiveness in 2x11. I think this is what was intended, but it was not at all achieved, because Elijah is such a tricky character to write, and it is so very easy to use him for whatever the scene requires. Because of this, Elijah’s struggles got dropped just long enough for Klaus’ forgiveness to hit powerfully in viewers for Klaus, but not for Elijah. The writing began to lean on Elijah as a Drama Everyman more and more throughout the show, and it’s just tragic to me that The Red Door wasn’t utilized to its potential. (And that we didn’t have a Klaus/Tatia conversation, but hey, I have an unfinished fixit for that whole saga on Ao3, you’re welcome and I’m sorry).

In season three, we got a few good glimpses of the kind of complexity that Elijah should live in -- the way he kills Arianne, for example, I’ve linked what I called a ‘headcanon’ but in retrospect it was pretty explicitly canon -- and we see the youth and terror and involuntary power in him in the flashback where he discovers that Klaus killed their mother. But the relationship between Tristan and Elijah? The man that he made, and that made him? That was far too pedestrian to have produced either of them. If Elijah learned ‘nobility’ from Tristan, learned what ‘superiority’ looked like, and this was the time that he began to change... we should have had words between them, or a scene highlighting just them, at least once in the flashbacks.

If this season was supposed to be about the creation of the Trinity, the First Children (because Finn didn’t tell no one that Sage is actually the oldest ‘cuz he’s an ashamed little bitch) why did we see only TWO of the THREE transformations? Klaus turned Lucien accidentally, trying to heal him. Rebekah’s sympathy and love were used as Aurora’s tool to turn herself. When and how did Elijah turn Tristan? It is explained that Elijah turned him in order to create a third vampire for his plot to trick Mikael into chasing them instead -- it is explained that Tristan, Aurora, and Lucien were compelled to believe that they were in fact Elijah, Rebekah, and Klaus in order to make their decoy impeccable. But when this compulsion was shattered -- when Lucien learned that he had been used and made monstrous as a tool for a monster who wasn’t even noble -- did he confront Elijah? Did they ever speak, or was their next meeting the day Elijah learned that Tristan had taken over Elijah’s coven? I would argue that Elijah needed equal weight in the France flashbacks even though he didn’t have a flashy romance (though if early press release rumors were true, he and Tristan could have had one and that would have been perfect)

Season four is really where you can pick an episode and Elijah will put on the stage makeup and play any part. It’s also -- BIG COINCIDENCE -- where the plot deteriorates completely. Here’s just one example from my Excuse You What the Hell? Season Four meta:

On to the next moment that showed major neglect (I know this has been Elijah-heavy so far, but again, this is where the problem started so I want to carry this thread through for a while before addressing other issues) - the ritual to bring Inadu to the mortal realm. The purpose of this ritual was to scare viewers with the risk of Hope’s safety and hype the Hollow’s “bad”ness, but also to make the first move in the ‘Letting Go’ thread between Hayley and Elijah. Elijah was supposed to be forced to choose between children's lives and letting the Hollow loose upon the world, and decide to kill the children. That was the dramatic point of placing this ritual in the narrative, but it isn’t mechanically sound.

It is stated outright that the ritual has to end with the death of the children linked to the spell. The children were linked via their totems found in 4x03 - placing Hope definitively in this group.

But we only ever see four of the five in one place. Maybe it was worth it to the Hollow to reach as far out as Hope was to bind her via her hairbrush, maybe it was worth it to the Hollow to drain her from afar, I’d buy that easily. But they made no attempt to kidnap her and place her with the other four children during the ritual. The ritual that required the deaths of five children. Unless it required Hope to be there only on standby, which is absolutely ridiculous. They had the kids on an alter, even if it was just for show. But why not all of them? If the real goal of the ritual was to lure Klaus and/or Marcel, wouldn’t kidnapping Klaus’ child be a more surefire way to accomplish that rather than just hoping the Mikaelsons would come to the right mystical diagnosis in time?

The reason why Hope wasn’t there was because the ritual was never thought through. The reason she wasn’t there is because it didn’t make sense for Elijah to want to kill Hope to stop the Hollow, which is what this ritual actually demanded if it actually worked the way Vincent claimed. In actuality, all that was desired was for Elijah to display a willingness to kill innocents in front of Hayley, and in doing so it demanded that Hope’s life both be at stake and not at stake at all. This failure to coherently execute a single-episode arc is plainly poor storytelling. It displays not only disrespect to the narrative structure, but a blatant flippancy towards one of their main characters and arguably the most complex one on the series. The sloppily contrived tension here between Hayley and Elijah does eventually contribute to the supposed theme, yes, but at what cost?

Elijah was neglected because he was hard to write, and even harder to write well as a ‘light’ foil to Klaus. Marcel should have fully owned that role, and not been similarly jerked around as a plot-serving every-man once the mystery of season 1 and the reasons behind Marcel’s ‘senseless’ cruelty were revealed.

Elijah was always the cornerstone of the family’s narrative, because he was complex enough to carry it. Camille provided an additional column of support to Klaus’ individual journey as a person/father, but she was bulldozed for Allmighty Plot as well. By the end of season three, both she and Elijah had effectively been thrown in the garbage one way or another, and the show tried to go on without them. It couldn’t.

I will say that Elijah’s conversation with Hope in that ludicrous backdoor pilot did make me feel things. I did also see the clip where Elijah and Klaus have a heart-to-heart in some sort of european flashback, which was touching, but felt incongruous for their relationship/dev at the time. Hope asking Elijah how old he was when he made his promises to Klaus, though? Elijah offering carte blanche to Hope for how to punish her friend’s bullies? TWO OF THE THREE SCENES INVOLVING ICE CREAM?

SOME of season 5 is valid but ONLY because it stole scripts from my headcanons.

#anamysis #preview of some metas in progress #hey guys does anyone here want to talk about ELIJAH?#*pepe silvia voice*#Anonymous #asks

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averagemarvelbitch · 5 years

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Pride and Joy / PART SEVEN

I wrote more D: You can read the whole fic on AO3

---

Anastasia didn’t remember much about her days with Dr. Kudrin. She had been too young, after all, and whatever memories she had of that time were hazy and faded. But she remembered the needles. And she remembered the pain. The sort of pain that started soft like the touch of small flame and grew like a wild fire until every part of her skin was burning. It would go on for days on end. She would lay there, screaming and crying and thrashing while they poked her and took notes.

She knew that whatever they had done to her was supposed to make her faster, stronger, deadlier. And it did. She had never really noticed before all the little things that made her different from everyone else. She had way more stamina then the other little spiders, and could outrun all of them. She was quicker in battle as well, more focused than the others. And she could heal faster than the others. Bullets wounds took less than two days to heal. Stab wounds took mere hours to disappear completely, leaving no scars behind, no proof that anything had happen at all. Or at least, that’s what the files she had stolen said.

There were so many files. About who she was, who she had become. Detailed descriptions of her training sessions, containing her weaknesses and strengths. Too emotional, too headstrong, too impulsive. They talked about her relationship with Natalia: too attached to each other, might become an issue in the future. Her missions, the targets she assassinated, every piece of her life compressed in a bunch of files hidden away. Well, not hidden away anymore.

Anastasia had spent the last two years meticulously studying every single one of them. It hadn’t been easy. She was watched almost constantly, so she’d had to do it in the middle of the night, away from prying eyes. And as she studied, she planned. She planned what she would do to the people who had taken her from her family, the people who had tortured her for so many years. She dreamed every night about the day she would finally make them pay for everything they’d done, not only to her, but to Natalia as well. And the day had finally come.

The full moon shone bright in the dark sky that night as Anastasia walked towards the burning building, or what remained of it at least. She could see the many bodies fallen on the ground, the smell of burnt flesh filling her nose, but she paid them no attention. She kept on walking, her eyes glued to the old woman covered in blood, trying desperately to lift the huge block of cement from her legs. Anastasia stood beside her, looking down on her with a smirk.

“YOU! YOU LITTLE MONSTER, YOU’LL PAY FOR THIS”, the woman screamed, coughing between every other word, her voice hoarse and weak.

Anastasia put one of foot on the block of cement, pressing it down slightly, and the woman screamed in pain.

“Look around you, Eva. There’s no more Red Room. Your handlers are dead. Your building is in pieces. All your work burned to the ground”.

“You’ll regret this, Anastasia”.

“My only regret is that Dr. Kudrin died before I could kill her myself”, Anastasia replied, pointing the gun she carried to Eva’s face, “I hoped that you’d burn alive, but I’ll settle for putting a bullet in your head. It’s more mercy than you deserve. And my name is not Anastasia. My name is Abigail Stark”.

And, before Eva could open her mouth to retort, she shot the woman between the eyes without as much as a flinch. With one last look around the place she had grown up in, Abigail turned and walked away, leaving behind all the pain and suffering, and finally, finally, going home.

---

Washington, DC.

18 hours to Launch Sequence Initiation.

Nicholas Fury was fifty seven years old and he had witnessed a lot of crazy ass shit in his life, both during his time as a SHIELD agent and as director of said organization. And everything he had lived through had taught him two valuable lessons, the first being: trust no one. Some people thought that was a tough way to live. Nick preferred to think of it as a smart way to survive. He had friends, of course, people he trusted to a certain degree, who he could count on, in whom he could confide some of his, and SHIELD’s, secrets. There weren’t many, it’s true, but he had always favored quality over quantity.

The second lesson life had taught Nick was to always trust his gut. Sometimes, he would get this feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a tiny snake rattling around. It was like an alarm of sorts that screamed danger danger danger everytime something was amiss. It had gone off when he found the tesseract. It had gone off that morning, when he had tried, and failed, to decrypt the files from the flash drive Natasha had recovered from the ship. And it went off when he walked into his kitchen that night, right after opening the fridge.

He turned quickly, gun already in hand, pointed straight at the brunette who was quietly sitting at his table, watching him.

“Hi”, she said, unmoving.

“You can start with your name and why the hell you’re in my motherfucking kitchen, kid”.

“I’m Abigail Stark”.

That made Nick hesitate, the gun in his hand faltering. He quickly put himself together, tightening his hold on it, staring at the girl with suspicion.

“You look very alive for someone who died at birth”, he replied.

“I’m tough to kill. And from what I hear, I get that from my dad”.

“And am I supposed to just take your word for it?”

“Well, I don’t really know how I could prove it to you. I’d say let’s do a DNA test, but that’s not exactly a viable option at the moment, right?”

Nick continued to stare at her. She looked young, around twenty years old. Brunette, brown eyes. Her appearance did match the description Natasha had given him all those years ago, but then again, “brunette with brown eyes” wasn’t exactly a rare look. She did remind Nick of Stark, though. The defiance in her eyes, the sarcastic tone.

And that’s when he remembered. Something Natasha had told him, something only the real girl would know.

“When was the first time you ate chocolate?”

With a small smile, the girl promptly answered, “It was Christmas. Nat returned from a mission and she managed to steal a piece of chocolate. It was half eaten, but it was good. I was twelve”.

Slowly, Nick lowered the gun, still keeping his eyes on the girl. “Ok. Let’s jump to ‘why the hell you’re in my kitchen’, kid”.

“Because of this”, she said, sliding a black flash drive across the table.

“And what the hell is that?”

“Proof that Hydra infiltrated SHIELD and they’re planning on killing a lot of people real soon”.

Nick had known in his gut something was very wrong. He just really wasn’t expecting something like that.

“I’m hungry. Do you have anything to eat?”

He made her Mac and Cheese while she used his computer. It was from a box and it tasted like cardboard, but Nick guessed that for someone who had probably spent her entire life eating less than edible food, this was a banquet worth of a king. He added some bacon to it. Might as well put some flavor in this shit.

“So, you hacked their computer?”

“If by hacked you mean created a program from scratch that imitated the system to fool their A.I. long enough for me to get in and make a copy of all the files they had encrypted there, then, yeah, sure, I hacked their computer”, she replied, taking a huge bite of mac and cheese, “what’s this?”

“Macaroni and Cheese”.

She nodded, swallowing before taking another forkful of the dish, “I like this”.

“Hold on, you said they had an A.I.?”

“Not had, have. And I’m not one hundred percent sure it’s an actual A.I. What I know is it’s a program that kept rewriting itself every time I tried to break it down. But it was advanced, more advanced than anything I had ever worked with, or against. Also, I don’t know where the source of this program is, but it ran a pretty large portion of the missions in the Red Room”.

Nick sipped from his glass of whiskey, stealing a bacon from the girl’s plate before sitting down beside her.

“You have the names there?”

“There’s a list, yeah. Politicians, FBI agents, CIA agents, SHIELD agents, they’re everywhere”.

“Is there an Alexander Pierce on the list?”

Abigail stopped typing for a second and threw a look at Fury before finding the file and pressing play. She ate her Mac and Cheese as he listened.

“Good. And the girl? She better not come back, Pierce. I have enough trouble with one Stark, I don’t need another”.

(…)

“No, no. We need him. For now. But you’ll be the first to know when he outlives his usefulness”.

“Very well, then. Hail Hydra”.

“Motherfucker”.

“Yeah”, the girl replied.

“You said they have a plan. What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know”, she confessed with a grimace, “all I know is that they’re calling it Project Insight”.

“SHIT”, Nick shouted, getting up so fast the chair he was sitting on fell to the floor, “MOTHERFUCKERS”.

“I take it you know what Project Insight means?”

“It means we screwed up, kid. I screwed up”.

“How do we unscrew it?”

“Pierce doesn’t know I know. I’m going to try to delay Project Insight”.

Abigail shook her head. “That’s a bad plan. He might suspect something is going on. Especially after the boat thing”.

“And if he does, we’ll have a plan for that as well”.

---

16 hours to Launch Sequence Initiation.

Needless to say, Abigail hated Fury’s plan. It was sloppy, relied too much on sheer dumb luck and had a very high chance of going really wrong really fast. But still, he insisted on it, so Abigail agreed, even if against her will.

Fury had given her a special earpiece, so they could talk through the whole thing and keep each other informed. There wasn’t much she could do to help at the moment, so she stayed away, hacking the cameras at the Triskelion, watching the man’s every move as he entered the snake’s nest.

The exchange between Fury and Pierce had been rather boring and anticlimactic. The real action began a few moments later, when four police cars slammed into his SUV.

“I told you this was a bad plan”, she said, re-booting the SUV’s system from a distance.

“Just get out of here”, he complained, using the machine gun embedded on the car.

As soon as the system was back, Fury stepped on the accelerator, trying very hard to put some distance between himself and his attackers.

And then he came. Abigail saw him through the traffic cameras and almost shouted. The Winter Soldier. The car flipped over, sliding right past the man in black, who’s only action was to take a step to the side, never taking his eyes off his target.

“Fury, you need to get the hell out of there! RIGHT NOW!”

“I got it”, he replied with a grunt of pain. Abigail heard a weird noise she couldn’t quite identify and then the sound of heavy boots hitting the water as someone ran.

“I’m in the sewers. Headed to Rogers now”.

“You don’t get it. You’re a dead man walking, Fury. The Winter Soldier doesn’t stop until his target is dead”.

A few seconds of silence before Fury replied, “Then I guess I’m gonna have to die today. Call Hill, tell her to bring the drug. She’ll know what it means”.

---

10 hours to Launch Sequence Initiation.

“Well, as far as stupid ass plans go, this one certainly takes the fucking cake”.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Abigail turned to look at Fury, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable”.

To be fair, yes, the plan had worked. Everyone now thought Fury was dead and people don’t hunt dead men. This gave them at least a bit of freedom to work the issue in relative peace. But, as Abigail insisted on reminding the director, at a very high price.

“He’s going to send the Soldier after them. He sent him after you in broad daylight. They don’t care about being exposed anymore, they just care about getting the job done”.

“That makes them sloppy”, Fury replied from his bed, grunting in pain as he tried to sit up.

“That makes them dangerous”, Abigail countered, walking anxiously from one side of the room to the other, “You need to call him in”.

“You think Rogers hasn’t done that already? Stark is probably flying his ass to the country right now. Thor and Banner are probably already on route as well”.

“You need to bring them here. So we can come up with a better plan of attack”, she insisted, but Fury cut her off.

“So you can meet Stark, you mean”. Abigail didn’t answer, just crossed her arms and looked away. “You’ll get the chance, kid”.

“Director”, came the voice from the door. Hill was standing there, looking perfectly put together as usual, a cell phone on her hands, “We just received a message from Romanoff. They ran into some trouble, but they’re fine. They’re going after Jasper Sitwell”.

“They?”, Abigail inquired, looking hopeful.

“The Avengers”.

“Send them our location. Tell Romanoff to send Thor and Banner over here. If they manage to hack our devices and get our coordinates, we’re going to need the big guns here”.

“Yes, sir”, Hill replied, already typing on her phone.

“Take a small team, shadow them. Be ready for extraction, if needed”.

“I’m going with you”, Abigail immediately said, walking towards Hill, “Don’t. I’m going”, she added as soon as Fury opened his mouth to disagree.

With a sigh, he nodded at Hill, and they both walked out of the room.

It was time to lend a helping hand to Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.

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inexchangeforyoursoul · 7 years

Text

.... I never put chapter 20 on here, did I. Double chapters it is. (20. Katja & 21. Once upon a dream)

this time with AN included as-is, I’m too lazy to rewrite this shit for the tumbler

(who even reads fanfics on here...? fanfiction.net AO3)

20. Katja

As he arrives in his room, Law takes a quick look at his alarm clock, then a deep, ragged breath immediately after... she's out loafing around again, isn't she. He's a little ticked off, not gonna lie; first of all, because of... this. She just keeps doing this. Which would be less of a problem if she'd show any progress, but she's not. Second, he's tired, terribly so. All sleep he's had today was the unplanned nap in the canteen early morning, and the ounce of patience he's gained from that has ran out. He's just about to leave the indifferent coma period behind where you can just keep going and going, until your emotions start to get hard to control. Even later, you become an actual zombie and eventually black out. In his own body, that would happen in about 24 hours from now, but in this one? Already there.

And the underlying source of it is that he's grown totally paranoid.

That's why he hasn't managed to get any shuteye. Or get anything else done. His own shadow spooked him once, for fuck's sake... and it's all because of that godforsaken alleyway adventure, which really drove home how utterly helpless and vulnerable he is at the moment. Deer in the fucking headlights. He's straight-up disgusted with himself.

He stomps up to the surface; anyone noticing him remains silent and makes sure to keep out. His crew knows this way of walking... and are not eager to provoke his thinly veiled ire.

He just came from the dining hall, she won't be there. On deck of the Polar Tang, nothing except so much light that his tired eyes may as well go blind right now. The dull headache that missed its appointment the other day just arrived uninvited, too... all it took was some natural light and fresh air. Glorious.

He climbs the rope ladder to the Sunny; noone's around the steering wheel, but he can hear, and see some people around; he goes straight up to them.

“Nico-ya,” he calls out from afar; “do you know where the hell she's at?”

“I'm... in heaven,” he hears right next to him as soon as he's finished talking. He stops in his tracks, looks, and sees... quite something, he supposes. It's throwing him for enough a loop to be more dumbfounded than pissed for the time being.

The bottom of the pile is a knocked-out Bepo; leaning onto him are Carrot, who's also out cold, and Kat, who has a very relaxed, leg-swinging Chopper in her lap. They all have a cup in their hand or lying around, just like Nami, Robin and his good-for-nothing crewmates a bit further away.

As he doesn't react fast enough past getting worked up again over them hogging his personal couch and a mouthed 'what the hell,' she speaks up again. “It's nice, warm and fluffy here~ Wanna join?”

… she's taunting him. Kat has no idea, but she's fucking taunting him right fucking now. Any other day or time, he'd gladly lean onto Bepo and have a damn good early afternoon nap, or any other kind of nap, really. But today is not the day. He'd love to, yes; it's the best fucking quality sleep he has access to. Usually. But because Bepo is wide awake from around 6pm to 7am, he can't use him as a pillow at all while rotting in his room, keeping one eye on this girl during the time he actually could be doing that. Just... take a deep, deep breath. Stay calm, man. Stay. Calm.

He sighs, clenching his fists, and now that Kat's actually looked at him, he can already see from her mildly worried expression that she's catching onto his current mood. “... Kat-ya... I swear to god...”

Hearing that changes her reaction with some delay, however... the smallest smile appears on her face which she tries to suppress; she locks her hands and takes a long sniff of air while looking skyward. Soon, she gives up on hiding her glee, and a shit eating grin appears on her face and she just looks very, very pleased with herself. “... I've been waiting for this.”

“... what?!” Law frowns, having no idea what got into her. Was it something he said? It has to be.

She doesn't seem fazed and keeps giggling to herself while lifting a just as confused Chopper from her lap and slowly standing up.

“Oh, oh!! I understand!” speaks up the reindeer snickering soon after as he comes to the solution; “That's your name, it was on the tag at the coffee shop! Katja! Ha ha ha!”

… oh. Oh. Jesus, really? Law lifts his hands to his chin as if praying instead of giving into his initial urge to smack himself on the temples; he knew that it's an abbreviation, but he'd have never thought that the original was that of all things... and she's been fucking waiting for him to accidentally pun on it. And, on top of it all, this might be... no, it certainly is the very first time he called her by name, too. Why him... and why now. … he could cry if it weren't for his pride. So instead he squeezes his eyes shut and is furrowing his brows really, really hard to keep it together.

He can hear her stop in front of him, then, after a few seconds, he feels the most delicate little tap-tap of four fingers on his shoulder; cracking an eye open, he can see Kat holding out a half empty cup of coffee. Is... she offering this...?

“I suppose you need this more than I do,” she says. It could be just his imagination, but it certainly sounds like her voice is softer than usual. Considering the vague throbs of his head, this is lowkey appreciated.

“Um...” As he's vacillating how to handle this development, a half-conscious Bepo woken by the racket trots over and pulls both of them into a literal, but way gentler bear hug than what other people have been experiencing that day. The content of the cup survives this, somehow, and Kat is holding it out to the side.

“I miss captain,” the mink mumbles, then probably falls back asleep on his feet. At least he doesn't really move for a solid minute afterwards and is just rocking a bit to keep some kind of balance.

Peeking up towards Bepo, a sad smile appears on Kat's face. She reaches over with her free hand along the orange-clad pelt with a sigh and gives Law an awkward hug of her own, then breathes a 'garchu' into his hat. He can't help being startled and shrink a bit in surprise at this; hopefully the others don't notice anything of that past the tic of his shoulders.

“Sorry, didn't mean to stay out for long,” she says then; “I can see you are not up for bullshit today.”

Sometimes... she's as giggly as Carrot. At others, almost as apologetic as Bepo. She also tends to be physical, even if for split seconds... uses people as hunting targets, and now she's picked up mink-brand hospitality both in theory and practice. This girl must have been one of them, or some animal, in a previous life.

He groan-sighs; that spark of patience? These two just managed to raise it from the dead. Somehow. The mood swings devoured his energy to try and push away, though, or to just get worked up again about the affection of a still-kind-of-a-stranger. Now, hold on, my dude... try to not embarrass yourself by falling the fuck asleep in this incredibly comfortable and safe-feeling hug roll right now.

“... let go of me, knuckleheads,” he grunts, nestling around after the short pause he needed to pull himself together. From the corner of his eye, he can see a very pleased Robin. And Penguin and Shachi slurping away at their own coffee in unison at an incredibly slow pace while staring at him specifically. At least that's what Nami does, who's likely sporting the very same expression as the other two, after all.

They all look so infuriatingly smug.

“So, what I wanted to say... I've just had two cups, but thanks,” he addresses Kat a second later as Bepo shambles back to his previous location with an 'aye aye;' the semi-wake Carrot appreciates this and doesn't hesitate to hog double the space than before she got knocked off as soon as he lies down. Chopper sips from his extra sweet mocaccino while also settling back down, and is silently wondering why she even asked for coffee if she was about to take a nap.

Suppressing a yawn with all his might, Law continues; “... and I think I've mentioned it already, but don't do that. The touching.” … yeah, he did mention it, albeit offhandedly. Occasional pats and pokes are okay, but he's not gonna list an entire 'Trafalgar D. Water Law's Personal Space: A Rule Book' right now. Or ever, really. People either know their shit or they don't, and get away with shit or they don't.

“Oh, right... sorry,” Kat mumbles nervously as she recalls the vague memory. Never mind, she definitely is as apologetic as his navigator. As she prepares to gulp the rest of her drink down in one go, she stops; “You sure you don't want any?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I am... why do you keep asking?”

“I helped make it,” she says, lightening up a bit; “it's vanilla and almond flavored.”

Honestly... he keeps forgetting that she actually works in a place where stuff like this is made. All despite having called her 'cafe girl' for the longest time before, and even after their... accident. Then it became just girl, woman, or simply she-slash-her, which did cause the rare confusion when Ikkaku was around or involved in a matter. Anyway, sharing is caring and all that, but that thing there sounds like a sugar bomb. Which may help him, because his blood sugar levels are not that great at the moment, but at the same time he's not big on vanilla, so... once again, no, thanks.

“I like my coffee black, K...at.” Okay, he almost did it again... and why? Good fucking question. Why call her Kat more than once today, when he was perfectly fine with some variation or combination of the previously mentioned things thus far? He's just been over this, too... Must be exhaustion. And hormones, perhaps. Will have to watch his mouth a lot for the few hours left of this shitty day.

She bites down on her lip to try and hold back the chuckle. “Just say it... say the thing you wanted to say,” she smiles, downing the brew.

“Not in a million years.”

***

*insert Twilight parody line at the end*

Me, looking at my imaginary bullet point table: “You know what would be a good idea? Have a chapter that doesn't have Kat's PoV at all... and name it after her... Yeah.”

(Note: as I REEEALLY need to start working on my BA thesis due around the end of April, this project will likely get totally sidelined. Or speed up because of my procrastination skills. We'll see. After all, I have like 5x0.5 chapters lying around (and about 2 that are finished) and just need to add pacing fillers and patch things up.)

21. Once upon a dream

Kat takes a quick look at the underwater window; it's already nighttime. She should pull herself together soon and stand up, no matter how comfortable the edge of the bed is right now. The room's also perfectly cozy in this rare moment, she could nod off if she doesn't watch herself... especially since she's actually lying across the thing. Don't fall asleep again, man. Put that watch down for a sec, if you have to, and three, two, one, sit. I said three... two... theeere you go.

As she scoots to the side, she peeks at Law for a sec, too. Apart from one round for a glass of water, he's been perfectly silent and still in his chair all afternoon. From what she sees, he's barely keeping his head up, literally nodding off himself, if he'd allow that. He also had a couple of suppressed yawns earlier. Sympathizing with him here... though she's not exactly tired, it's more of the empty feeling one gets after a long, busy day. Still, her body feels heavy and her head light since she herself was in a limbo a minute ago; Kat gives her cheeks a good slap. How long must it have been, the last time she peeked out the window and it was still kind of evening? Fifteen minutes? Thirty...? Definitely not an hour, that cannot be.

“Just go if you're already this dull,” Law moans from over his notebook that hasn't had any new information written into it for a while, then he turns outward. He might have been waiting for her to leave so he can just fall like a log...

“You're one to talk...” She yawns. “Y'ere tired enough yesterday, but today you've been lookin'... really bad.” Like, really bad. Now that Kat can take a good look, he's... indeed in a very rough shape. Maybe she shouldn't have mentioned it at all, but she's getting worried, especially now that she's seen his face. Man, it's been a while since she last had bags under the eyes… If she ever pulled an all-nighter, this is probably what it would look like. He looks two minutes from collapsing on the spot...

He sighs, rubbing his temples. “No shit... I wake up frequently in the first place, but today was especially bad. Your body really is not big on these temperatures.” It's either that or the 'new' environment, can't blame anything else. Honestly, he may be a rather restless sleeper in the first place, but this extra disturbance really throws a wrench into his routine. The best rest he's had this week was that almost-hour in the hall this morning... partly because it was a dreamless one.

“I also had some shitty dream that just kept going every time I managed to fall asleep?” he groans, having reminded himself of that, too. It was all kinds of annoying. “That the alleyway was in it is one thing... but running late for college? On a tram of all things...? Fuck me, I never even finished school, save used one of those things.” Huffing, he closes the book on the desk; he can feel at least four joints in his hand pop at that. His back hurts, too... there's no way he'll get anything else done today, provided he did anything noteworthy at all. At this point, he's just pissed at himself. He leans onto one arm to rest his head, that weighs more and more with every passing minute, on.

Kat, meanwhile... is very much alert, and concerned, to say the least. Because she knows that specific dream pretty damn well. Been a few months, and she thought it might be over already... yet Law did just describe that recurring, anxiety-induced semi-nightmare right now. All of this is looking just as she imagined... oh boy.

“Um... Law?” She blinks over to her bag, then back at him, before reaching inside after short consideration.

He sighs, trying his best to keep his eyelids from closing before being anywhere near the bed. “No need to look at me as if I needed a straitjacket, okay...? I need some rest, is all.”

“I know, it's just... I've been having... unusual dreams, too,” she says standing up, fiddling a little with the board facing her; he looks up with tired eyes. She's... unsure whether it's an appropriate time to show this to him... Following some hesitation, she does turn it around.

Law squints a little to see the thin-lined doodles better, also getting up from his chair. As he steps forward, his frown quickly changes from general irritation and vague anger into worry, confusion, and maybe discomfort... he almost looks scared. Kat can't help but avert her eyes and stare at his feet instead while fighting the urge to do anything with her fingers that itch for fiddling with stuff; she's feeling very out of place right now.

He reaches out to hold the drawings pinned to the corkwood; as soon as she feels the smallest tug, the object is released and she peeks back up at him.

Most of the wrinkles have disappeared, and he's taking in the little details, as few as there are, one by one. His fingers trace down the paper with a gentleness that she has never seen from him before, or even imagined him being capable of. He seems to mouth a word or two... it's as if she's handed him an old, lost photo instead of a couple of rough sketches, really. The way he looks at them, too... there is... a desolate feeling about it. Longing.

He blinks.

“... you couldn't fake this if you wanted to...”

That voice is also new. She's heard him talk calmly, but this is way softer than that. Thinking about it, this might be the first time she's heard him whisper, isn't it? However, it also feels wrong. Sad... He's hurt, seemingly on the verge of tears. But... she doesn't want to see this person sad... and especially not make him sad. Oh no... oh no...

Getting to the bare-bones stick doodle of the gates, he closes his eyes. “... since when?”

While it's nearly the usual tone, it also sounds as if it could break any time... All she can do right now is to enter default anxiety mode and just... spill it. “I saw the first one... when I fell asleep down here.”

“How much... did you see?” Good lord, how much could it be...

That question sounds as if she was eavesdropping on purpose or something... Considering that this seems to be very personal and a sensitive issue to Law, it certainly feels like it. “There were... three dreams, I think. I don't remember a lot from the first two, but... today I hung out with that man, in a bright town. Later the buildings turned into white sand... and we played in it.”

A bitter smile appears on his face. Of all things... building something like sand castles with him. In that rubble... on that rubble. “A white city, eh...?” Don't cry... barely awake or not, don't you dare fucking cry, shithead.

“... yes. And, uh...” This information... might not even be relevant, but she might as well mention the other... characters? People? “some children joined, too. Most of them had a uniform. First was a little dark blonde girl, with pigtails...” She doesn't remember anything noteworthy about the others...

While generally avoiding to look at his face right now, it's obvious that this bit was indeed important, and must have hit him pretty hard; he hugs the paper support and lowers his head, resting his chin against the drawing board.

“... that went on for a bit, until a man and woman came, to...” She stops. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Can't just finish the sentence like that, what if they were his parents?! Wait, she thought the man looked like Law. They absolutely were his parents and whatever has happened he's super upset about this already. FUCK. How the hell can she continue now, if a couple of vague descriptions, about ten lines of a building and the mention of a white... a White...

The scorching coals of distress turn to ice in her chest, and she dares a short look back at him, then stares at her hands that kind of feel as cold as if they were her own. Her thoughts take a quick detour to do simple math, then from one old memory scrap to another, followed by some anecdote fragments in a collection she read that was not for her age at the time.

She doesn't like the idea. It's not her place to inquire about this, if true. Think anything about this, if true. Maybe, just maybe, it's not the truth at all. It's so extremely unlikely, after all. It still does feel like she stumbled upon a terrible secret. Forbidden knowledge. Because... she knows why that place was familiar. And it would just make perfect sense, if, by chance...

“I remember... the newspaper from that day,” she says finally after swallowing hard, squeezing out the words one by one, feeling their weight. It's one of those memories that just flash in front of her from time to time; when she's sitting in the kitchen in the golden hour, or having apricot jam on bread, like back then. In this one, she's barely eight... looking at pictures in a paper. The old, crackling denden mushi is receiving the only radio signal available, the news are just about over. They repeated something that's been a topic for a week or so. There's... an image of a town, labeled as an archive photograph...

“It was headlines. I didn't read the article, wouldn't have really understood anyway, but... I remember the photo... of a big building. And the fence in front. That's what it is... that's the place I've been seeing... right?”

He's as still as a statue. There's some noise, something between a hum and a whimper, hard to decide... he nods after some delay. Kat is at a loss as to how she could proceed, if at all... saying more would be awkward; leaving would be even more so… doing anything, even existing, is awkward. In the end, Law's the one to break the silence.

“I was sick… with nowhere to run. Didn't even know who to blame, I just wanted to take revenge on anything... and everything.” After the hastily uttered train of thought gets out, he takes a deep, shaky breath. Fuck it, she already knows. He gave away the missing critical pieces to an incomplete puzzle, like the utter tool he is. Most he can do right now is to tell her whatever seems... safe. Just enough to satisfy her questions, barely enough to let this issue die right here. It's just...

Putting an end to that a few months ago is still so fresh in his mind. It made him rethink a lot of things, and just generally think of that godforsaken day a lot again... old wounds were ripped open, and they are not done healing, not at all. He's been trying to just cover it all up until this alliance business dies down for good, and right now there is only a mess of strong feelings with no coherent thoughts attached. It's hard... finding words for it right now is just too damn hard.

Law reaches out; Kat is too puzzled figure out what to do, or how she should interpret the gesture, so she doesn't stop the unsure, icy fingers from barely tapping her chest.

“He was the one... who saved me,” Law breathes, lowering the drawing board in his other hand.

It takes Kat a second to remember that right under the T-shirt is the center of his big tattoo, pretty much the image of the Heart Pirates' jolly roger. The only 'he' she can think of... and that's kind of like that one smile she saw today, isn't it. And there's the heart motive, buried under either smoke or fire... “... the man in the feather coat...”

He hums; he's not touching her anymore, but his hand hovers over the spot for another moment.

Kat meanwhile regrets not waiting with her dumb question until a more suitable time a lot... and is also getting choked up. It's not even because of an episode after a long time spent in comfortable numbness, or that seeing sad or miserable people makes her restless, especially if she's attached to them... it's rather that, if nothing else in particular stuck with her from that frigid, snowy dream, she remembers the feeling very well. It was a lot like the one she had as a little girl, of her mother being hypnotized and abandoning her. Never saw the end of that recurring nightmare. She always woke up after the person responsible, -the local shopkeeper, for some reason,- just laughed and laughed at her misery... All in all, it felt like shit. This man also must have died, or else Law wouldn't be like... this. Quite frankly, just remembering the name of Flevance and connecting it to the crumbling sand town caused a visceral reaction she cannot put anywhere. This body never really let go of Law, did it...?

As his hand starts to slip away, she reaches for it intuitively; it just seems... the logical thing to do? Except it's not, not really. He doesn't even like things like this... God, she's also been exhausted mentally with all these people around, and even wasted more energy on this silly hug business, zeroing her leftover sense of self-awareness. Oh well... if she's already at it, and thinking about it, there's one semi-logical step left. It's normal to do that in these situations anyway, so...

Kat takes a hesitant step ahead, and pulls him once again into a gentle one-armed hug: just a bit tighter, and a bit less awkward than the previous one. The hand she took a second ago is raised back up to roughly where Law's own heart would be and she holds it so carefully as if it were made of something really brittle, like an actual shard of thin ice. Also can't help but note that her body is exactly a head shorter than his... will have to resist the temptation to lean into the curly hair, even if it's inconveniently tickling her neck right now.

Law really wants to be angry, or anything other than tired and empty, really, but the half-hearted attempt is a complete failure. Instead, the only emotion he can muster is deepest shame; normally, he'd just brood down here alone, maybe cry into his pillow, but... he's not alone right now, and needs this. Really badly. Someone to latch onto, like a gross attention leech... And it feels so damn great. She's also rubbing his back a little, and may or may not have just lowered her chin onto his head. This is nice, so, if only for a little while… okay, this should do it... the three to five seconds of self-indulgent cuddling are over. He takes a deep breath to calm down and try to pull himself together as she mumbles something into his hair that he can barely make out.

“You are such a brave and smart boy...”

His heart swells upon hearing that, and he feels the first tear break free from under strict supervision; she probably didn't even mean to say it out loud, and the rather infantilizing nature of the statement aside... although it's part of the problem, really... her soft-spoken demeanor just makes that voice sound a lot like his father's. A little too much. There comes the first hiccup, soon followed by many more...

Kat drifts back to reality upon hearing the first sob, and finds herself unsure what to do again; she has no idea how to handle a situation like this. Did she ever have a crying person around when she did something past just... standing in a corner and feeling bad herself? At any time? What did... what did her parents do, how did they calm her down? They... what they did was... there's... nothing. They humored her for a minute, maybe. When it was just a scratch, told her that it's no big deal. All she remembers are the times they made her cry over something stupid instead... being straight-out terrified at times, going as far as hiding the shards of a broken vase or mug in the cluttered backyard. Even when she stepped into an old nail, she didn't tell a thing, although she was old enough to know that she ought to get tetanus vaccination afterwards.

She can feel anger boil its way up her throat; god, just... in how many ways did growing up with those people fuck her over...? No... no, no, no. No thinking about that, she has someone else here, and they need some kind of help or support. But she's so useless... augh, maybe she shouldn't be here at all right now...

“Law... do you want me to leave?” At least she can't do any harm with that...

The answer is not exactly direct, but a whimper like that sounds like a 'no' in any situation. If that wouldn't be enough, his hand also curls around a wrinkle of the tee.

Kat sighs, releasing his hand and wrapping her now free arm around him instead; she also takes the board before he drops it, and tosses the thing on the corner of the bed, near where the wobbly book pile is. What else could she do now, though...? She doesn't really have a sure means to calm him down... maybe... maybe she could sing, or rather hum something, stay until he falls asleep. Let's see, it has to be something soft... and preferably not holiday-related. There's not a lot that she knows perfectly by heart, though. Oh god... um, maybe that one, the one her mother sang to her and her brothers after going to bed, until she just stopped doing it one day. Which was quite a shame, really; she loved it a lot. Seems like she can still remember the tune, too... alright.

While she was contemplating, her right hand wandered up to his scalp and is absentmindedly scratching away at his nape ever so softly. She stops for a split second upon noticing, but resumes just as quickly- he hasn't said anything, nor reacted, so it should be okay. In fact, it seems to be doing a pretty good job... Law's less tense, and his breathing less erratic already. Alright, he should be fine in a few more minutes; shushing will be fine for now. As soon as he's down to sniffling, she leads him to the bed to sit.

Since he doesn't seem to be letting go of the t-shirt any time soon, she joins him with one hand still on his back. Maybe five motionless minutes pass before she takes a look at him; he's barely conscious leaning against her, isn't he... whether it's just to avoid stressful dreams or being on autopilot, he's still not willing to let himself fall asleep. What a stubborn oaf.

She sighs a little, and concentrates on a single note before humming the old song, after all. The last thing she kind of remembers before drifting off is thinking about how to lay him down without waking him up.

***

Today's #mood be like mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=005143

I'll try to churn out one more before I go on a forced hiatus, just so it stops on a less depressing note... that aside, story time!

So... I have zero connection to America. Live in the area where West and East Europe meet, in the middle of nowhere basically. And yet, I remember coming home when I was 10, and the TV showing some 3-hour news special on 9/11. The single suspended mental image of the television showing one of the planes before impact as I throw my backpack down before I go eat just stuck with me. There are many other little things, like the marzipan lion from my brother's first birthday cake hanging out in the kitchen window for months (I was barely 2 then, like? holy shit); seeing the few drops of blood on the concrete after a kid named Márk hit someone in the face in kindergarten as they cry in the background; the moment I saw a thick snake slither at my feet as I wanted to go down to the cellar outdoors around 4th grade (I've felt uneasy down there ever since, was a favorite before)... They are 3D photographs of minuscule length if any... as a visual type, I might have more of these than the average, but it's amazing that billions of people, if not everyone, has these lying around in their brains. Humans are wild, man.

Anyway, I remembered that, and decided to put something similar in here. Same for the song, which is the main motif of “Esti Dal” aka Evening Song. (quote-unquote best version I could find rn was this flash mob /watch?v=b055cHvLgtk) Kat's a semi-self-insert, after all.

ps.: The universe is a cold, uncaring place, and remembering is the most powerful FUCK YOU at your disposal, and erasing memories of someone or something is the most cruel punishment you can impose- all I'm saying is, that the least you can do is share these memories in some way or form. Go write something, you tool. And me, too. Yes you, I know you'll be reading this in a few weeks again to check where you left off when you last were unmotivated to continue. And yes, you did indeed write the commentary for... whatever chapter this is before finishing 19, bitch. I see you. Shia LaBeouf that shit. JUST. DO IT.

#Kate writes #KMKY #opfanfic #roughly 5k words plus commentary

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ylla · 7 years

Text

Farhenheit or Centigrade

Series: JJBA Ships: avpol Tags: Grinding, Dirty Talk, Anal Sex, Handcuffs, Groping, Teasing Rating: E

AO3 LINK

ALRIGHT, tuffle-puff commissioned me for some avpol, and who am I to deny such a polite request (not to mention avpol being like, one of my very favorite JJBA ships ever). I hope you enjoy it, I worked damn hard on it. This went through at least five rewrites before I got something I really liked down. If you like what you see, and want to commission me, feel free to message me, and we will work something out!

Also, big apologies for the terrible French. I can't speak a lick of it, and I had to rely on google translate.

As always, remember to comment on the fic, kudos the fic, and bookmark the fic to see more of the same fic content.

"Putain été," Polnareff grumbled as he dragged himself home. The city was in the middle of the nastiest heatwave in recent memory, and Jean Pierre Polnareff, who in his infinite wisdom decided that he should walk the five blocks to the gym and back, was the only man stupid enough to be out in it.

His boyfriend had offered to drop him off at the gym on his way to the grocery store, but Polnareff had shot him down. It was just a little heat! Anyone who complained about it was being a big baby. Clearly, the joke had been on him, because he was melting by the time he reached the gym. He had been the first patron of the gym that day when he arrived, and was still the only soul there when he was finished with his workout. The guy working the front desk even offered to give him a ride home, stating that it was so dead, no one would notice. Plus, you know, the gym might be considered liable if Polnareff died from heat stroke on his way home. Of course, pride caused Polnareff to refuse. He'd be fine, he was sure of it.

Flat-top drooping, basketball shorts and tanktop sticking to his skin, a pool of sweat in his beat-up Nikes. Polnareff had made a big mistake; this was easily the shittiest hill to die on. He would succumb to dehydration or the heat before making it home, he was sure. Just collapse on the sidewalk and expire, corpse frying like a big piece of raw chicken in a skillet. No one who loved him would know what had happened to the sexy Jean Pierre Polnareff. Perfect strangers would find him hours later, after the cursed sun had set and reasonable people would finally leave the cool confines of their homes to enjoy the outdoors, only to stumble upon a perfectly cooked idiot on the ground.

This was a weird line of thinking, and Polnareff did his best to push it out of his mind. When his apartment complex rolled into view, he nearly wept out of joy. The brisk air from the lobby made his knees almost buckle, damn near making him look like an even bigger fool to the people milling around. He was one to walk the 4 flights of stairs to the apartment, but he was just goddamn tired today. Which was unfortunate for the people that shared the elevator with him. They visible recoiled from him as he took his place in the middle. The Frenchman was mildly offended. He didn't stink did he? Was he that sweaty? The answer to both of these questions was a resounding 'Yes'.

When he opened his apartment door, he actually did sob little. Mostly because Polnareff was dramatic, but who cares? Iggy wasn't in the immediate vicinity, and Polnareff was pretty sure Avdol was still out shopping. The cold tile of the living room floor was the oasis to his overheated traveler. Polnareff sank to his knees and laid face first onto the ground, groaning into the stone. It took him a few minutes to kick his shoes off, but once he was successful, the relief was immediate. As was him succumbing to exhaustion; he passed out on the ground before he could truly appreciate how it felt against his skin.

It felt like only minutes passed before he was woken by something tugging his hair and what felt like someone's foot poking him in the head. Polnareff turned his head and cracked an eye open. His boyfriend, Mohammed Avdol, stood over him.

"Bonsoir, Jean," he deadpanned, "I see that your workout didn't go so well."

"That went fine, it was the walking to and from that kicked my ass," Pol whined. There was an attempt at rolling over, but something still incessantly tugged at his hair. "If that's Iggy chewing on my hair, I swear-"

Avdol started laughing, "It is." Av made shooing motions, which earned him a snarl from Iggy, but Pol felt the toothy grip in his hair relinquish. "Come on, let's finish cooling you off," Avdol walked into the kitchen, "I bought those popsicles you like."

"Thank god," Polnareff groaned as he got to his feet, following Avdol into the kitchen, "I'm so damn hot."

Avdol busied himself with pulling out two popsicles out of the freezer; Polnareff swiped a water bottle and started guzzling it down like he hadn't seen water in 50 years. In his enthusiasm, he splashed water all over himself, causing his white tank to cling to his pecs more than it already had been.

"Mo, give me the goods," he panted after finishing his water, "You got the best flavor right?"

Avdol hummed, "Alarmingly Blue Raspberry? Of course I did, we both know you refuse to eat any other flavor. Here-" When Avdol turned towards him, popsicle in hand, he stopped short, eyes glued to the accidental one-man wet t-shirt contest Polnareff had entered in.

Polnareff didn't notice, he was too busy ripping the wrapper off of the popsicle and shoving it into his mouth. It was just the right amount of cold he needed, and he couldn't but close his eyes and moan around it, sliding it in and out of his mouth. Typically, Polnareff mimed giving a blowjob on any phallic food in Avdol's presence. Hell, what kickstarted their relationship was a determined Polnareff deepthroating a banana for the 3rd time that week. But at that moment, any kind of obscene noises or actions he was making wasn't on purpose. He was too tired, too hot, too sweaty-

Warm hands started groping his chest. Polnareff opened his eyes and was met with Avdol's hungry expression. If it had been literally any other time, he would've already been naked, ready to be dicked down in the middle of their kitchen. But, at that moment? No way.

He held his half-eaten popsicle in his mouth and smacked Avdol's hands away. Avdol put them back, Pol smacked them away again. This went on before Polnareff spat his popsicle out in the sink, "Stop, I'm gross!"

"I don't care that you're sweaty."

They kept slapping at each other, before it devolved into full-on wrestling, pushing and shoving each other out of the kitchen and down the hallway. Both were equaled in strength, and neither used underhanded tactics to gain an edge over the other. They may play for keeps, but it was always on level.

Unfortunately, in his attempt to stop himself from getting more sweaty, Polnareff started getting way too hot again, perspiring even more. Hindsight's 20/20. Clothes were being pulled off, though Pol's were more difficult, since they were damp from sweat. Which made him curl his lip in disgust.

Stripped to his underwear, Polnareff was shoved backwards onto their bed; he hadn't even realized they had made it that far. Av peeled off his undershirt and tried to straddle him, but Polnareff hit him with a reversal. A power struggle ensued; Avdol tried to regain his upper hand while Polnareff proved to be a slippery foe (literally, because he was so sweaty, which he thought was gross as hell). It took quite a bit of effort, but Pol managed to hold down Avdol long enough to handcuff him to the bed. "There," Polnareff straddled Avdol, admiring his handiwork, "Now you can't grope me." The fortune teller was tressed up nicely, and Pol couldn't help but run a hand appreciatively over his abs.

Av arched an eyebrow at him, "Really, Jean? That was the only reason you handcuffed me to our bed? So I couldn't appreciate your chest?"

"Momos méchants et méchants sont menottés sur le lit pour expier ses péchés."

"Tu es stupide comme l'enfer."

Polnareff threw his head back and guffawed, "You choose to insult me, but you forget who's in control here." He punctuated that with a grind against Avdol's erection.

"Can I ask what-- your intent here is?" Avdol said, voice hitching as Polnareff continued his ministrations.

"Pour tester votre résolution," Polnareff dragged his tongue across his upper lip, "Let's see how long you last before you give in."

Both knew that the other had big needs. Both knew that they went through handcuffs like a person goes through underwear, since they're always too flimsy to withstand desperate, needy tugs. And both were very aware of how much Avdol loved Polnareff's big ol' honking tits and sweet ass (Pol's words; Avdol was horrified to hear them be referred to that way).

The slow, deliberate grinding against Avdol's dick was a special kind of sacchrine torture. Polnareff delighted in the low groans that his hip swaying elicted from his boyfriend. Ever the showman, he threw his head back, moaning as he cupped his pecs, rubbing his nipples between his thumb and forefinger. That earned him a harsh growl and Avdol thrusting up into him.

With a shit-eating grin, Polnareff cooed, "À quel point voulez-vous me baiser?"

"Si mal fichu," Avdol answered through gritted teeth, sweat pouring down his scarred face.

There was an obvious tent in the front of Polnareff's underwear, but it was nothing compared to the twitching cock he was grinding his ass against. He sucked on his teeth, damn if he didn't want that in him right now.

Either they had been like this for too long, or Avdol had been pent-up all day; Avdol grunted out, "Fuck this," and broke the handcuffs in one sharp tug. At first, Polnareff was a little shocked that Av had said the fuck word, but he didn't have time to think about that, as Avdol had thrown him onto his back and shoved his tongue down his throat. Not that he was complaining. Nothing was a bigger turn-on for him than riling up his boyfriend so much that he couldn't help himself.

Pol broke off from their sloppy, bruising kisses, "Lube."

Avdol reached back into their nightstand, grabbing the bottle as Pol ripped his own underwear off, cock springing free. Back between Polnareff's knees, Av coated his fingers and got to work. Preparation was quick; Pol was half-afraid that he would be giving a taste of his own medicine, considering how long he had Avdol underneath him. But there was nothing to fear, because as soon as he was ready, Avdol rolled him over onto his knees, and slid his cock into him in one slow, fluid motion.

Avdol began rutting into Polnareff like an animal. Their flesh slapped together, pairing with both men's moans to make a symphony of lewd noises. With a firm, but gentle hand, Avdol grabbed a fist full of Pol's hair, pulling him up until his back was flush with Av's chest.

A mouth pressed up against Pol's ear. "Je vais vous toucher où je veux, quand je veux," Avdol's voice was harsh and full of need. His hands found Polnareff's pecs, kneading them with strong hands. He made sure to pay special attention to his nipples; pulls and twisting, just the way Polnareff liked it. The Frenchman whined, arching his back up into the hands that groped him. Avdol had not slowed down his pace; he was flame incarnate and Polnareff felt his fire burn him from the inside out. It was heat that he wanted, needed more than anything else. The fire that was stoked inside him was reaching fever pitch.

Pol knew neither of them could last much longer. "Mo," he gasped, "Mo, I'm so close--"

Avdol tsked, "Prie pour elle."

"S'il vous plaît laissez-moi cum, me remplir," Polnareff whined again, his voice raising a few octaves as he felt Avdol's hand wrap around his cock, jerking it roughly. He didn't take long to finish, crying out Avdol's name as he spilled cum all over his closed fist. It would have embarrassed him, if Avdol hadn't pushed him down on his belly, rutting into him in a frenzy before choking out "Jean!" as he filled him up with one, two, three hard thrusts.

After Avdol finished riding out his orgasm, he slowly pulled out of Polnareff, as if he was was savoring how his boyfriend's ass felt. Polnareff was close to passing out again, dimly aware of Av moving him so he could be under a sheet and comfortable, and barely registered the mumbly 'I love you's' they exchanged before falling to sleep.

Polnareff woke up hours later to Iggy farting directly into his yawning mouth. Iggy jumped off the bed before Polnareff could grab him, cursing in French as he watched Iggy look back at him with a horrible smug grin on his dumb doggy face. The audacity. The setting sun still provided the room some light, Pol didn't have to blindly grope for the bottle of water sitting on the nightstand to wash out the taste of dog farts from his mouth. Somehow, Avdol had managed to sleep through his cussing. Small favors.

He made to get up, but found himself firmly glued to the bed and Av, who was still sleeping peacefully beside him. As much as Pol wanted to stay and enjoy the relaxed face of the love of his life, he was also disgusting and actually stuck. Extracting himself was proving to be excruciating, some body hair was being left behind with each pull. Finally, he got fed up and jerked everything away like a bandaid, shrieking in the process. His actions jolted Avdol awake, who in his panic, bonked heads with Pol. Both start groaning in pain, rolling around on their shared bed, clutching their heads. After a few moments of pained silence, Avdol started laughing.

"What's so damn funny," Polnareff scowled, rubbing the spot on his head where him and Avdol collided.

"Nothing," Avdol chuckled, pressing a finger to what was a growing bump on his forehead, "Just realizing how much I adore you, Jean Pierre, and how there's no one else I'd rather be a klutz with."

The expression on Polnareff's face softened, "Je t'aime, Mohammed."

"Je t'aime aussi, Jean Pierre," Avdol kissed his forehead. He stood up, stretching his arms, "Come on, let's go shower before we get dinner."

"We are NOT going out, I'm still cooked from earlier."

Avdol snorted, "We'll just order pizza. Now let's go shower, we're both disgusting."

Polnareff shuffled into the bathroom after his boyfriend. He knew this shower would inevitably lead to Round 2, but hey, at least this time, he wouldn't be so damn sweaty.

#jjba #jean pierre polnareff #mohammad avdol #avpol

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