A dead marine is washed up on a Hawai'ian beach and very soon everything points to murder, drugs and a joint case for the FBI and NCIS. Lucy and Kate are still broken up, in fact they haven't spoken in months and Lucy would be happy to maintain that status quo. Whistler on the other hand is trying to make amends but going undercover with her ex is not how she wanted to achieve that. Is there still a chance for them? Or will this mission destroy everything?
Read 67.62. oz. on ao3 and find out ... NOW!
If anyone is interested, there's a teaser under the cut of what is about to come. Happy reading!
Lucy always knew that one day water would be the death of her. She’d sink down into the depths, deep, deep down into the crushing darkness, all by herself. Abandoned by blood and found family and anyone she ever loved. Lucy always knew that one day water would be her final resting place, at last succeeding in stealing her away from the land, after a lifelong battle. And this – this is a watery grave if she ever saw one. It must be. It’s all around her, in the air, her mouth, her bones.
Beyond that simple understanding, she can’t quite remember where she is. Why she is here. Surrounded by water. Drenched in it. Filled with it in her lungs, in her nose, and her mouth, breathing salt instead of oxygen. A jerk goes through her. Her eyes fly open. She heaves. Coughs everything up – a foamy mixture of saltwater and saliva that burns and burns and burns.
What remains after the burning fades is a dull pounding in her head that makes it hard to think and a throbbing pain in her side that makes it hard to be anything at all. She feels like someone reached into her, piercing her flesh to rummage through her organs and leaving a right mess on the way out. Whoever did that carved a piece out of her and replaced it with fire.
But with the pain comes clarity accompanied by the ability to regain control over her body. Or some at least. Her eyelids flutter briefly, her feet kick aimlessly at the water around her, she flexes her hands and pushes them under her chest. The first attempt fails miserably, her wrists snap and she goes down like ninepins, face-first smack back into the water. It’s the shock of inhaling another mouthful of ocean that allows her to finally push up on her elbows, sand grating at the sensitive skin on her arms and she vomits right between her hands. It hurts, everything hurts from the tips of her hair to her little toe – existence is pain.
But with the pain comes clarity. Her memories sharpen into something recognizable and Lucy remembers.
The explosion. The knife. Barrera.
Kate.
Oh God, Kate. She was there and now she’s not and that grips Lucy with enough panic to rise on all fours. She must blink a couple of times until her eyes can adjust to the light, no matter that it’s so soft, as if it’s painted, filling the cavernous tunnel she’s in with golden dust like she could reach out and weave her fingers through it.
Where the rays fall on the water's surface, they glitter and shimmer like fallen stars, bright and beautiful and hurting Lucy’s eyes. She shifts her gaze beyond the confines of the cave and the sandbanks to find the sky painted in pastel shades of purple, pink, and indigo by the rising sun.
media trope that makes me want to throw up and cry is when a character realises there's no way they're making it out of a situation in one piece. and in a single moment they accept it and turn to their distraught loved ones with The Smile. you know The Smile. sickening
They should just bite the bullet and make a female James Bond. Hot, athletic, suave. She wears tuxedos with a somewhat feminine cut, drinks vodka martinis, drives sports cars, and goes by "James", because why not.
Also, because this is incredibly important to Bond for some reason, she needs to be an incredibly predatory, womanizing lesbian. Some perfectly happy married straight woman needs to become gay by the end of the movie.
We live in the future, and we can admit that all of the cool things that a Male James Bond can do are things a Female James Bond can do. But at all costs, we need to avoid making this thing feel "woke" of self-aware. If Female Bond is not exactly as toxic and awesome as any of the male ones, we will have failed, and might as well be making another franchise.
"i don't comment on ao3 because i don't wanna be annoying or weird" skill issue + you greatly underestimate the power dynamic here, writing multi paragraph comments is like feeding a bunch of deeply insane and possibly starved ducks at the park and watch them go completely mad over having received a piece of bread
it's literally the evilest thing in the world to finally have time to write but then be tired. like wow you're telling me these two hours before going to bed are completely free but my brain is just Not Feeling It? fuck off
