
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/882088.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Code_Lyoko, Code_Lyoko_Evolution
  Relationship:
      Aelita_Schaeffer/Jeremie_Belpois
  Character:
      Aelita_Schaeffer, Jeremie_Belpois, Jeremy_Belpois
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Romance, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-13 Words: 3314
****** All Good Things ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     "Tonight she's going to forget it all, give herself over to something
     utterly physical. Something simple, comforting and pure."
     Set during Code Lyoko Evolution, after the episode 'Rendez-vous'.
Notes
     I wrote this with the implication that Jérémie and Aelita are a few
     years older than in the series but it may still be squicky to some
     readers due to cultural differences, hence the tag. It's been a while
     since I wrote any smut at all but I felt the need to get back into
     the spirit of it. Thanks to Gummibar for encouraging me to get my
     arse in gear and actually finish something.
I hate you.
 
Those words are what she's trying to mend now. When she kisses him - soft, shy
and as slowly as the very first time, as though she's trying to commit every
detail to memory - he tastes the salt at the corner of her lips.
 
Aelita's eyes are wide and red-rimmed, tears clinging to lower lashes which
stand out darkly against a face pale and vulnerable now that she's wiped her
make-up away. She is open and vulnerable, and deeply sad, and Jérémie feels the
hitch of her warm breath on his neck, the swell of her breasts pressed flush
against his chest as two heartbeats coalesce into one soothing rhythm.
 
And it's cold, of course, but he's still surprised, with how alive and close
she is, that she's shivering.
 
The Hermitage smells of damp foliage, of moss and mould and soil. The outside
world has crept in through the shattered windows, where vines clamber freely
along the sill and nature claims this once homely structure of plaster and red
brick for its very own. They've walked here beneath a pale blue sky touched
with pinkish gold, an almost-sunset lighting their way through a cover of
trees. It's a familiar path that they've followed, one worn in by hundreds of
footsteps, marked out by flattened grass and straggling flowers. The air is
thick with scent and memory.
 
It's not the ideal place, in light of all that's happened, but it's better in
many ways than the factory, with its unforgiving cold floors and ceilings where
even the faintest sounds are carried up in conspicuous echoes.
 
They didn't say much of anything on the way here, simply fell into step side by
side, their brushing shoulders a prelude to the shy clasping of hands. It was
only when they crossed the threshold of the broken doorway that something in
Aelita crumbled, a sudden jolt of emotion unblocking a dam and giving way to
floods of unsuppressed tears. Grief, helplessness, despondence that the world
she has ached to be part of for so long has betrayed her.
 
"Don't cry," he had told her.
 
"Don't tell me what to do," she had mumbled into his shirt.
 
He had conceded the point, nodding, and had held her - relieved that she let
him - swaying with her slightly in the front room of the old house. He had
listened with his eyes squeezed shut as desperate, choking gasps subsided into
raw-throated sniffles.
 
Now, Jérémie's voice is low, a near-inaudible whisper as his chin rests on her
shoulder. His breath is warm on the raised hairs of her neck, a strangely
intimate place, and the sound of Aelita's own name tickles her ear.
 
"Are you okay?" Jérémie asks her. His hands slide with hesitation beneath the
fabric of Aelita's shirt, where they rest for a moment, his thumbs making slow,
absent circles against her skin. A shudder runs through her but she nods and
arches gladly into the touch; he knows the curve her back makes, knows the
lines and plains of this body almost as well as he knows his own.
 
In the course of today she's run from him, yelled at him, told him
she hated him. Poured her fears and apologies tearfully against the fabric of
his shirt and leaned against him until her breathing slowed. Now she winds her
arms around him, yet another unspoken apology, and is content just to hold him.
Both of them have missed this and they realise suddenly just how much - it's
these embraces, these linking of hands on walks between classes and pecks on
cheeks as they take their adjacent seats at lunch, that age has changed from
childlike innocence to behaviour that the Kadic faculty watches with a sharp
eye and a permanent chaperone. These moments that were once routine have
shifted towards stolen luxuries, echoes of the closeness they used to share.
 
That's why they're here.
 

The soft kiss gives way to a fiercer one, something raw and so obviously filled
with the desire for closeness that it makes Jérémie's heart ache, and  as
Aelita grips fistfuls of his shirt in her hands he  freezes, an automatic
response in a body already  racked  with tension. Her hands relax, with effort,
to spread over his back, where she's surprised to feel the knotted muscles of
his shoulders. It's like a memory in physical form, that painful tautness - it
tells of a repeat cycle of sleepless nights hunched over a computer chair, of a
mouth that's beginning to forget how to smile, of lying awake against a
dormitory-room headboard and worrying, worrying. It represents everything
they're becoming and everything they thought they'd left behind.
 
Aelita wants to feel angry, to embrace an all too easy rage at the unfairness
of it all, but finds that the energy for it eludes her. She's worn out on
anger, she realises, and on resentment, and fear.
 
Jérémie releases a slow, deep exhale and Aelita rubs his back gently, trying to
ease out the tension with soothing circles, but she can tell by the tough set
of his jaw, pressed still against her shoulder blade, that she's doing more
harm than good.
 
She thinks that perhaps she can't touch him without hurting him.
 
Not any more.
 
It's a moment before Aelita realises that Jérémie is repeating her name.
 
"Aelita. Aelita?"
 
"Hm."
 
"We don't have to do this. You're upset, and-"
 
Her answer is to kiss him for the third time, to draw him in to deep, urgent
melding of tongues which leaves them room, afterwards, only for breathless
gasping. Usually they talk more – these things are full of talking, the nervous
whispered reassurances of their first time, and every time since. Snatches of
names, of “yes, there,” and “should I keep going”-
 
Now all Aelita says is, "Please. We do."
 
Unspoken is, I want to forget, but he seems to understand.
 
Her hands move deftly to open his shirt and they stumble in a tangle of limbs
until they're at the threadbare sofa, their combined weight pressing creakily
into its blanket-strewn cushions.
 
In another time and place Aelita would have been here with the room fully
furnished, a movie unwatched on t.v. and the explorations of hands and mouths
furtive and muffled, everything underlain with urgency sparked by the presence
of parents in the next room. It hurts too much to think about (no matter how
much she tries to rationalise everything - that at least it's not the chapel
where she'll never go again, that there are other, better, newer memories here)
so she loses herself instead in planting kisses along Jérémie's collarbone, in
taking off his glasses and placing them somewhere off to the side; then she's
dipping her head once more to suck at a sensitive spot at the hollow of his
throat, the one that always draws that low moan from him, a sound almost too
erotic and obscene to be coming from Jérémie's mouth.
 
She's focusing on him, growing increasingly oblivious to the possibility of
getting caught, to the sad creakiness of the old house, but making muffled
pleasured sounds of her own as his hands reach up to cup the hot, heavy weight
of her breasts in his palms. Jérémie's hands stumble over her shirt buttons,
his lips forming a small 'oh' of surprise as the fabric opens immediately onto
pale flesh, no interlude of a bra between his hands and soft, feminine curves.
 
Ever more experienced hands run the length of her exposed upper body, full
breasts and small waist; probing hands lightly pinch her nipples between finger
and thumb, sending pain twisting into pleasure in tiny sparks of lightning
bolts up the base of her spine and she makes the tiniest sound of surprise and
encouragement. He kisses her there, shyly, still surprised that he can, and the
tips of her fingers run fondly through his mussed hair.
 
They pause, draw back, catch one another's eye.
 
"Okay?"
 
"Okay."
 
She savours the pause, the anticipation of what's to come building in her
chest. They're sitting angled slightly apart from one another but she makes
sure that their knees still touch and her fingers rest lightly on his forearm.
Aelita feels Jérémie's gaze on her body and in turn she takes him in, skinny
and slightly hunched over, oddly appealing in his paleness; she loves the dips
and curves of his torso, the tiny mole below his collarbone that she's sure
only she has ever seen.
 
On an unspoken cue, Jérémie leans forward and pushes Aelita's open shirt from
her shoulders; fabric slides down her forearms to loosely hold her wrists
behind her, fabric shackles that she doesn't bother to escape from as his hands
drift lower to the hem of her skirt. For a moment, as Jérémie's hand pushes the
material away and his fingertips dip down past the elastic of her underwear,
Aelita thinks that she might stay like this, float up and out of herself on
little thrilling waves of pleasure, let time stand still and relieve her all of
all control for a moment that could become forever. She might shrink away from
the stresses of her life, this flawed, code-infected, gullible, angry self,
this self who told Jérémie she hated him; she might give up and drift loose,
let go...
 
Until Jérémie's mouth presses against her own her own, his hands reaching
behind them to find hers and unwind the shirt from her wrists, and in doing so
pull her gently back to where she is meant to be.
 
She nods to him, gives the barest hint of a smile, which he shyly returns. This
time when his hand reaches downwards it's with her guidance, and whilst her
skirt and underwear slip down her legs to pool somewhere on the floor, his
fingers brush over coarse pink hair only to slide suddenly against the place
where she needs him most. She moans her gratification against his mouth and he
crooks one finger inside her, then at her instruction adds another. She's slick
and wet, all pink folds of warm moist flesh as she rocks into him, a slightly
clumsy rhythm. And then Jérémie sinking to his knees before her as a humbled
mortal before a goddess; she spreads her legs eagerly for him and he dips his
head, his fingertips making indents on the sweetly damp flesh of her thighs.
 
He plants a lingering kiss there and breathes in the rich, musky scent of her,
eyes closed as he concentrates hard.
 
Jérémie would like to pretend he can understand the depth of what Aelita is
feeling. He's afraid, really, that she thinks he doesn't notice, or care, and
he knows how much Laura's presence upsets her. Between Laura and the spectre,
the world seems to be doing everything it can to throw Aelita off balance. Now,
Jérémie tells himself, he's going to show her how important she is, how she's
the centre of his world in so many ways, and he can only hope she'll believe
it.
 
His tongue slides over her exposed body and he forgets all the prudish
embarrassment of where he is, what he's doing, focusing only on mapping out the
plains of her entrance with his tongue, which he presses first wide and flat
against her, then angles inside her and then, mindful of his teeth in such
close proximity to such a sensitive part of her, sucks hard on the swollen bud
of her clit. His tongue moves with growing precision, pressing deep, twisting
and probing and drinking deeply of her, relishing the shudders and gasps he
leaves in his wake. Her knees are bent for better purchase, fingers scrabbling
at the sofa.
 
He flicks her clit with his tongue, hard – the movement sends a spasm through
her and her thighs jerk awkwardly. He looks up, catching her eye; suddenly
they're both laughing, suppressed fits of nervous giggles that bring back the
warm rush of nervous elation that accompanied their first time. His is as much
to do with this as it is relief to see Aelita smiling, and it's released in hot
breath against her, until she is shuddering just as much with need as with
subsiding laughter.
 
This is everything that she needs.
 
In this briefest of interims, coherent thought spills in and everything she's
trying to block out threatens to bubble up to the surface. Images of monsters
bearing her mother's face, Laura sitting in a chair she has no right to be
sitting in, the venomous strands of pride and malice snaking through everything
she used to be.
 
Aelita focuses on the sensation of Jérémie's lips against her inner thigh,
fights her way back to the present moment.
 
Tonight she's going to forget it all, give herself over to something utterly
physical. Something simple, comforting and pure.
 
"Please," she breathes, as much to herself as to Jérémie as
she unconsciously moves her body against him.
 
And then once more he forgets himself entirely, ignoring the throbbing heat in
his own groin, becoming lost in the appraisal and exploration of Aelita's body.
His technique improves every time - Jérémie is nothing if not attentive to
detail and each time he makes love to Aelita is a lesson in how to please her
better; he takes careful note of which parts of her ache most deeply for his
touch, which sweeps of his tongue transform into shudders and gasps, which
movements make her body clench and which make her throw back her head.
 
She's so caught up in the moment – and he's doing this to her, for her, says a
voice in the back of his mind with a surge of pride – that she doesn't realise
how forcefully she's grinding against him, pressed up against his nose and
face, hungry as she is for more force, more friction. With a persistent
sweeping of tongue over clit he presses towards that tight, exquisitely
unbearable coil of tension... and then suddenly he feels the climax rippling
through her, the clenching of her whole body as her mind, for a split second,
goes blank with white-hot ecstasy, and she is the entire world, just for one
blissful moment – and then her ragged breaths renting the air as she relaxes,
almost sliding down the sofa so he has to reach up an arm to steady her. He
plants one final kiss upon her and then draws back to meet her half-lidded
gaze.
 
His eyes are huge and blue in the last rays of the dying sun, his lips swollen
and wet and parted slightly as breaths leave him in tiny pants of exertion.
 
Aelita adores him suddenly, and leans down to cup his face in her hands she
kisses him deeply, tasting herself on his tongue, pressing their lips together
almost possessively. (No, she thinks, Laura, XANA, spectres and ghosts have no
place here.)
 
He pulls away, still breathless. Jérémie has yet to smile, expression still
laced with anxiety.
 
“Was that- okay?”
 
She almost laughs again, still fizzing with the high of the climax and a vague
settling feeling in her gut that she'll later recognise as reassurance. She
nods, and thanks him and at last he smiles. She's hot and sticky, light from
the cracked window pane behind them capturing the slight sheen of sweat
glistening on her body. To Jérémie, climbing up to sit beside her, Aelita never
been more beautiful.
 
“Jérémie-”
 
The sound becomes muffled in further kisses, broken only by necessity between
the removal of the rest of their clothes. Pushing aside Jérémie's underwear she
takes him in her hands; it's a strange and gratifying sensation to feel him
harden beneath her fingertips, to feel the little shudders and twitches as she
caresses him. He's mumbling her name with eyes closed and parted lips and she
just about remembers to lather her hands with spit before she runs them along
his length. She bends to kiss him, slick shiny head tasting of salt and musk,
but his hand on her shoulder stops her. She studies him questioningly and as
much as he desires the wet cavern of his mouth around her, he wants Aelita's
gratification more. So, he shakes his head and they move with fumbling hands
and deep blushes to roll the condom over him. There's something so clinical and
technical about this side of things; Aelita's thoughts drift as her hands go
through the motions of it. It strikes her suddenly, I'm going to have sex with
him, and the thought, so starkly placed against the abstract swirl of her
thoughts, sends a thrill of lust pulsing through her.
 
They rearrange themselves on the sofa, him spreading his weight carefully over
her with his elbows supporting him. With the one hand still closed around him,
she guides him into her and draws a long breath as he enters. She shivers and
he pauses, letting her adjust to the width of him inside her.
 
“I don't – hate you,” she gasps, as he pushes slowly into her. His reply is
muffled and incoherent against her shoulder. “I don't – I don't-” and she
repeats it like a mantra with every long, slow thrust as he draws all the way
out of her before filling her again. Her heart is hammering, her skin and
nerve-endings on fire; the air between them is a clumsy tangle of hot breath
and noises, lips to lips and skin to skin, as she shifts her hips to meet his
movements, one hand gripping his hair and the other reaching between them to
rub her clit.
 
It's a while before she realises he's saying something back, and that that
something is - “I know, I know.”
 
And oh, how could she hate him, how could she doubt him, or blame him, when
their bodies meld together like this- AelitaandJérémie, JérémieandAelita - and
it's beautiful, pure and beautiful as their first time, as their first kiss, as
her first footstep on Earth; it's taking her back to times when everything was
fresh and exciting and new, a world of warmth and sensation and sound when
there was no anger or endless hatred.
 
They shower one another with adoration, caresses and kisses in the setting sun
– it's frantic and clumsy, sweaty, sticky, even romantic, and a little
brightness seeps back into Aelita's world, hope as vivid as the spots of colour
behind her tightly closed eyes.
 
She can feel the heat from his body, the cold evening air long forgotten.
Layers of pleasure build on top of one another, time dissolving, unwinding,
drawing out into one long series of moments. They increase the pace, soundless
communication shifting their rhythm to a frantic bucking. The tight coil of
pressure builds up again in the pit of her stomach, to release in one long
gratified moan that Jérémie captures with his mouth. Her tight, wet heat around
him sends him tumbling after her; she feels him spilling inside her and their
hands wind together at either side of them, nothing separating their spent
bodies but one thin sheet of latex. He shudders in his own afterglow then
withdraws his softening length slowly, little by little.
 
They lie there long after their breathing evens out. Reality is calling them
back, to the challenge of sneaking back into Kadic without getting caught, to
the programming and reconfiguring that faces them tomorrow, intertwined with
all the most ordinary of life's challenges, but a little while longer they'll
ignore it.
 
Aelita wraps her slender, naked body around him. Jérémie's head finds a
comfortable place in the crook of her shoulder and he lies against her. When
she rubs circles in his upper back, she finds, at last, that the tension gone.
 
Through the ruined glass window, through drooping eyelids, Aelita watches the
dark expanse of the woods spark to life with the light of fireflies.
 
And, hoarsely, she tells Jérémie that she loves him.
 
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