Kid-Liz-Patty is an OT3 best left to the professionals (Nenena, Cake/Rupee), I think, but the LJ Kink Meme mentioned Kid and Patty in a closet and I am (apparently) just hopelessly endeared to the idea of dysfunctional!porn.
It may not be entirely IC (in my defense, Kid is HARD to write), but I've made no claims about having any grasp of these characters whatsoever, so I think we'll just leave it at that.
This is just Kid/Patty (in pairs these three are slightly easier to deal with --which isn't saying much because they are damn difficult to portray), and I think it should be understood that this isn't their first time, and Liz is not excluded from this aspect of their tripartite relationship; she's just not in the broomcloset. I'm going to (maybe) attempt later to fit Liz into the equation. We'll see.
Technical notes: I am parentheses-and-semi-colon-crazy. You have been warned.
Kid is almost completely incapable of being entirely 'in the moment' (as the saying absurdly goes; he's never been particularly fond of aphorisms as it is –he prefers to keep his lexicon clean and precise, as free of ambiguity as possible), but then Patty is dragging him into a broom closet and laughingly pulling the door closed behind them, and he is able to forget (for an instant or twelve, for at least as long as it takes the darkness to wrap neatly and decidedly around the image of an ancient mop accosting a perfectly amiable-looking vacuum cleaner, which is unfortunately posited at a horrifying angle against a row of small shelves, upon which all manner of disinfectant and sanitizer and various and sundry other cleaning products are arrayed in a haphazardly chaotic configuration--) that he has, perhaps, made an imprecise fold in the hospital creases of his bedding when her tiny, cool, questing fingers go into Prestidigitation Mode and the infectious quality of her laughter effervesces in the darkness as she leans forward to plant an unequivocally inelegant kiss against his lips.
Patty is all soft curves and giggling sexuality, mashed in with a bit of endearing clumsiness and adventurous enthusiasm; her ministrations are unsettlingly thorough, however, and his mind careens in a way not unlike it does when he thinks back on the destruction of the Pyramid of Anubis at the thought that his sunny, blue-eyed Patty has maybe done these things before, with Others. He abruptly –and decidedly—terminates that line of thinking, a feat he is capable of performing only when it comes to the Thompson sisters' past; he refuses to cheapen their hardships by allowing himself to speculate what those hardships might have been. He knows better than to trust his painfully vivid and wildly madcap imagination with his weapons. When –and if—they are eventually ready to tell him about their prehistory (the time when they were two and one instead of three), they will do so of their own volition, and that is the end of the matter. (He has tried to extend this particular talent to his other obsessions, thus far with dishearteningly minimal success.)
Still, Kid is hesitant (the preternatural caution impulses inherent to his person collude with his more unique, compulsive anxieties to make the idea of touching –usually—wholly uncomfortable, for more reasons than he cares to enumerate) because he wants to please her, wants desperately to accord her the experience, the reverence she deserves, because he is most weak in these vulnerable moments when he feels he should be strongest, and he is terrified that even blissfully oblivious, unflappably cheerful Patty will see right through him, and she will know him for the unworthy coward he is (and she will laugh at him, and she will leave him). Nevertheless, with the almost laughably slight coercion of the softness of her body meeting his, he has her name on his lips and his tongue in her mouth, and he is only distantly cognizant of the disorderly state in which they are going to be left when this is all over.
Patty smells like floor polish (an image of her skating across the foyer on sudsy-sponge-footware, arms flung wide, flashes across his mind's eye) and gunpowder (which has never ceased to be a curiosity; she and her sister require neither conventional bullets nor any of the trappings associated with normal guns), and tastes like clear mornings and also vaguely of bubblegum. He suspects that this means she's been chewing it recently, and wonders off-handedly if she remembered to pull out two sticks instead of just one or three; the girl cannot for the life of her seem to get a handle on the concept of actions predicated by even numbers and/or careful thought—
Kid cannot stop the cry that escapes him when Patty's hands suddenly, brusquely steal past the barriers of clothing and close around him, squeezing as a peal of brilliant laughter erupts in the gloom near where his head has tilted back, and kneading eagerly until the only thought in his mind is that this feels so good. He is conscious of the sadistic smile that curves against his neck only after it has been supplanted with teeth (which follows the silly and adorably incongruous sound of a very feline-like growl), and then it takes several seconds for his brain to catch up with all of the simultaneously conflicting sensations.
Patty is more keenly attuned to his peculiar deficiencies than she realizes, he ruminates briefly, in between blinding waves of sensation, oddly reflective that she has the most extraordinary sense for when his mind begins –inexplicably, frustratingly—to wander, and certainly a most impressive knack for pulling him –sometimes literally—back 'into the moment,' as it were, where the only things that exist are the things he can feel (the sound of her laughter, warmly omnipresent, is also real, but in a far more uncomfortably abstract sort of way).
Kid gropes blindly in the darkness for Patty and encounters the delicate nape of her neck, tapering into the elegant camber of her spine, and her breasts, perfectly symmetrical (unto themselves if not with her sister's) and wonderfully supple, and the curve of her hip, which peeks unabashedly from the hem of her low-riding, billowed shorts. His fingers are confidently deft as they dance beneath the hem and curl into her, and she emits a pleased squeal that spirals into his brain and renders him temporarily stupid. Patty happily takes the opportunity to tug at clothing, and the insensate Kid is hardly aware of what's going on until the heat of her surrounds him, and then he's reacting –for once—purely out of instinct, setting their rhythm while he sinks jarringly to his knees, holding her gently, firmly against him, afraid, so desperately afraid he's hurt her in their short tumble until she presses a chaste kiss to his temple and then threatens him with horribly unpleasant retribution if he doesn't get his ass moving. He obliges immediately, something that feels like a smile playing at his lips.
The crux of Kid's malfunction rests on meticulous order, careful routine, and comfortable, exacting familiarity; Patty is a disruptive element in his life because he never knows what to expect from her, but he needs her, he loves her, uncompromisingly, unconditionally, and he accepts the unpredictability of her person just as easily as she seems to accept him in all his indisputably somewhat cracked glory. These are the moments, openly exposed and frightening as they are, that he is able also to accept that he cannot always seek to control his environment, that things will most definitely Not be going According to Plan, that the chaos of 'the moment' is both necessary and desired. And this, this moment, when he surrenders to forces of the Universe higher and more fundamental than even the fact of his godhood, symmetry means nothing more than balance, and theirs is delightfully precarious in the moment as the world explodes between them.
Oh-ho, Verbosity. You win again.
Time for Consolation Chocolate.