Comment fic round-up.
So suckmyglock mentioned that I should do a comment fic round-up. I don't actually bookmark these things for myself, because I don't see them as actual writing, if that makes any sense. They are usually not read over at all, nor are they plotted beforehand. (Part of the fun of comment fic for me is giving the story to someone, part of the fun is letting my head roam free without its internal editor.) That is to say that there may be a few missing, since it took me a while to remember who I'd written comment stories for.
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Even though he told Brian to come over, Gerard still starts when he hears the door clicks open. He peers around the door with one eye, fingers curled around the door. He waggles his fingers hello when he sees who it is.
"Hi," Brian says, and stands there, waiting. He's got his hair slicked back, and he's actually wearing a button-down under a sweater. "Are you ready?"
"One second," Gerard says, and shuts the bathroom door again. He stares at himself in the mirror again, hesitating. He's used to how he looks in make-up; the careful lines of eyeliner around his eyes aren't that startling. Even the mascara and the eyeshadow don't freak him out that much anymore. His lips are too sharply defined, though, too plum.
Brian taps on the door gently, and Gerard turns and opens it just a little. "I don't think my dress looks right," he whispers, feeling incredibly silly.
"I bet it looks fine," Brian whispers back, and pushes against the door. "Let me in." Gerard steps back slowly, biting his lip. Brian takes his time, taking in the tank dress, the stockings, the kitten heels that match the beading on the hem of the dress and the beads in his necklace.
"I look like a boy in a dress," Gerard says in a rush, breaking the silence. He looks down at his toes and tucks his hair behind his ears.
"You," Brian says. Gerard waits for more, but Brian just shoves the door wider and backs Gerard into the sink. Brian has to stand on his toes a little to kiss Gerard in his heels, but he shoves his tongue in Gerard's mouth like he's ten inches taller. "You look like a lady," he says, after he's thoroughly messed up Gerard's lipstick, "what the hell are you doing with a guy like me?"
"I don't look like a lady," Gerard says, tipping his head down and letting his hair fall in his face. Brian smoothes it back for him, smiling. "Not, like. Not to myself."
"But you should," Brian says. He puts his hands on Gerard's hips and turns him around, facing him towards the mirror. "You're so pale, like you've never had to go out in the sun," he starts, and when Gerard snorts, he makes a shushing sound. "Your skin is really delicate," he says, touching at Gerard's collarbones and trailing his fingers down to the collar of the dress. "It's beautiful."
Gerard swallows, the sound loud in the bathroom, and tips his head back to briefly rest it on Brian's shoulder. Brian trails his hand down lower, lets it rest against Gerard's hip again. "And these hips," he murmurs, palming them. Gerard lets out a shaky breath, and Brian smiles. "You look like you've been to a party," he says, "something swanky with champagne glasses and small talk. But," and his voice drops to a whisper as his hand slides up Gerard’s shirt, rumpling it over his hip, "you went home with the busboy."
Gerard laughs, feeling it in his throat, leaning into his palms on the counter. Brian presses his smile into the back of Gerard's neck, his fingers tracing over the lacy edges of Gerard's garter belt. "So," Gerard says, his voice lilting, feeling more and more daring, "what does a busboy do with a lady like me, anyway?"
"He fucks her," Brian says, his voice suddenly rough, shoving Gerard's hips forward with his. Gerard gasps, and his eyes in the mirror are wide and shocked, his mouth a painted oh of surprise. Brian runs a hand down his spine, unzipping his dress, and parts the fabric, letting it gap open over his back. "He messes her up," Brian says, like he's continuing a conversation.
"The lady is a tramp," Gerard says weakly.
"Yeah," Brian says. He's hard against Gerard's ass, shamelessly rubbing himself off. "Don't lie to me, lady," he mutters, against Gerard's neck. "You love this."
"I do," Gerard pants, "fuck, Brian, stop teasing."
"I thought you wanted me to take you out."
"Fuck me instead," Gerard snaps, his fingers squeaking on the counter as he digs them in, bending forward. "C'mon."
Brian slaps his ass, hard, leaving the skin stinging in the wake of his hand. "Quiet," he says. Gerard bites his lower lip in a half-snarl, half-pout, and Brian smiles. "Oh, you're a nasty one, all right."
When he leaves the bathroom, Gerard starts to feel a little more self-conscious, a little more like a guy in a dress, fucking around with his manager -- his manager, for fuck's sake -- but it only lasts until Brian comes back, bottle of lube in hand. "I--" he starts, meeting Brian's gaze in the mirror, "I don't know--"
"I do," Brian says, "God, you're fucking gorgeous." He yanks the dress down off of Gerard's shoulders, and Gerard lets him, lets it puddle on the floor. Gerard kicks it aside, then stands awkwardly, smoothing at the straps of his garter belt. "Bend over," Brian says, pulling his hips back. When Gerard does what he says, Brian rewards him by rubbing his thumb roughly down the crack of his ass, over the fabric of his underwear. He unclips the garters quickly, letting them snap against Gerard's skin. His stockings sag without the support, and Brian draws them down his legs, raising goosebumps in the wake of his fingertips.
Gerard tosses his hair back. In the lacy bra, the glossy hair, the makeup, even with a flat chest, he looks like a woman, like someone wanton and sluttish. He can see, for a second, what Brian told him to see, the woman he's supposed to be. When Brian slides the underwear down to his knees, Gerard wiggles his ass a little, and Brian gives a little hum of satisfaction, then slides one suddenly slick finger up his ass, crooking it hard.
"Open your eyes," he says, and Gerard realizes he's closed them. "Look at this woman getting fucked over a hotel sink," he says, and Gerard moans. Brian pulls back his hand and adds another finger. It feels fucking divine, after too long a drought. It's like Brian's bringing his nerves back to life.
"C'mon," Gerard says, high and breathy, and Brian grins. After a pause, he tosses the lube on the counter. He lines up his dick, and Gerard bends farther, pressing his chest to the counter, folding his arms in front of his face.
"Fuck," Brian says, and slides in, smooth and hard, rocking Gerard even farther onto his toes. "You beautiful fucking bitch," he says, and Gerard moans again, half at the feeling of Brian's cock in his ass, and half at the words coming out of his mouth.
It's hard but slow at first, a few strokes to set the rhythm and then just a strong smooth current of pleasure. Brian yanks at his hips, then, drags them up just a little further, and suddenly Gerard can't ride it out anymore; he has to scratch at the smooth countertop and curse Brian in increasingly inventive ways, trying to get him to fuck him harder, faster, fuck, please.
"Yes," Brian growls in his ear, digging one hand into Gerard's hair and curling the other hand around his cock, "not a fucking lady now, are you?" Gerard opens his mouth and makes a breathy, helpless sound, shoving his ass back into Brian, feeling his orgasm coming on. "You're a dirty slut for it. C'mon." Gerard closes his eyes and comes, bowing his head into his folded arms and losing himself in the feeling of being fucked.
Brian lasts a little longer, tugging Gerard back until he's just resting his elbows against the edge of the counter. Gerard looks at the two of them in the mirror, at Brian when he comes, open-mouthed and messy-haired.
"Fuck," Brian says against Gerard’s neck. He pulls out slowly and tucks himself back into his -- barely disarranged -- slacks and underwear. He drops to his knees, then, and starts to tug Gerard's clothes back on, pulling his underwear back up around his hips and bending to get his stockings.
"What--" Gerard says, tugging at the ends of his hair.
"Putting you back together," Brian says, clipping the left stocking up. "I know a lady when I see one."
"Thanks," Gerard says, and Brian kisses his knee.
"It doesn't hurt me to tell the truth," he says, and Gerard-- Gerard believes him.
END.
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(Ugh, this is why I don't repost them. I made little changes above, but I DESPERATELY want to FIX. UGH.)
I wrote even when for algernon-mouse, which is Bob/Frank, with phone sex and Bob humping a mattress.
That was written as a comment to my post where I linked the one about Joe and Patrick and Care Bears that I wrote for gigantic.
And I wrote this Frank/Gerard extremely porny blowjob comment for stonedtodeath. (I don't really like that one, but the post as a whole is really worth reading.)
I wrote a schmoopy, embarrassing Patrick/Joe story for offonmars:
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Whee! I don't know why I wrote this in particular, but I DID. I don't think I've ever written schmoop before in my life, for the record. It was more fun than I expected! CUDDLES.
"It's just--" Pete gestures elaborately at the bunks. "He's sick."
"Yeah," Joe says gently, and pats Pete's shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "He totally is."
"And I want to fix it," Pete says. He looks like one of the starving kids on those Sally Struthers commercials, incredibly serious and sad. Joe kind of wants to feed him crackers, but they are Patrick's crackers, so he holds firm. "Joe. I want to fix it."
"I know," Joe says, and pats him again. "He just--"
"And what if he hurts his voice, Joe? Joe. Joe. Oh my god."
"Pete," Joe says firmly, before Pete can get started again. "He hasn't spoken all day. His voice'll be okay."
"You don't know that," Pete says, but he's clearly wavering. Joe nods encouragingly.
"I do! He'll be fine. Remember the Great Mucus of '04?" Pete's eyes go wide, and Joe nods harder, feeling like a bobblehead. "He just needs some space. And some soup." Joe holds up the container, which has gone from "I Only Thought I Needed The Skin On My Fingers" to "Burning Hot" while he's been talking to Pete. "Which I am totally going to give to him."
"Okay," Pete says doubtfully, and edges back towards the front of the bus. "Are you coming back to our bus?"
"Nah," Joe says, "Andy already went over while you were talking to Patrick."
"Oh. Okay."
"We'll take shifts, dude," Joe finally says, and Pete manages to smile.
"Okay." He glances back before he goes out, and says, "Tell Patrick to get better."
"I will," Joe says, and flaps his un-burnt hand. "Go on." When the door finally hushes shut behind him, Joe turns back to the bunks and says, "Hey, so he's gone."
Patrick's head pokes out of his bunk. He's not wearing a hat or his glasses. His hair is really screwed up, his eyes are all crusty and red, and his nose isn't doing much better. "I love you," he says, and he's the cutest thing Joe's ever seen.
"I know," Joe says, "here, careful, this is hot." He hands Patrick his soup and a plastic spoon, then makes him sit up so Joe can crawl in with him.
Once Joe gets himself situated against the wall, he tugs on Patrick's sweatshirt. "C'mon."
"I'll get you sick," Patrick says, and wipes his nose on his shoulder. He's got the soup in one hand and the spoon clutched in the other, like a little kid.
"Nah," Joe says, "I've been taking my vitamins, c'mon."
"But--"
"I want cuddles, bitch," Joe deadpans, and Patrick coughs out a laugh. He crawls over to collapse against Joe.
"I want kisses," he mutters into his soup, and Joe smiles into his hair.
"That I'm not willing to risk."
"I know," Patrick says, and slurps at his spoon. "No point in having two people be useless." His voice sounds clotted, and he practically reeks of self-pity. He's probably due, though, considering that he managed to a) sing through an entire concert with a massive a head cold, and b) put up with Pete's mothering for two days.
"You're not useless," Joe says, and kisses the top of Patrick's ear, just to watch it flush. He tries the temple next, and then along his sideburn. Patrick sighs and tilts his head back on Joe's shoulder, and Joe kisses just under his bottom lip.
"Don't get sick," Patrick murmurs, and Joe presses his mouth briefly against his throat, drawing away with a loud smacking sound. Patrick even giggles at that, so Joe considers it a victory.
"Tell you what," Joe says, "I'll work on not getting sick if you work on getting better."
Patrick grumbles a little, but he finally says, "Fine, whatever. Can you--" Joe plucks the empty soup container out of his hand and stretches to drop it on the floor. "Thanks."
"No problem." Patrick curls up and turns his face into Joe's chest, snuggling closer; he's still grumbling a little, but Joe thinks it's mostly just the cold at this point. "Get some sleep."
"'ve gotten nothing but sleep," Patrick says, but his eyes are drooping closed. "Stay?"
"My pleasure," Joe says, and means it. He figures he's got at least three hours of quality Patrick time until Andy loses his shit and makes Joe switch back. Joe closes his eyes, presses his face into Patrick's hair, and starts putting the time to good use.
END.
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I wrote extasis a Criminal Minds comment story about Reid, prompted with this poem. It's in another flocked entry, so here:
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In the classroom, they never dealt with bodies; they looked at endless slideshows. The recycled air would sometimes make the image ripple, and the professor would mutter, curse about the substandard equipment, the need for a clearer image.
Reid squinted whenever it happened, he remembers that. Squinting doesn’t help focus the image, but it seems to be an instinctual reaction. The guts splashed out on the forest floor would eventually settle, and the professor would fall back into her lecture.
Note the torn surface of the organs; this was not a precise killing. Can someone give me a profile of this killer?
At the BAU, there were more photographs. No lecture hall projections, though. These are glossy printed pictures of open bodies. They’re tacked up on every vertical surface of the bullpen. Slack bloody faces are spread across every desk and stacked on top of the filing cabinets. During a case, JJ will pass out photographs, and they will stare into the wounds, look at the glassy eyes.
But they deal with bodies, too. He hadn’t realized that they would when he first joined the team. No one had warned him. Not that he blames them. You can’t really be warned. The reading he’s done on trauma indicates that any attempts at preparation are ultimately useless in the actual event.
Lindsey Wangner, age 25, Caucasian female, killed while out jogging. “A fairly typical jogging killer,” Hotch says, “standard profile.” Reid nods pointlessly, sips at his coffee.
Derek squats down next to the girl, then looks up at Reid. He smiles. Reid meets his eyes for a long beat, then looks back at the girl.
The details are what catch him. This isn’t common; in articles, no one mentions being caught by the details. The dull pink of Lindsey’s lips, a thin ragged flap of skin where they’ve chapped. Derek peers at the wounds in her gut, and his breath disturbs the folds of her ski resort t-shirt. Her hair is tossed across her face, and one hair clings to the surface of her eye. Reid takes another sip of coffee, looks away, down the hill.
JJ takes notes as Hotch gives the profile, her pen sliding across the paper. Prentiss stands with her arms folded, looking at Hotch and chiming in occasionally. It’s like a tableau vivant, he thinks, those posed pictures.
He looks back down at the girl, and Derek is watching him. They stare at one another again.
That night he has a hard time sleeping. He crashed on the plane, sleeping with his mouth open against the plastic wall paneling, and he feels wired and weird. He finally coaxes himself to sleep with cranberry tea and a boring, entirely unoriginal article on visual recognition memory as a predictor of later cognitive function in preterms.
He dreams that he’s slumped on the hill, within spitting distance of where the girl died. He can see Derek crouched there, looking at something; he wants to call out, but he can’t.
Derek stands, turns towards him, and walks over. Reid watches him approach, watches him squat down again by Reid’s body.
“Seems like you got yourself into a fix again,” he says. Reid lies there, frozen, utterly calm. Derek dips his fingers into the cuts in Reid’s stomach, and Reid is filled with a strange, unnerving pleasure. “Easy there,” he says, even though Reid hasn’t, can’t move. “Easy there, tough guy.”
Inside, Reid trembles.
END.
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Those are the only ones I can remember. See? Not that many! Let me know if you can think of any others. (You don't have to provide a link, just "there was one with a peacock, wasn't there? And two gnomes?")
Sorry about all the posting and all the fandom. I would really prefer that the non-fandom people on my friendslist not defriend me, so let me know if it bothers you and I will try to cut it down. I'm trying to keep it inconspicuous and short for the most part, so that you can scroll by without any problem. The writing I'm doing on kink is also not fandom-specific.
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Even though he told Brian to come over, Gerard still starts when he hears the door clicks open. He peers around the door with one eye, fingers curled around the door. He waggles his fingers hello when he sees who it is.
"Hi," Brian says, and stands there, waiting. He's got his hair slicked back, and he's actually wearing a button-down under a sweater. "Are you ready?"
"One second," Gerard says, and shuts the bathroom door again. He stares at himself in the mirror again, hesitating. He's used to how he looks in make-up; the careful lines of eyeliner around his eyes aren't that startling. Even the mascara and the eyeshadow don't freak him out that much anymore. His lips are too sharply defined, though, too plum.
Brian taps on the door gently, and Gerard turns and opens it just a little. "I don't think my dress looks right," he whispers, feeling incredibly silly.
"I bet it looks fine," Brian whispers back, and pushes against the door. "Let me in." Gerard steps back slowly, biting his lip. Brian takes his time, taking in the tank dress, the stockings, the kitten heels that match the beading on the hem of the dress and the beads in his necklace.
"I look like a boy in a dress," Gerard says in a rush, breaking the silence. He looks down at his toes and tucks his hair behind his ears.
"You," Brian says. Gerard waits for more, but Brian just shoves the door wider and backs Gerard into the sink. Brian has to stand on his toes a little to kiss Gerard in his heels, but he shoves his tongue in Gerard's mouth like he's ten inches taller. "You look like a lady," he says, after he's thoroughly messed up Gerard's lipstick, "what the hell are you doing with a guy like me?"
"I don't look like a lady," Gerard says, tipping his head down and letting his hair fall in his face. Brian smoothes it back for him, smiling. "Not, like. Not to myself."
"But you should," Brian says. He puts his hands on Gerard's hips and turns him around, facing him towards the mirror. "You're so pale, like you've never had to go out in the sun," he starts, and when Gerard snorts, he makes a shushing sound. "Your skin is really delicate," he says, touching at Gerard's collarbones and trailing his fingers down to the collar of the dress. "It's beautiful."
Gerard swallows, the sound loud in the bathroom, and tips his head back to briefly rest it on Brian's shoulder. Brian trails his hand down lower, lets it rest against Gerard's hip again. "And these hips," he murmurs, palming them. Gerard lets out a shaky breath, and Brian smiles. "You look like you've been to a party," he says, "something swanky with champagne glasses and small talk. But," and his voice drops to a whisper as his hand slides up Gerard’s shirt, rumpling it over his hip, "you went home with the busboy."
Gerard laughs, feeling it in his throat, leaning into his palms on the counter. Brian presses his smile into the back of Gerard's neck, his fingers tracing over the lacy edges of Gerard's garter belt. "So," Gerard says, his voice lilting, feeling more and more daring, "what does a busboy do with a lady like me, anyway?"
"He fucks her," Brian says, his voice suddenly rough, shoving Gerard's hips forward with his. Gerard gasps, and his eyes in the mirror are wide and shocked, his mouth a painted oh of surprise. Brian runs a hand down his spine, unzipping his dress, and parts the fabric, letting it gap open over his back. "He messes her up," Brian says, like he's continuing a conversation.
"The lady is a tramp," Gerard says weakly.
"Yeah," Brian says. He's hard against Gerard's ass, shamelessly rubbing himself off. "Don't lie to me, lady," he mutters, against Gerard's neck. "You love this."
"I do," Gerard pants, "fuck, Brian, stop teasing."
"I thought you wanted me to take you out."
"Fuck me instead," Gerard snaps, his fingers squeaking on the counter as he digs them in, bending forward. "C'mon."
Brian slaps his ass, hard, leaving the skin stinging in the wake of his hand. "Quiet," he says. Gerard bites his lower lip in a half-snarl, half-pout, and Brian smiles. "Oh, you're a nasty one, all right."
When he leaves the bathroom, Gerard starts to feel a little more self-conscious, a little more like a guy in a dress, fucking around with his manager -- his manager, for fuck's sake -- but it only lasts until Brian comes back, bottle of lube in hand. "I--" he starts, meeting Brian's gaze in the mirror, "I don't know--"
"I do," Brian says, "God, you're fucking gorgeous." He yanks the dress down off of Gerard's shoulders, and Gerard lets him, lets it puddle on the floor. Gerard kicks it aside, then stands awkwardly, smoothing at the straps of his garter belt. "Bend over," Brian says, pulling his hips back. When Gerard does what he says, Brian rewards him by rubbing his thumb roughly down the crack of his ass, over the fabric of his underwear. He unclips the garters quickly, letting them snap against Gerard's skin. His stockings sag without the support, and Brian draws them down his legs, raising goosebumps in the wake of his fingertips.
Gerard tosses his hair back. In the lacy bra, the glossy hair, the makeup, even with a flat chest, he looks like a woman, like someone wanton and sluttish. He can see, for a second, what Brian told him to see, the woman he's supposed to be. When Brian slides the underwear down to his knees, Gerard wiggles his ass a little, and Brian gives a little hum of satisfaction, then slides one suddenly slick finger up his ass, crooking it hard.
"Open your eyes," he says, and Gerard realizes he's closed them. "Look at this woman getting fucked over a hotel sink," he says, and Gerard moans. Brian pulls back his hand and adds another finger. It feels fucking divine, after too long a drought. It's like Brian's bringing his nerves back to life.
"C'mon," Gerard says, high and breathy, and Brian grins. After a pause, he tosses the lube on the counter. He lines up his dick, and Gerard bends farther, pressing his chest to the counter, folding his arms in front of his face.
"Fuck," Brian says, and slides in, smooth and hard, rocking Gerard even farther onto his toes. "You beautiful fucking bitch," he says, and Gerard moans again, half at the feeling of Brian's cock in his ass, and half at the words coming out of his mouth.
It's hard but slow at first, a few strokes to set the rhythm and then just a strong smooth current of pleasure. Brian yanks at his hips, then, drags them up just a little further, and suddenly Gerard can't ride it out anymore; he has to scratch at the smooth countertop and curse Brian in increasingly inventive ways, trying to get him to fuck him harder, faster, fuck, please.
"Yes," Brian growls in his ear, digging one hand into Gerard's hair and curling the other hand around his cock, "not a fucking lady now, are you?" Gerard opens his mouth and makes a breathy, helpless sound, shoving his ass back into Brian, feeling his orgasm coming on. "You're a dirty slut for it. C'mon." Gerard closes his eyes and comes, bowing his head into his folded arms and losing himself in the feeling of being fucked.
Brian lasts a little longer, tugging Gerard back until he's just resting his elbows against the edge of the counter. Gerard looks at the two of them in the mirror, at Brian when he comes, open-mouthed and messy-haired.
"Fuck," Brian says against Gerard’s neck. He pulls out slowly and tucks himself back into his -- barely disarranged -- slacks and underwear. He drops to his knees, then, and starts to tug Gerard's clothes back on, pulling his underwear back up around his hips and bending to get his stockings.
"What--" Gerard says, tugging at the ends of his hair.
"Putting you back together," Brian says, clipping the left stocking up. "I know a lady when I see one."
"Thanks," Gerard says, and Brian kisses his knee.
"It doesn't hurt me to tell the truth," he says, and Gerard-- Gerard believes him.
END.
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(Ugh, this is why I don't repost them. I made little changes above, but I DESPERATELY want to FIX. UGH.)
I wrote even when for algernon-mouse, which is Bob/Frank, with phone sex and Bob humping a mattress.
That was written as a comment to my post where I linked the one about Joe and Patrick and Care Bears that I wrote for gigantic.
And I wrote this Frank/Gerard extremely porny blowjob comment for stonedtodeath. (I don't really like that one, but the post as a whole is really worth reading.)
I wrote a schmoopy, embarrassing Patrick/Joe story for offonmars:
------------
Whee! I don't know why I wrote this in particular, but I DID. I don't think I've ever written schmoop before in my life, for the record. It was more fun than I expected! CUDDLES.
"It's just--" Pete gestures elaborately at the bunks. "He's sick."
"Yeah," Joe says gently, and pats Pete's shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "He totally is."
"And I want to fix it," Pete says. He looks like one of the starving kids on those Sally Struthers commercials, incredibly serious and sad. Joe kind of wants to feed him crackers, but they are Patrick's crackers, so he holds firm. "Joe. I want to fix it."
"I know," Joe says, and pats him again. "He just--"
"And what if he hurts his voice, Joe? Joe. Joe. Oh my god."
"Pete," Joe says firmly, before Pete can get started again. "He hasn't spoken all day. His voice'll be okay."
"You don't know that," Pete says, but he's clearly wavering. Joe nods encouragingly.
"I do! He'll be fine. Remember the Great Mucus of '04?" Pete's eyes go wide, and Joe nods harder, feeling like a bobblehead. "He just needs some space. And some soup." Joe holds up the container, which has gone from "I Only Thought I Needed The Skin On My Fingers" to "Burning Hot" while he's been talking to Pete. "Which I am totally going to give to him."
"Okay," Pete says doubtfully, and edges back towards the front of the bus. "Are you coming back to our bus?"
"Nah," Joe says, "Andy already went over while you were talking to Patrick."
"Oh. Okay."
"We'll take shifts, dude," Joe finally says, and Pete manages to smile.
"Okay." He glances back before he goes out, and says, "Tell Patrick to get better."
"I will," Joe says, and flaps his un-burnt hand. "Go on." When the door finally hushes shut behind him, Joe turns back to the bunks and says, "Hey, so he's gone."
Patrick's head pokes out of his bunk. He's not wearing a hat or his glasses. His hair is really screwed up, his eyes are all crusty and red, and his nose isn't doing much better. "I love you," he says, and he's the cutest thing Joe's ever seen.
"I know," Joe says, "here, careful, this is hot." He hands Patrick his soup and a plastic spoon, then makes him sit up so Joe can crawl in with him.
Once Joe gets himself situated against the wall, he tugs on Patrick's sweatshirt. "C'mon."
"I'll get you sick," Patrick says, and wipes his nose on his shoulder. He's got the soup in one hand and the spoon clutched in the other, like a little kid.
"Nah," Joe says, "I've been taking my vitamins, c'mon."
"But--"
"I want cuddles, bitch," Joe deadpans, and Patrick coughs out a laugh. He crawls over to collapse against Joe.
"I want kisses," he mutters into his soup, and Joe smiles into his hair.
"That I'm not willing to risk."
"I know," Patrick says, and slurps at his spoon. "No point in having two people be useless." His voice sounds clotted, and he practically reeks of self-pity. He's probably due, though, considering that he managed to a) sing through an entire concert with a massive a head cold, and b) put up with Pete's mothering for two days.
"You're not useless," Joe says, and kisses the top of Patrick's ear, just to watch it flush. He tries the temple next, and then along his sideburn. Patrick sighs and tilts his head back on Joe's shoulder, and Joe kisses just under his bottom lip.
"Don't get sick," Patrick murmurs, and Joe presses his mouth briefly against his throat, drawing away with a loud smacking sound. Patrick even giggles at that, so Joe considers it a victory.
"Tell you what," Joe says, "I'll work on not getting sick if you work on getting better."
Patrick grumbles a little, but he finally says, "Fine, whatever. Can you--" Joe plucks the empty soup container out of his hand and stretches to drop it on the floor. "Thanks."
"No problem." Patrick curls up and turns his face into Joe's chest, snuggling closer; he's still grumbling a little, but Joe thinks it's mostly just the cold at this point. "Get some sleep."
"'ve gotten nothing but sleep," Patrick says, but his eyes are drooping closed. "Stay?"
"My pleasure," Joe says, and means it. He figures he's got at least three hours of quality Patrick time until Andy loses his shit and makes Joe switch back. Joe closes his eyes, presses his face into Patrick's hair, and starts putting the time to good use.
END.
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I wrote extasis a Criminal Minds comment story about Reid, prompted with this poem. It's in another flocked entry, so here:
------------
In the classroom, they never dealt with bodies; they looked at endless slideshows. The recycled air would sometimes make the image ripple, and the professor would mutter, curse about the substandard equipment, the need for a clearer image.
Reid squinted whenever it happened, he remembers that. Squinting doesn’t help focus the image, but it seems to be an instinctual reaction. The guts splashed out on the forest floor would eventually settle, and the professor would fall back into her lecture.
Note the torn surface of the organs; this was not a precise killing. Can someone give me a profile of this killer?
At the BAU, there were more photographs. No lecture hall projections, though. These are glossy printed pictures of open bodies. They’re tacked up on every vertical surface of the bullpen. Slack bloody faces are spread across every desk and stacked on top of the filing cabinets. During a case, JJ will pass out photographs, and they will stare into the wounds, look at the glassy eyes.
But they deal with bodies, too. He hadn’t realized that they would when he first joined the team. No one had warned him. Not that he blames them. You can’t really be warned. The reading he’s done on trauma indicates that any attempts at preparation are ultimately useless in the actual event.
Lindsey Wangner, age 25, Caucasian female, killed while out jogging. “A fairly typical jogging killer,” Hotch says, “standard profile.” Reid nods pointlessly, sips at his coffee.
Derek squats down next to the girl, then looks up at Reid. He smiles. Reid meets his eyes for a long beat, then looks back at the girl.
The details are what catch him. This isn’t common; in articles, no one mentions being caught by the details. The dull pink of Lindsey’s lips, a thin ragged flap of skin where they’ve chapped. Derek peers at the wounds in her gut, and his breath disturbs the folds of her ski resort t-shirt. Her hair is tossed across her face, and one hair clings to the surface of her eye. Reid takes another sip of coffee, looks away, down the hill.
JJ takes notes as Hotch gives the profile, her pen sliding across the paper. Prentiss stands with her arms folded, looking at Hotch and chiming in occasionally. It’s like a tableau vivant, he thinks, those posed pictures.
He looks back down at the girl, and Derek is watching him. They stare at one another again.
That night he has a hard time sleeping. He crashed on the plane, sleeping with his mouth open against the plastic wall paneling, and he feels wired and weird. He finally coaxes himself to sleep with cranberry tea and a boring, entirely unoriginal article on visual recognition memory as a predictor of later cognitive function in preterms.
He dreams that he’s slumped on the hill, within spitting distance of where the girl died. He can see Derek crouched there, looking at something; he wants to call out, but he can’t.
Derek stands, turns towards him, and walks over. Reid watches him approach, watches him squat down again by Reid’s body.
“Seems like you got yourself into a fix again,” he says. Reid lies there, frozen, utterly calm. Derek dips his fingers into the cuts in Reid’s stomach, and Reid is filled with a strange, unnerving pleasure. “Easy there,” he says, even though Reid hasn’t, can’t move. “Easy there, tough guy.”
Inside, Reid trembles.
END.
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Those are the only ones I can remember. See? Not that many! Let me know if you can think of any others. (You don't have to provide a link, just "there was one with a peacock, wasn't there? And two gnomes?")
Sorry about all the posting and all the fandom. I would really prefer that the non-fandom people on my friendslist not defriend me, so let me know if it bothers you and I will try to cut it down. I'm trying to keep it inconspicuous and short for the most part, so that you can scroll by without any problem. The writing I'm doing on kink is also not fandom-specific.