La Femme Nikita, It's Kind of Complicated, Birkoff/Operations
Fucking with Birkoff again, because it's just so much fun. Not so sure I said everything I wanted to say, though. Someday I need to just write a straight POV from him or something. And maybe someday I'll get over the Operations fucking up Birkoff idea, but probably not. He just seems like a father figure, in a fucked up way...
It’s Kind of Complicated
Disclaimer: I don’t own La Femme Nikita, but if anyone wants to buy me the DVDs. . .
It's a bad title, but that sort of summed everything up for me.
. . .
Nikita had come in and slammed all the surveillance equipment from her flat on the table. Birkoff really wished he could do something like that. He didn’t even have the luxury of the cameras being inconspicuous when he lived in Section-which was most of his life. He didn’t remember a time when a red light wasn’t blinking steadily in at least one corner.
When he was a kid and pissed at his instructors-or just bored out of his mind, because they wouldn’t let him have anything other than computers and even he got bored with them sometimes-he would act for the cameras. He’d do disgusting things, like picking his nose, and make childish faces. Because he was a child.
Birkoff knew Operations when he was still Paul. Before his hair betrayed his age and made him all that much more attractive.
Paul who was going to make something of a soldier out of Birkoff.
Paul who stormed in the whoosh of the door in the middle of something childish and made Birkoff’s t-shirt leave rub burns on his neck for days after.
Paul who’s left hand was huge wrapping under his neck to trap his head. Birkoff had those three fingerprints on his jaw line for a week.
“Listen to me,” Paul said evenly. This was part of Paul’s test, Birkoff found from the files Section let him hack, to find out if he could discipline Birkoff and still earn his trust. Or at least respect. “You are not a child. You never were one, you’ll never be one. Show a little more respect for yourself and act like who you are.”
He let Birkoff go, helped him fall to the bed just drill home who had the higher ground. “How do you know who I am if I don’t?”
“I know you’re smarter than most of the people teaching you right now; it’s only a matter of time until you’re smarter than all of them.”
Birkoff’s eyebrows raised a millimeter. He’d never been praised for what he had, only belittled for what he didn’t. His eyes looked so big beneath his new glasses; he was the model of an innocent boy.
Paul was the one who had a son, he was never Operations’. Paul was the one who had the son who was Birkoff’s age once, and was so different. Paul was the one who had the son who was an actual child just like the other operatives who were dumb enough to start a family. Birkoff was the only one of those families who never got to be a kid. Walter was the one who flipped the coin that made him different. Never a kid, never an adult, just a something. Something different. Better. Something to be proud of. He was the only one of his kind.
“You are superior to all of them,” Paul’s voice whispered from Operation’s body after his first few days in the Section One tech center where the adults made him feel like a child and thankful that he never was one.
Operations was getting old. White was steadily becoming his hair color and Birkoff was an age all his own, beyond any measurement of time that made sense to anyone but him.
The cameras could come off-Birkoff’d had his suspicions about that for awhile now, but he was never sure how off Section would ever let their cameras become.
“You’re doing a good job,” Paul said as Operations when he came to Birkoff’s room and showed him that the cameras do indeed come off in his new quarters out of the training facilities and in Section proper-but left Birkoff to judge how off by how ashamed he thought Operations might be by what he wanted to do. What he did.
Operations kissed him. Slow and feather light and it wasn’t his first kiss, but it felt like it might have been Operations’ for all the delicacy he put into it. On his singular plane of existence, Birkoff felt like he was the old man. And that day, when Operations tentatively undid his pants, it felt like Birkoff was finally getting his reward for being better.
He was a cocky little shit on the floor, out there. Until he was running the intel alone on his first big operation and fucked up. Everyone died. Operations didn’t turn off the cameras in his room for four months and a handful of successful missions.
“Don’t be cocky,” Operations said then, squeezing back Birkoff’s orgasm until he thought he thought he might be the first guy to die through his dick. “People’s lives depend on you not messing up. Do you understand that now?”
“Yes,” Birkoff had pleaded breathlessly, feeling like his singular existence’s version of a child.
“That was a stupid mistake, Seymour,” Operations said months later when the cameras were off and first names meant Birkoff really fucked up. Birkoff had messed up and a level one op was so conveniently there to take the consequences in the field. His new friend Walter had patted him on the back muttered his suspicions that the op, Harry Newman, had been put there because he became expendable and they wanted Birkoff to fuck up. Everything was a conspiracy in Section One if you thought about it long enough, Birkoff knew.
“Did you set me up to mess up?” Birkoff asked thanks to the thirty proof liquid courage Walter let him take a snip of.
“I set you up to see how good you were and you disappointed me,” Operations said as he advanced to Birkoff sitting cross legged on the bed.
“I’m human.”
“No. You are more than human. Your whole life has been about this. This organization, this line of work.”
Operations had a surprise for him that day. He was going to get fucked up the ass while wearing a cock ring that wouldn’t be removed until Operations said so. Negative and positive reinforcement. They had a routine by then, a rhythm. Birkoff could look up at the observation box and get a feel for what he’d be doing in the coming week, but the toy was new. He didn’t like it. Operations didn’t always resort to it, though, when he fucked up after that. Sometimes he would tie Birkoff’s hands to the bed frame and refuse to touch his cock. He’s woken up to a cold glass of water and Operations untying him just in time for his shift often enough. Negative reinforcement. In his singular universe, the only kind of sex that existed was the uncomplicated kind. The kind that was about dominance and submission and lessons was an infiltrator from the world that would never be his that he had to endure to get what he wanted. He tries extra hard to be better the day after this other kind so Paul might turn off the cameras sooner. Birkoff hated to masturbate. In his singular universe, that was part of failure. Birkoff hated failure when he knew he could do better. Operations hated failures.
It’s Kind of Complicated
Disclaimer: I don’t own La Femme Nikita, but if anyone wants to buy me the DVDs. . .
It's a bad title, but that sort of summed everything up for me.
. . .
Nikita had come in and slammed all the surveillance equipment from her flat on the table. Birkoff really wished he could do something like that. He didn’t even have the luxury of the cameras being inconspicuous when he lived in Section-which was most of his life. He didn’t remember a time when a red light wasn’t blinking steadily in at least one corner.
When he was a kid and pissed at his instructors-or just bored out of his mind, because they wouldn’t let him have anything other than computers and even he got bored with them sometimes-he would act for the cameras. He’d do disgusting things, like picking his nose, and make childish faces. Because he was a child.
Birkoff knew Operations when he was still Paul. Before his hair betrayed his age and made him all that much more attractive.
Paul who was going to make something of a soldier out of Birkoff.
Paul who stormed in the whoosh of the door in the middle of something childish and made Birkoff’s t-shirt leave rub burns on his neck for days after.
Paul who’s left hand was huge wrapping under his neck to trap his head. Birkoff had those three fingerprints on his jaw line for a week.
“Listen to me,” Paul said evenly. This was part of Paul’s test, Birkoff found from the files Section let him hack, to find out if he could discipline Birkoff and still earn his trust. Or at least respect. “You are not a child. You never were one, you’ll never be one. Show a little more respect for yourself and act like who you are.”
He let Birkoff go, helped him fall to the bed just drill home who had the higher ground. “How do you know who I am if I don’t?”
“I know you’re smarter than most of the people teaching you right now; it’s only a matter of time until you’re smarter than all of them.”
Birkoff’s eyebrows raised a millimeter. He’d never been praised for what he had, only belittled for what he didn’t. His eyes looked so big beneath his new glasses; he was the model of an innocent boy.
Paul was the one who had a son, he was never Operations’. Paul was the one who had the son who was Birkoff’s age once, and was so different. Paul was the one who had the son who was an actual child just like the other operatives who were dumb enough to start a family. Birkoff was the only one of those families who never got to be a kid. Walter was the one who flipped the coin that made him different. Never a kid, never an adult, just a something. Something different. Better. Something to be proud of. He was the only one of his kind.
“You are superior to all of them,” Paul’s voice whispered from Operation’s body after his first few days in the Section One tech center where the adults made him feel like a child and thankful that he never was one.
Operations was getting old. White was steadily becoming his hair color and Birkoff was an age all his own, beyond any measurement of time that made sense to anyone but him.
The cameras could come off-Birkoff’d had his suspicions about that for awhile now, but he was never sure how off Section would ever let their cameras become.
“You’re doing a good job,” Paul said as Operations when he came to Birkoff’s room and showed him that the cameras do indeed come off in his new quarters out of the training facilities and in Section proper-but left Birkoff to judge how off by how ashamed he thought Operations might be by what he wanted to do. What he did.
Operations kissed him. Slow and feather light and it wasn’t his first kiss, but it felt like it might have been Operations’ for all the delicacy he put into it. On his singular plane of existence, Birkoff felt like he was the old man. And that day, when Operations tentatively undid his pants, it felt like Birkoff was finally getting his reward for being better.
He was a cocky little shit on the floor, out there. Until he was running the intel alone on his first big operation and fucked up. Everyone died. Operations didn’t turn off the cameras in his room for four months and a handful of successful missions.
“Don’t be cocky,” Operations said then, squeezing back Birkoff’s orgasm until he thought he thought he might be the first guy to die through his dick. “People’s lives depend on you not messing up. Do you understand that now?”
“Yes,” Birkoff had pleaded breathlessly, feeling like his singular existence’s version of a child.
“That was a stupid mistake, Seymour,” Operations said months later when the cameras were off and first names meant Birkoff really fucked up. Birkoff had messed up and a level one op was so conveniently there to take the consequences in the field. His new friend Walter had patted him on the back muttered his suspicions that the op, Harry Newman, had been put there because he became expendable and they wanted Birkoff to fuck up. Everything was a conspiracy in Section One if you thought about it long enough, Birkoff knew.
“Did you set me up to mess up?” Birkoff asked thanks to the thirty proof liquid courage Walter let him take a snip of.
“I set you up to see how good you were and you disappointed me,” Operations said as he advanced to Birkoff sitting cross legged on the bed.
“I’m human.”
“No. You are more than human. Your whole life has been about this. This organization, this line of work.”
Operations had a surprise for him that day. He was going to get fucked up the ass while wearing a cock ring that wouldn’t be removed until Operations said so. Negative and positive reinforcement. They had a routine by then, a rhythm. Birkoff could look up at the observation box and get a feel for what he’d be doing in the coming week, but the toy was new. He didn’t like it. Operations didn’t always resort to it, though, when he fucked up after that. Sometimes he would tie Birkoff’s hands to the bed frame and refuse to touch his cock. He’s woken up to a cold glass of water and Operations untying him just in time for his shift often enough. Negative reinforcement. In his singular universe, the only kind of sex that existed was the uncomplicated kind. The kind that was about dominance and submission and lessons was an infiltrator from the world that would never be his that he had to endure to get what he wanted. He tries extra hard to be better the day after this other kind so Paul might turn off the cameras sooner. Birkoff hated to masturbate. In his singular universe, that was part of failure. Birkoff hated failure when he knew he could do better. Operations hated failures.