rec: starstruck (wip)

For the record, if the Taming of the Shrewesque fic isn't updated soon, something tragic is going to happen. I have no idea how the people who have been reading this since like, May aren't burning cities or threatening hunger strikes or something. Has no one attempted blackmail or bribery? What are you waiting for?

Wait, there may be people who aren't reading this yet. Oh, you.

Direct links to all four threads in the aianonlovefest:

Starstruck - thread one, thread two, thread three and thread four, AIRPS, Adam/Kris. Yes, you have to follow it through comments. Yes, that would in a sane world be annoying. This is not a sane world. This is an awesome world that trust me, you really won't care until you realize there is no more. Then you know, tragedy.

In which aivilo_18 hates me and sent me a link so I, too, could connect with feeling like a heroin addict in withdrawal in a really big way (I sent it to svmadelyn, so this is actually turning into a The Ring-like situation, except a.) giving it to other people doesn't help and b.) no one crawls out of any electronic devices, which is good, because now I'm creeping myself out, let's ignore this segue now, please). I love this story stupidly and I think have memorized key passages and have a Pavlovian response to the parts that involve food (ie I snack) and possibly an interest in wine? I don't--like wine. And yet.

Oh, and I posted In the Land of the Delta, AIRPS, Adam/Kris yesterday to LJ. Forgot about that.

Comments

this is totally war

[seperis.livejournal.com]

Kris is mostly boneless after Adam sucks him off, slow and luxurious, taking his time with it. Kris' tells are visible from space, which is rare enough that Adam slows it down even more just to watch him. You don't get to adulthood without sexual hang-ups of some kind--the definition of adulthood could be considered the process of getting rid of hangups, sexual and otherwise--but he hadn't found anything Kris doesn't like or doesn't want. It's ridiculously hot, the kind of thing even porn couldn't pull off and yet it's here in his bed.

He learns: Kris likes to touch, all the time, skin to skin, and Adam can make him beg with two inches of heated space between them; he likes to kiss, open mouthed and messy and wet and lasting forever; he has zero inhibitions when it comes to where he likes to be touched or how, but just because it's new doesn't mean he's not going to do it; he's surprisingly vocal and isn't shy about it, like, at all; and he loves to be held down, pliable when he's pinned against the mattress and positioned and held.

It's not that Adam doesn't know what to do with this kind of checklist; this is what fantasies or lifetime obsessions are made of. But in general, it's something you either introduce gradually into a relationship or something that's cleared in its entirety in negotiation before a bed even makes an appearance.

Pushing over a pillow, Adam watches Kris' eyes flutter open, breath evening out as his fingers flex against Adam's hip. He threads his fingers through Kris' hair, waiting for him to surface, wondering if he can convince him to sleep a little while and ease some of the desperate exhaustion away. Adam strokes soothingly down the length of his back, skin smooth and warm, so relaxed he looks drugged, glazed eyes and sweetly pliant.

Shutting his eyes again, Kris licks his lips before opening them fully; Adam's not sure what to make of that look, but it's not regret and Kris isn't even trying to pull away. "Hey," Kris whispers, husky and thick and not tracking yet, not really. "Adam."

"Shh," Adam breathes against his ear, feeling Kris shiver. "Tired?"

"Always."

Where Kris is concerned, he apparently has a limitless of reservoir of anger. Pressing a kiss against Kris' forehead, he thinks about calm lakes and forests and pretends visualization exercises actually work. "Why don't you get some sleep, baby," he murmurs, cupping Kris' face, the faint trace of stubble rough against his hand.

"Mm." Kris turns into it, lips pressed to his palm, the answer slurred against his skin. "Have to--this afternoon--"

Adam runs his tongue along the shell of Kris' ear. "Cancel it." Hazy-eyed, Kris blinks up at him. "Where's your phone?"

"M'jeans."

In the kitchen, yeah, too far. Reaching backward, Adam fumbles his off his bedside table, thumbing it on. "Your PA?"

Kris nods slowly. Dialing the number from memory, Adam waits to hear it ring, then gives it to Kris, who looks at it blankly before slowly pressing it against his ear. "Hey," he says huskily after a few seconds. "Kris. I--uh, borrowed Adam's phone." He hesitates. "Yeah, sorry, it's charging."

Faintly, Adam can hear her voice, low and soft, and Kris, barely awake, leans into Adam's hand when he strokes his hair again, slow and careful, working through the tangles until it smoothes out beneath his fingers. "Yeah," he says breathily. "I know." He looks at Adam. "It's--I--"

"Not feeling well," Adam whispers, holding Kris' eyes. "Tell her."

"I'm not feeling that great," Kris says, not looking away. "This weekend?" Adam shakes his head. "I think--clear everything? Yeah, I will. Fluids. Bye." Letting Adam take the phone, Kris reaches for Adam again, fingers skidding uncertainly down his side before settling tentatively. "Adam--"

"Get some sleep," Adam murmurs, pleased, cupping the back of Kris' head and drawing him closer until he can feel Kris' breath against his skin. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Re: this is totally war

[akavertigo.livejournal.com]

I think that one stabbed something vital, internally.

Bring forth the catapults!

[akavertigo.livejournal.com]

-+-+-

"I like civilization, Kris, I really do, but it plays hell with the memory. Some chubby monkey figures out how to use his thumb to spin a wheel or invents a printing press, and suddenly everyone forgets the basics. Like what it cost Prometheus to turn up the heat." Adam smiles. It's gentle: terrifying. "People forget, Kris. They start keeping score with cocoa beans and cowry shells and ludicrous little scraps of paper, and forget how a true price is reckoned."

Kris looks at the scorched walls and doesn't flinch, doesn't turn, when cool fingers curl at his nape.

"Blood," whispers Adam's magical voice. "The final due is always paid in blood."

He laughs again and sweeps his arms out. "These people? They knew it. They fucked themselves over for the privilege but they knew it. Your Mommy and Daddy, oh, they knew it too. They knew you, my precious honeyed wonder, were the real thing. And you can't use anything less to bargain with real monsters. Though I shouldn't give the lot too much credit; they threw you in with mongrels, the second-string appetizers. Like using the Hope diamond as a doorstop. Idiots."

"Lucky for me you came along then." Kris' throat is tight. The room in his memories is merging with the room here, and both are filled with Adam and his laughter. There's no room for breath, for peace. "My hero."

"Don't pout, it makes you appetizing." Adam says idly. "But to answer your whining: yes, you were lucky and you were screwed. By the time I arrived you were already branded, the smell was in your blood. I could've eviscerated every dumb fuck in the building and you'd still have been doomed, Kris. They already threaded a little darkness through your cherry-pink heart; one way or another something was going to grab the other end of that and pull. Drag you closer or tug you undone, but pull nonetheless."

"Why did you?" The tightness is increasing, it hurts. "Why me, why did you bother?"

"To be honest," Adam says sounding anything but. "I wasn't sure you'd be worth it either. You had potential, but people outgrow that frequently. Like baby fat. I had to supervise you very, very carefully to make sure my investment proved true."

And he did, of course, he did. Every year, safely isolated in whatever foreign comfort of Adam's choosing. Every lush hotel room, every gourmet lunch, every morning Kris woke up somewhere he'd never been--he was being gauged and measured. Evaluated.

Just as he is now, Kris realizes; Adam's eyes hold him tightly across the ruined floor, waiting. He looks no different that usual: calm, faintly amused while equally bored, beautiful in leather heeled boots and low-cut jacket.

"Do you know where the word prodigy really comes from?" Adam asks quietly. "It means 'omen', to warn or to show--in Latin, monstrare. A monster, Kristopher, a miracle beyond natural expectations." He laughs again. "Do you think I'd align myself with any mortal that begs? Because they have begged. They've raised towers and sunk ships to tempt my attention, Kris."

Kris doesn't mean to say it but, "Not the Paladins."

"No, not the Paladins." Adam's mouth quirks sourly. "They just sulk or record secondhand gossip in iambic pentameter. They want to guard the Balance with community service and muffin baskets."

"What did you--what did they offer you?" Kris asks. "What did you get for leaving me with them?"

"Kris. Kris, Kris, Kris." Adam laughs. "Don't be stupid, they never asked for you. We made a deal, your sainted keepers and I."

"Why?"

Adam smiles. "Ask Simon."

-+-+-

Re: Bring forth the catapults!

[seperis.livejournal.com]

Yes please. *purrs*

Re: Bring forth the catapults!

[akavertigo.livejournal.com]

I don't actually have it.

Er...I have one where Adam is an alien and Kris is the old new kid, and nap is foreign territory?

Re: Bring forth the catapults!

[seperis.livejournal.com]

*sad* it would be wrong of me to post wip porn, wouldn't it?

*looks at googledocs* A lot of it.

Re: Bring forth the catapults!

[akavertigo.livejournal.com]

...

...............you're not a very nice woman.

Re: Bring forth the catapults!

[seperis.livejournal.com]

Shh, I'm counting how many involve people tied up or being held down or spanked or threesomed or....

Darn, let me start over.

Release the hounds! (Wait, no, let me take a Benadryl first...)

[akavertigo.livejournal.com]

May your toes be eaten by frogs!

That said:

xXx
Kris is nearly past the seventh floor when the elevator freezes and says, “Oh, you are not drinking that.”

That being a double-shot Arabian mocha espresso. Which Kris is, in fact, drinking and strongly appreciating. Past experience warns he's going to appreciate the caffeine boost a lot more and soon.

“I thought you weren't going to do this anymore,” he says. Carefully, he sets down the cup and slings his messenger bag forward, thumb brushing across the ID lock. “Personal space. We talked about it.”

“You wouldn't return my calls.” The voice is cheery, unapologetic. “Plus elevators are public space—even those mapping the innards of a diseased commercial behemoth. With fugly carpeting.”

Rather than stumbling into (another) capitalism-consumer-apocalypse debate, Kris clicks open his toolkit, ignoring the elevator's sunny taunting. He's worked, slept, and showered through worse. The elevator power-box is predictably annoying to locate; Kris finds it as much by instinctive luck as through the magnet. He doesn't bother trying to have his iTC run a control code to open the panel but goes straight at it with the sonic screwdriver. The 19E offices are high-tech wonderlands, but Kris is old school in all the best ways. He'll own the system in minutes.

The elevator doesn't seem intimidated by his progress. “Why the hell is Simon calling you out, anyway? And why the hell are you listening to him? You hate Simon.”

“I don't hate Simon.” Ok, reroute the secondary base-line to the third level. “Simon is my boss.”

“Employer.” The smugness is palatable. “You're freelance.”

“Also, currently under contract.” Kris pauses, mind split between curiosity and questing for the third bi-cable. “Do you hate Simon?”

“Would that shock you?”

“Do you want to?”

“Maybe. You're very, very cute when goggle-eyed. Wire's an inch to the left.”

“Thanks,” Kris says. “I wasn't ignoring you. Your calls. The Zurich job got tricky.”

“Blaming Switzerland is weak. I question your commitment to our relationship, Kristopher.”

“We don't have a relationship. People have relationships. We have—” The elevator surges up glibly, faux-jade panels folding open to a cluster of bland, curious faces peering in.

“Kris?” Ryan's mouth is a quizzical line. “What are you doing to the lift?”

“You had a virus in the wires,” Kris said blandly, flipping the screwdriver in one hand. “Gone now.”

Coward, he adds.

xXx xXx