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30 July 2008 @ 08:27
FIC: Scenes From A Coffee Shop [NEXTWAVE!!].  
Title: Scenes From A Coffee Shop.
Fandom: NEXTWAVE! [comic].
Rating: R for extensive innuendo.
Genre: Humour, crack, romance (ish).
Summary: Aaron, somewhat changed, and Elsa, entirely the same, meet again.
Warnings: Genderswitch (though it's canon), lots of innuendo, some not-very-exciting wanking, subtle pro-lesbian propaganda (points to you if you can spot it!).
Pairings/Characters: Elsa Bloodstone/ladybits!Aaron Stack.
Author's Note: Happy birthday, expletives! I hope you enjoy this, even though it's weird as hell. Incidentally, my intention was to write this in a noir style. I failed pretty hard, but I guess the result could be way worse.
Disclaimer: NEXTWAVE! is the property of Marvel, Warren Ellis, Stuart Immonen, and Wade von Grawwwwwwbadger. I'm just raping the characters for my own pleasure. Mm, rape.




When they met the second time, it was typically, inexplicably, in a coffee shop, the one decrying American slag cesspit coffee from hell, the other in his apron of employment and loosened bodice, moaning to himself about fleshy ones and their addictions to substance, discussion, theology, sex. Then he saw her again, and his tits went hard; he brought her the best coffee, on the house, and then scrounged up some Early Gray after she'd dumped the frappucino down his shirt.

"I can't remember why they gave it to me," he lied, gesturing at his hips, his breasts. "There are even more fleshy bits on this one. It's been very awkward."

Which was also a lie, he thought later, as he ran his hands down his smooth stomach, precisely cut nails catching on hipbones and hair. But Elsa expected lies, acknowledged them with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, and told his fortune in her tea leaves before carefully folding them into his ill-fitting brassiere. They sat between his breasts all afternoon, cold and wet and smelling distinctly of Englishness; he took them out only to squeeze cold herbs and tit sweat into unpleasant customers' mocha lattes, as a slightly less satisfying but neater alternative to pissing in them. He thought that he might have them framed, or perhaps made into a cock ring (or a dildo, he reconsidered upon further self-examination, though it would not, apparently, be a subtle enough instrument for his newest devices), but by the end of the day the soggy leaves were gone, slipped into oblivion, the coffee machine, or the toilet. He didn't look for them. There would be more.


When they met the third time, she hacked his face open with an axe, decried his taste in blouses (picked out of a garbage can) and skirts (floral, see-through), and offered him a six-pack and funnel. They sat down on the kerb outside the shop, throwing bottles at passing cars and taking endless verbal potshots at each other.

"You looked better in orange," he said, readjusting his apron, with its menacingly cheerful coffee bean logo, onto which some former employee had drawn a moustache in Sharpie. He gave a metal grin. "Your orange shirt was cut lower."

"I thought you didn't like fleshy bits. You mustn't contradict yourself, you know." Elsa pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, lit one, took a drag. Threw it at a passing poodle. Smiled with grim satisfaction at the explosion.

"I like yours," he told her, in a way that might have been described as earnest in different circumstances.

"I think I liked you better when you had a cock I could mangle, darling," she sighed. "I now very much regret all the missed opportunities."

"I liked you better when I could stare at your tits," he said mournfully. "But at least now you can stare at mine."

She laughed, not the fierce and angry laugh he'd heard so often before, but a deep, rich belly laugh, and he smiled. Then she hit him over the head with a manhole cover, but he didn't complain, just fingered the dent above his ear and grinned as oil dripped over his fingers.


She wrote him a note, smudged with engine oil and snuck into his thong in the night: Where did you get the tits? Really? Don't throw this out; it'll blow up your rubbish bin.

And he wrote back, once he'd cleaned up the soot and debris from the explosion: It's a long story, fleshy. And it's really best told with hands-on demonstrations. My trash can's exploded. You owe me beer.


When they met the fourth time, she drenched him in a bucket of holy water (left over from a job, she said, and he almost believed her), tore a strip from his scarlet evening gown (stolen), and attempted to strangle him with it.

"Shouldn't that wait until after your lumpy bits have had their sustenance?" he asked, though he didn't mind at all and was in fact very glad he was not currently in possession of his old devices, as she would surely have kicked him in them had she seen how they were enjoying events.

She jammed a beer bottle into his ear and twisted to open it, laughing wildly, Kali-like, at the sheer joy of destruction.

"I wouldn't eat those foul scones for all the tea in Merrye Olde England," she declared. "Besides which, I own it all already." She grabbed his arm, smacked him with it. "Take me out, you horrible little woman. And then I'll fuck you blind and titless."


They went out; specifically, they committed acts of random and pointless violence against the smelly, annoying, and cloyingly American. He blew up a beer truck and danced in the resultant shower; she smashed the display window of the local and depressingly domestic Pretty Kitty Sex Shoppe and destroyed a minor demon possessing a provocatively posed mannequin, pausing on the way out to pilfer a few select items.

"There's a bit of Tabby in me," she claimed, with a sweet smile, shorting him out for a moment until he realised the figurative and above all inexact nature of Language. Then she stuffed a dildo down the front of his dress, made an excessively lewd comment about tit-fucking, and knocked him to the ground.

"You clearly have a breast fixation," he told her solemnly.

"Like you don't, darling," she laughed, and bit his ear.

There was eventually an incident during which a squadron of police officers in full riot gear attempted to arrest them for public indecency; however, after extensive damage to officers, equipment, vehicles, and a good third of the downtown area, it was determined that the best approach would be to let them finish up. Consequently, traffic was backed up for three and a half days. Elsa voiced the opinion that the bastards deserved it, though which bastards specifically went unspecified; Aaron, on the other hand, felt an unprecedented amount of goodwill toward mankind, but was far too sore to make an argument of it. He had a coffee spiked with liquor, for a change, and Elsa drank tea with her pinkie sticking out, and they lay together in the road, laughing at the roadblocks and the consternated drivers and the utter ridiculousness of everything, ladylike and explosive and naked and comfortable. For the moment, anyway.
philysi on 3rd November 2011 08:38 (UTC)
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