Meme: Trick or Treat Drabble Meme
Oct. 26th, 2014 02:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanGanked from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sinfulslasher and like her, it’s awesome…
The first five ghouls who come trick-or-treating at my door will get at least a three-sentence drabble written.
Just comment with "trick or treat!" and leave me a prompt or just a preferred pairing or ‘verse if you want to be surprised. Then go ahead and post this in your own journal so I can come trick-or-treating at your place!
To facilitate your participation, the code for you to paste into your own entry…
sinfulslasher and like her, it’s awesome…The first five ghouls who come trick-or-treating at my door will get at least a three-sentence drabble written.
Just comment with "trick or treat!" and leave me a prompt or just a preferred pairing or ‘verse if you want to be surprised. Then go ahead and post this in your own journal so I can come trick-or-treating at your place!
To facilitate your participation, the code for you to paste into your own entry…
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Trick or treat
Date: 2014-10-26 06:39 pm (UTC)Re: Trick or treat
Date: 2014-10-26 10:52 pm (UTC)His lover looked up, a guilty expression on her face and a pair of his black boxer briefs in her mouth. He hadn't meant to spy on her, especially not in the bathroom, but the door was partially opened and when he'd passed by, he thought he saw her with her hand down her pants.
Neal had nothing against private pleasures, but he liked to watch, too. He'd pushed the bathroom door open, fully expecting a show. And he got one - just not the one he'd expected.
El had pushed down her jeans, but had left her panties on and was rubbing her clit through the tight satin. That wasn't unusual. What was, was what she was doing with his underpants. His dirty underpants. She was sucking on them - and if Neal wasn't mistaken, right where the cotton cradled his junk.
El dropped his underpants and said in a breathy, lust-choked voice. "You had sex with Peter today, didn't you?"
Neal grinned. "Not quite. He had me creaming in the conference room. The air conditioning was off and he'd rolled up his sleeves. That gets me every time."
Re: Trick or treat
Date: 2014-10-26 10:57 pm (UTC)Re: Trick or treat
Date: 2014-10-28 12:40 am (UTC)Re: Trick or treat
Date: 2014-11-02 10:49 pm (UTC)GUH!
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Date: 2014-10-26 06:40 pm (UTC)Can I request some Alex/Sara (with or without Neal involved)?
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Date: 2014-10-26 11:05 pm (UTC)"I didn't quite dump him. We just decided we wanted different things out of life." Sara took a sip of her wine and stared at Alex.
"Let me guess. You didn't fancy playing second fiddle to the Fed and his wife?"
Sara smiled, "Let's just say that while I don't believe that there's anything wrong with polyamory, I prefer to be the center of my lover's universe, not someone who's being used - albeit very pleasurably - as a bed warmer on alternate Thursday nights."
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Date: 2014-10-27 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-27 05:48 am (UTC)I love how you got their voices just right even on such a small space :)
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Date: 2014-10-26 06:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-26 11:52 pm (UTC)"I'm not surprised, considering that you just poured warm chocolate sauce all over my husband's cock."
Neal kissed her again, licking and sucking at her tongue and lips. "And you taste like Peter's cock, too. Which might be even more delicious."
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Date: 2014-10-26 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-27 12:21 am (UTC)Neal wondered how long before this man - who had such a strong sense of honor and even stronger self control - took what he so clearly wanted.
He'd never felt any shame at trading his so-called "virtue" for security and better living conditions in prison. Bobby wasn't a bad guy and if sucking his cock every Thursday meant that the cons and the other guards knew he was off-limits, then so be it.
But Peter (damn it, Master Peter) wasn't going to be content with a Thursday night blow job. And frankly, Neal wasn't sure he would be, either.
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Date: 2014-10-26 06:57 pm (UTC)Trick or treat P/N anything with wings.
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Date: 2014-10-27 09:28 pm (UTC)Neal lies prone, fucked out, exquisitely exhausted from Peter's loving. His control is all but shot, but tonight he's somehow managed to keep his wings from bursting free as he orgasms. That's happened before, and while Neal is always embarrassed by this lack of discipline, Peter seems to enjoy getting a face full of his plumage.
Peter traces the lines of bone and muscle along his back, letting the power of their kind - the wing folk - call to his blood. He can feel the itchiness in his soul as his wings want to emerge. Neal rolls away from Peter, but only as far as the edge of the bed.
"What's the matter?" Peter asks as if he's concerned, but Neal can see the devil's light in his eyes.
"I'm tired. You've worn me out." Neal tries not to sound like he's pouting. He can't deal with what this means - how Peter can call his wings. Peter has Elizabeth, he already has a wing mate. What he is to Peter is something else, an extra appendage, a beautiful obscenity.
"Neal?" Peter says his name like he's calling his soul. "What's going on?"
"Nothing." Neal waits for Peter to leave, to go home to his wife, his wing mate.
But Peter doesn't. He settles himself under the covers and pulls Neal into his arms. "Sleep, Neal. Everything will be better in the morning."
Neal can finally relax, and when he drifts off to sleep, he dreams of being cradled in Peter's dark, magnificent plumage.
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Date: 2014-10-26 07:25 pm (UTC)Ya know what? I own your brain. I think that means I get an extra prompt spot! *g*
So, TRICK OR TREAT!
Would loooooooove to see how Peter's alpaca-raising pot-smoking father celebrates Halloween.
Alternatively, how's about Halloween in the WY 'verse?
Alter-alternatively... Neal trick-or-treats at the Burkes. (However you wanna, uh, treat him in the end. *waggles eyebrows*)
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Date: 2014-10-28 09:34 pm (UTC)Michael Burke was a Scotsman in exile, and even though he was an immigrant who came to America when he was but a lad of two, he was descended from a long line of crofters burned out by the greedy Sassenach. After his great-great grandfather was kicked off the land his family had farmed for generations, he settled in Glasgow and the Burkes prospered there for a few generations. But after the war, when the shipyards closed, Michael’s own father gambled with everything he had and moved his family to America.
No, Michael Burke wasn’t born to the land, but the intervening generations of city-dwelling, factory-working Burkes couldn’t erase the need in his blood. This little valley in Upstate New York was much like those long-gone ancestral acres with their forests and rivers and mountain vistas. He might be raising alpacas and not sheep, growing cannabis instead of barley, but he never felt more like a Scotsman than when he drank his a cup of coffee on the back porch and watch the mist burned off the fields as the sun warmed the land. Or when he had a wee smoke in the barn office, the sweet scent of pot mingling pleasantly with the odors of hay and his precious herd.
He rarely regretted moving out to the sticks from suburban Syracuse. In fact, the only time he was even vaguely sorry was on All Hallow’s Eve – Hallowe’en. There were no neighbors, no small children to ring the bell and beg for treats. When the twins were small, he delighted in the day, probably enjoying more than Discoball and Pumpkinhead combined. Maggie-My-Love had been quick to confiscate their candy, but he knew all of her best hiding places and he didn’t hesitate to raid the stash, especially after a good smoke. Even the horrid “Special Dark” bars tasted delicious then.
But this year, he was looking forward to Hallowe’en. Cumulonimbus’ friend, Mozcow, was coming to visit. Mozcow was a good man; he understood the value of a good nickname, he took good care of the herd and best of all, he appreciated a good smoke. Mozcow also appreciated fine wine and chocolate. The last time he’d come for a visit, they’d smoked and drank and the lad confessed to the rig he’d run on The Suit, as he’d called his son. Pumpkinhead has offered him a bite from a half-eaten slice of pizza and Mozcow had been rather nauseated at the thought, but didn’t want to seem rude. So he’d told Pumpkinhead that he had a lactose problem. Then there was the time when Mozcow’s girlfriend had been kidnapped and he’d been sick with worry. He hadn’t wanted to take it out on the nice people looking for her, so he’d vented his rage on an innocent turkey sandwich that had a slice of provolone on it. Michael had been about to point out that provolone doesn’t have any lactose when Mozcow chuckled. “The greatest obstacle to discovery is not ignorance, but the illusion of knowledge.”
At the time, Michael had been fairly certain Mozcow was quoting someone, but he was too stoned to care.
Maggie-My-Love sailed into the kitchen, her overnight bag rolling behind her. “You sure you’re going to be okay, love?”
He sighed and smiled. “Visitors, remember?”
“Of course, Neal’s friend Mozzie and did you say he was bringing someone?”
“Yes, his older brother. Should made for an interesting weekend. Apparently the man was Pumkinhead’s boss at one time. And he also enjoys a good smoke.”
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Date: 2014-10-27 01:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-10-29 05:14 pm (UTC)The customs officer stared at him like he was dirt. But at least he was wearing glasses and Neal was able to read what was on the computer monitor in their reflection. It seemed that “Neal Caffrey” was still listed as a wanted criminal with an Interpol Red Notice issued back to 2004.
The officer picked up the red telephone and asked for backup.
Neal sighed and counted the seconds until a half-dozen armed police burst into the little room. He raised his hands and gave them his best and most charming smile. “I have to ask – why all the fuss? And since when do the British police carry guns?”
Of course no one answered,or maybe their violence was answer enough. He was yanked out of the highly uncomfortable plastic chair, slammed face-down on the table and cuffed.
“Neal Caffrey, you’re under arrest.”
Neal sighed again. There was a reason why he hated bureaucracy, despite his legitimate employment with an agency that had “Bureau” as its middle name. They push-pulled him out of the room and frog-marched him down a brightly light private corridor. "Guys – no need for this, I’m not struggling, see?"
They ignored him – or rather, they shoved him against the wall hard enough to make his ears ring.
The corridor was endless and Neal started to worry. He knew all about travelers getting caught up in legal limbo, detained in airports without access to anyone or anything for months.
They finally reached the end of the corridor and he was again slammed against a wall while they waited for a door to open. It wasn’t a cell, but what looked like an interrogation room. The chair and table were sturdy – they had to be because they had built-in shackles. Neal barely managed to keep quiet when they did the whole guns-pointed thing again, exchanging the handcuffs for the ones attached to the table, then adding ones around his ankles.
He held his breath as someone slammed a telephone down on the table. “Just so you can’t say we’re violating your civil rights, Mr. Caffrey, you can make one phone call.”
Neal knew he probably should just make the call, but he couldn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. “You’ve make a big mistake.”
The woman stared at him. “Oh? You’re not Neal Caffrey, wanted for art theft, forgery, counterfeiting, racketeering, fraud.” She dropped a file on the table, next to the phone – and there he was in all his pre-prison glory. Neal carefully flipped through the pages and was relieved at the contents. It was all old news.
“That Red Notice should have been pulled ten years ago. I was tried and cleared on almost all of these charges.”
“Really?” The woman’s skepticism was almost a tangible thing.
“Really. In fact, there’s a Certificate of Good Conduct in my wallet, signed by the Director of the FBI.” And Neal knew just how this chilly official was going to respond.
“You seriously expect us to believe that? According to the Red Notice, you’re wanted for several very spectacular forgeries. I doubt that your so-called Certificate of Good Standing is real.” She sniffed. “Make your phone call, but don’t expect to be going anywhere anytime soon.”
The door slammed shut and the lock clicked with a foreboding thud. Neal contemplated his options.
He could call Peter, who’d sort everything out and take a few heads in the process. However, it was nine AM here in London, which meant it was four in the morning in New York. Four in the morning on a Saturday. Not that Peter wouldn’t rush to the office and coordinate his release, except that Neal felt like a teenager who got picked up for speeding and needed to call his dad to fix the problem.
This wasn’t to say that he didn’t have someone who could help him out of this jam. Someone who was probably pacing the Arrivals lounge in ever increasing impatience. He made the call and prayed for a good connection.
“Sara?”
“Neal – where the hell are you.”
“How would you feel about breaking me out of jail, Repo?”
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From:Trick or Treat
Date: 2014-10-27 11:51 pm (UTC)Re: Trick or Treat
Date: 2014-10-29 09:11 pm (UTC)Scratch that, not almost.
Anything – dental surgery, taking his dog for a de-worming, getting audited by the IRS – was going to be better than what was coming up on his calendar in the next ten minutes.
Neal Caffrey’s annual performance review.
Two years ago, when he agreed to manage Neal, he had no clue how bad it could be. Oh, he’d been warned. Reese Hughes, who headed Finance, said that Caffrey was a thief. A charming thief, though. Diana, the company’s Director of Security Services, said that Neal was crazy and a masochist and had the impulse control of a three year old. Even the company president, his boss, the company president – Theodore “Mozzie” White – warned him that he now had the hardest job in the company.
Peter hadn’t believed any of them. The first year was okay. Peter had actually liked Neal. He found the young man smart and personable and seemingly eager to be the best employee in the company.
So he’d given Neal the benefit of the doubt and probably went too soft on him in last year’s review. Not that it mattered, of course. Neal was the boss’ stepson and no matter how badly he screwed up, no matter how many people he pissed off, no one could fire him.
Peter had agonized over the write up for nearly a month. He didn’t want to be mean or petty, but there were things that he couldn’t overlook. Like the critical work that didn’t get finished because Neal had an “unbreakable” appointment with his tailor, or the voicemail he left for the head buyer of their biggest client, where he almost pornographically praised her taste in wine, art and couture underwear. Except that he’d accidentally dialed that company’s Human Resources VP. Moz had to do a lot of feather-smoothing to fix that relationship.
Peter knew that Neal didn’t respect him. That he thought that Peter’s management style was a joke. And Peter couldn’t blame the guy. He wasn’t a good manager, he lacked that certain skill. Peter always preferred being an “individual contributor” with no staff, no direct reports. Working at White Industries as the head of R&D and reporting to Moz had been a dream job. But Moz was at his wit’s end with Neal. The young man had bounced between departments since he’d graduated Harvard summa cum laude almost fifteen years ago, drawing a high salary and doing nothing but making trouble for everyone else.
A knock on his door interrupted Peter’s increasingly morose train of thought. It was Neal, and the man didn’t look happy.
Peter gestured for Neal to take a seat. He didn’t say a word, but he noticed how Neal’s hands were shaking. Oh, Neal Caffrey wasn’t happy at all. He pulled Peter’s written review out of his jacket and tossed it on the desk. “What the hell is this? You gave me a “Meets Expectations” rating! That’s so unfair.”
“Neal – “
“No one’s ever rated me that low. I thought we worked well together. None of my other managers ever gave me less than an Outstanding. I’m going to complain to Moz about this.”
Neal kept babbling, getting more and more worked up, attacking every aspect of the review. But Peter was going to stand his ground. When Neal finally paused to take a breath, he jumped in.
“I don’t think complaining to Mr. White will do any good. He’s seen the review and he’s signed off on it.” Peter didn’t tell Neal that Moz suggested he change the “NI” rating to at least an “Exceeds Expectations”. They’d finally compromised the “Meets Expectations”.
Neal didn’t say anything; his truculent expression spoke volumes, though.
Peter sighed. “We’re stuck with each other, Neal. And face it – you’ve worn out your welcome in every other department.”
Neal still didn’t respond. Peter wondered if the man knew that when he pouted, he looked like he was twelve.
They sat there, staring at each other. Neal broke first, his frown slowly transforming into one of his patented “I’m so wonderful” smiles. “You’re a real hard ass, Peter Burke. I like that.” Neal picked a pen up and signed the review. “I’d say I’d promise to improve, but we both know that’s not going to happen. And besides, it’s not like you can fire me, right?”
Re: Trick or Treat
From:Re: Trick or Treat
From:very late T or T
Date: 2014-10-28 08:36 pm (UTC)Re: very late T or T - Part One
Date: 2014-10-30 09:27 pm (UTC)Neal didn’t sigh. He didn’t give him that look – the one that said, You’re doing this, don’t argue. He just said, “You’re getting married.”
“I could get married just as easily in my Birthday Suit.” Peter grinned and the clerk who just brought them coffee let out a shocked gasp and fled the room.
“Yes, your Birthday Suit is lovely. But this occasion requires something a little more … special.”
Peter was about to point out that he’d gone through sartorial hell for that suit – four fittings, plus several hours listening to Neal and the tailor discuss fabrics and cut and a thousand other details that went into the creation of a custom suit. Frankly, he couldn’t understand why Neal shuddered when he mentioned Brooks Brothers, but after thirty years, he knew better than to try and figure it out. Fine clothes, custom tailored were as much a part of Neal as Opening Day at Yankee Stadium were a part of him.
But four grand for a tuxedo he might wear twice a year seemed a little extreme and worth at least a token protest. “Neal – ”
“Peter, you’re getting married. To me. That deserves something better than a rent-a-suit.”
“I didn’t say I’d rent a tux – have I ever?”
Neal grinned, “Well, there was the senior dance at Harvard.”
“That was 1987, and if I recall, you rented a tux, too. We both looked like idiots.”
“Actually, we looked like escapees from a Young Republicans convention, which might be the same thing. And regardless, you’re not renting a ‘monkey suit’ for our wedding.”
Peter shook his head. “You didn’t listen to me – I didn’t say I was going to rent a tux. I have a perfectly fine one in the closet, if you are insisting on formal wear.”
“A tuxedo you put on for the annual Bureau Commendation Dinner is not a tuxedo to get married in. Besides, that was off the rack from Brooks Brothers.” And right on cue, Neal shuddered.
“Okay, maybe it’s not something to get married in, but there has to be a happy medium between a four thousand dollar custom made suit and something off the rake. We can go to Barney’s. You like Bergdorf’s.” Peter smiled, feeling like he’d just scored a game winning walk-off home run in the seventh game of the World Series.
Neal didn’t answer, but he pulled out his smart phone and called up something. “This is what you’ll find at Bergdorf Goodman’s” He showed Peter.
And it was Peter’s turn to shudder. There were about a dozen different tuxedos on the page, four were in the loudest and ugliest plaids he’d ever seen, one had tie-dye across the front that looked like vomit, one was made entirely out of acid-washed denim, and the rest were uglier than the one that he’d rented back in ’87. “Okay, what about Barney’s?”
“Peter – a tux from Barney’s won’t be any less expensive. Stop fussing, okay?”
“This matters to you.” Peter reached out and pulled Neal into his arms.
Re: very late T or T - Part Two
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From:no subject
Date: 2014-10-31 04:27 pm (UTC)And I'm with Olena - we need kilt porn!
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Date: 2014-10-31 09:45 pm (UTC)