It's only been forever since I posted something enjoyable.
FIC DUMP!
God, I wrote these months ago. As flashfic for argyletheme, I think. Anyway, enjoy.
Title: Cicadas
Pairing: Stephen Colbert/ Paul Dinello
Author's Name: Pomegranate
Rating: PG
Summary: At the park.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Notes: Prompted by the song Candy Cane Crawl, by the Twilight Singers. Specifically:
Slow down, lean in, call up that feeling
You get when you're dealing, that all too deceiving side of you
Who loves you true, but they'll just forget it, they'll just forget it.
That shit'll twist your little mind if you let it.
Underneath the tree, the grass was wet, and Stephen shifted as the mud seeped up through the seat of his jeans. Beside him, Paul was easily stretched out on his back, and when he moved his arms from his sides to fold them above his head, Stephen saw long patches of darkened fabric all along the backs of the sleeves, clinging to the skin beneath. Paul gazed vaguely up through the branches into the late afternoon sky, the blue there heavy enough to drip between the leaves and leave shifting puddles of light across Paul's face.
Stephen's shoulder blades were firmly wrapped around the rough trunk of the tree, and a large, winding root pressed rudely against the undersides of his thighs. A slow ache was spreading down through his legs, and he longed to pull them in against himself, to stretch his arms out and rotate his back away from the unyielding bark, and, as the moisture crept along the hem of his shirt, to change into clean, dry clothes. But he was loathe to disturb the warm haze of Paul lounging under shifting ovals of shadow, of the faint scent of barbeque from some sunny, distant patch of the park, the indistinct cries of someone else's children, and flowing under it all, the comfortable humming of insects, and whatever stilling sound the soft, drifting dust motes made as they slowly rubbed against the air.
The afternoon hung low in Stephen's belly, even with his sore back and wet jeans and numb legs, and he did not have the strength of will to unbalance the hammock of calm swaying in him. However, Paul did, and when he moved, it was not within the balance of light and temperature and soft, summer noises. Paul rolled to his side, and as the fabric of his clothes was too wet to rustle, the motion was instead accompanied by an uninviting squelch of grass. He crooked his arm and rested his head on it, and let out a brash, near-grunt of a sigh, impatient and much too loud. Stephen took the opportunity to twist his spine back into place, placing his hands on his hips and leaning to either side.
They were motionless for a moment after that, but not long enough for the calm to creep back in. Paul righted himself, and moved to sit beside Stephen, back against the tree and both legs casually thrown over the errant root.
The insects were silent, as were the far off children, now sitting around cracked picnic tables and quietly devouring the spoils of the cooling grill. The lazy dust settled, shining less brightly as the sun snuck closer to the horizon. The shadows grew longer, and Paul turned and kissed Stephen.
Stephen didn't have the strength of will to move away, and as Paul's hands drifted up and curled themselves through his hair and around the back of his neck, he felt a sick leap in his belly, as a balance of light and temperature and soft, patient noises was overturned. There was chaos and the coldness of mud on his skin, there was the white light of morning and the busy brightness of day. In him then was the harsh silence of warm afternoons sinking into dangerous nights, and panicked flashes of pinprick stars and cold, distant moons. He opened his eyes. There were shades of light and shadow lightly chasing each other across Paul's skin, and his eyes were warm and sweet as heavy syrup. Reflected in them was a deep, languid sky, and as Paul's tongue crept through Stephen's lips, Stephen could hear that, inside of him, there had begun a very faint but steady humming.
---
Title: Someone's Idea of Paradise
Pairing: Stephen Colbert/ Paul Dinello
Author's Name: Pomegranate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Waiting for the world to turn around.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Notes: Prompted by the song Underneath the Waves, by the Twilight Singers. Specifically:
Take me to a place, high above the tide
Underneath the waves, where I can come inside
A reveille, told in fractured time
Only in this way, will I become alive.
Paul sleeps while the world outside is playing with the idea of soft, early colors, and in his head is where the world turns. Sunk beneath clean linen, his skin floats over blood, and his blood washes blue and slow through his veins in easy, melting tides.
Miles inside him is where the world turns. Miles inside, and miles and miles away.
The cottage is Stephen's and the summer is Paul's, and the two drift together through sweet gauzy skies and crisp air. Stephen is miles away, where the world is turning silent and swift, where he is growing great and powerful empires of the enraged and devoted. In his apartment, while the buildings outside his window topple and swerve and collapse, he pays his bills, money to charities and to schools and to his wife and his life and his children's children's children's futures, and to a mortgage far away that he's misplaced the keys to. There, it is billowing cotton curtains and open windows, doors opening onto an ocean climbing higher every year. There, it is Paul in the bed and Paul on the floor with the coffee and newspaper, Paul with the pencil, and the eraser kneaded between his lips.
There, it is light and it is air and it is the stir and rustle of the past.
Stephen signs his name, and Stephen autographs his checkbook, and Stephen turns each paid bill over on top of the others, over, and over, and over.
Paul sleeps and in his head is where the world turns. When he wakes he forgets everything but whiteness and the idea of music.
He walks barefoot in the sand and brushes the grit from his feet and then walks barefoot on the kitchen floor. He pours himself a cup of coffee. He sits on the floor and rests the newspaper on his crossed legs. He looks out at the sky and the sea and sees them trade places at the horizon, first the sky on top, then the sea floating there, over, and over, and over.
Stephen wakes in the night to the sound of his youngest son crying, and his daughter touching his shoulder and whispering this to him. He is up immediately, moving silent and swift to the next room, where he rocks his child to sleep and tells him stories and whispers soft humor into his hair, which smells like dust and clean linen and sadness. His son's crying turns to only an occasional shiver, the tears and mucus already drying against his father's neck. Here he is safe. Here the world has stopped turning.
In Paul's head, the world turns, and in Paul's head, Stephen comes to him, soft and clean and naked, brushing sand from his bare feet and walking across the kitchen to pour two cups of coffee. They sit on the floor, knees and legs together as they stare at the horizon, watching its broad, simple curve, and how easily the sky and sea combine.
Here, the world is lit by soft, early colors.
The curtains wave gently on the broad back of the wind, and Stephen and Paul make love against clean linen.
In Stephen's waking head, the world turns over on top of itself, over, and over, and over. While Stephen sleeps, under worn flannel and one of his wife's warm, sweet arms, the world slows down. Here, there is light and there is air, there is room to stretch and brush sand from his feet, to walk on the edge of the ocean and to sink down into a bed while gauzy curtains swell around the frames of the room. Here, there is room for the past and the present, there is room for his children's children's children's futures. Here, there is room for many sets of keys.
Paul sleeps among the early hours of the day, while outside the wind melts across the water and the water melts across the sand. In Paul's head is where the world turns, while outside his body, among the low, delicate murmurs and the stir and rustle of sand, the world sleeps and dreams of forever turning, over, and over, and over.
Paul wakes, and he walks barefoot in the sand and Stephen is not there. Paul brushes the sand from his feet and walks barefoot on the kitchen floor, pours himself one cup of coffee and walks outside. He walks down to the edge of the ocean and Stephen is not there. He walks inside, lies across the bed, and Stephen was never there.
He sits cross-legged on the floor of the kitchen, and in Paul's head is where the world does not turn. Outside, the sun is rising over buildings and apartments and empires, and it rises over the horizon, and it splits the sea and the sky in a wide, simple beam.
The world has not turned for a very long time, and Paul sits and he waits for the sea to come wash him away. He sits, and he waits, and he waits.
God, I wrote these months ago. As flashfic for argyletheme, I think. Anyway, enjoy.
Title: Cicadas
Pairing: Stephen Colbert/ Paul Dinello
Author's Name: Pomegranate
Rating: PG
Summary: At the park.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Notes: Prompted by the song Candy Cane Crawl, by the Twilight Singers. Specifically:
Slow down, lean in, call up that feeling
You get when you're dealing, that all too deceiving side of you
Who loves you true, but they'll just forget it, they'll just forget it.
That shit'll twist your little mind if you let it.
Underneath the tree, the grass was wet, and Stephen shifted as the mud seeped up through the seat of his jeans. Beside him, Paul was easily stretched out on his back, and when he moved his arms from his sides to fold them above his head, Stephen saw long patches of darkened fabric all along the backs of the sleeves, clinging to the skin beneath. Paul gazed vaguely up through the branches into the late afternoon sky, the blue there heavy enough to drip between the leaves and leave shifting puddles of light across Paul's face.
Stephen's shoulder blades were firmly wrapped around the rough trunk of the tree, and a large, winding root pressed rudely against the undersides of his thighs. A slow ache was spreading down through his legs, and he longed to pull them in against himself, to stretch his arms out and rotate his back away from the unyielding bark, and, as the moisture crept along the hem of his shirt, to change into clean, dry clothes. But he was loathe to disturb the warm haze of Paul lounging under shifting ovals of shadow, of the faint scent of barbeque from some sunny, distant patch of the park, the indistinct cries of someone else's children, and flowing under it all, the comfortable humming of insects, and whatever stilling sound the soft, drifting dust motes made as they slowly rubbed against the air.
The afternoon hung low in Stephen's belly, even with his sore back and wet jeans and numb legs, and he did not have the strength of will to unbalance the hammock of calm swaying in him. However, Paul did, and when he moved, it was not within the balance of light and temperature and soft, summer noises. Paul rolled to his side, and as the fabric of his clothes was too wet to rustle, the motion was instead accompanied by an uninviting squelch of grass. He crooked his arm and rested his head on it, and let out a brash, near-grunt of a sigh, impatient and much too loud. Stephen took the opportunity to twist his spine back into place, placing his hands on his hips and leaning to either side.
They were motionless for a moment after that, but not long enough for the calm to creep back in. Paul righted himself, and moved to sit beside Stephen, back against the tree and both legs casually thrown over the errant root.
The insects were silent, as were the far off children, now sitting around cracked picnic tables and quietly devouring the spoils of the cooling grill. The lazy dust settled, shining less brightly as the sun snuck closer to the horizon. The shadows grew longer, and Paul turned and kissed Stephen.
Stephen didn't have the strength of will to move away, and as Paul's hands drifted up and curled themselves through his hair and around the back of his neck, he felt a sick leap in his belly, as a balance of light and temperature and soft, patient noises was overturned. There was chaos and the coldness of mud on his skin, there was the white light of morning and the busy brightness of day. In him then was the harsh silence of warm afternoons sinking into dangerous nights, and panicked flashes of pinprick stars and cold, distant moons. He opened his eyes. There were shades of light and shadow lightly chasing each other across Paul's skin, and his eyes were warm and sweet as heavy syrup. Reflected in them was a deep, languid sky, and as Paul's tongue crept through Stephen's lips, Stephen could hear that, inside of him, there had begun a very faint but steady humming.
---
Title: Someone's Idea of Paradise
Pairing: Stephen Colbert/ Paul Dinello
Author's Name: Pomegranate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Waiting for the world to turn around.
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Notes: Prompted by the song Underneath the Waves, by the Twilight Singers. Specifically:
Take me to a place, high above the tide
Underneath the waves, where I can come inside
A reveille, told in fractured time
Only in this way, will I become alive.
Paul sleeps while the world outside is playing with the idea of soft, early colors, and in his head is where the world turns. Sunk beneath clean linen, his skin floats over blood, and his blood washes blue and slow through his veins in easy, melting tides.
Miles inside him is where the world turns. Miles inside, and miles and miles away.
The cottage is Stephen's and the summer is Paul's, and the two drift together through sweet gauzy skies and crisp air. Stephen is miles away, where the world is turning silent and swift, where he is growing great and powerful empires of the enraged and devoted. In his apartment, while the buildings outside his window topple and swerve and collapse, he pays his bills, money to charities and to schools and to his wife and his life and his children's children's children's futures, and to a mortgage far away that he's misplaced the keys to. There, it is billowing cotton curtains and open windows, doors opening onto an ocean climbing higher every year. There, it is Paul in the bed and Paul on the floor with the coffee and newspaper, Paul with the pencil, and the eraser kneaded between his lips.
There, it is light and it is air and it is the stir and rustle of the past.
Stephen signs his name, and Stephen autographs his checkbook, and Stephen turns each paid bill over on top of the others, over, and over, and over.
Paul sleeps and in his head is where the world turns. When he wakes he forgets everything but whiteness and the idea of music.
He walks barefoot in the sand and brushes the grit from his feet and then walks barefoot on the kitchen floor. He pours himself a cup of coffee. He sits on the floor and rests the newspaper on his crossed legs. He looks out at the sky and the sea and sees them trade places at the horizon, first the sky on top, then the sea floating there, over, and over, and over.
Stephen wakes in the night to the sound of his youngest son crying, and his daughter touching his shoulder and whispering this to him. He is up immediately, moving silent and swift to the next room, where he rocks his child to sleep and tells him stories and whispers soft humor into his hair, which smells like dust and clean linen and sadness. His son's crying turns to only an occasional shiver, the tears and mucus already drying against his father's neck. Here he is safe. Here the world has stopped turning.
In Paul's head, the world turns, and in Paul's head, Stephen comes to him, soft and clean and naked, brushing sand from his bare feet and walking across the kitchen to pour two cups of coffee. They sit on the floor, knees and legs together as they stare at the horizon, watching its broad, simple curve, and how easily the sky and sea combine.
Here, the world is lit by soft, early colors.
The curtains wave gently on the broad back of the wind, and Stephen and Paul make love against clean linen.
In Stephen's waking head, the world turns over on top of itself, over, and over, and over. While Stephen sleeps, under worn flannel and one of his wife's warm, sweet arms, the world slows down. Here, there is light and there is air, there is room to stretch and brush sand from his feet, to walk on the edge of the ocean and to sink down into a bed while gauzy curtains swell around the frames of the room. Here, there is room for the past and the present, there is room for his children's children's children's futures. Here, there is room for many sets of keys.
Paul sleeps among the early hours of the day, while outside the wind melts across the water and the water melts across the sand. In Paul's head is where the world turns, while outside his body, among the low, delicate murmurs and the stir and rustle of sand, the world sleeps and dreams of forever turning, over, and over, and over.
Paul wakes, and he walks barefoot in the sand and Stephen is not there. Paul brushes the sand from his feet and walks barefoot on the kitchen floor, pours himself one cup of coffee and walks outside. He walks down to the edge of the ocean and Stephen is not there. He walks inside, lies across the bed, and Stephen was never there.
He sits cross-legged on the floor of the kitchen, and in Paul's head is where the world does not turn. Outside, the sun is rising over buildings and apartments and empires, and it rises over the horizon, and it splits the sea and the sky in a wide, simple beam.
The world has not turned for a very long time, and Paul sits and he waits for the sea to come wash him away. He sits, and he waits, and he waits.