fic: Getting A Hall Pass
Title: Getting A Hall Pass
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 4,200
Disclaimer: Real people, no owners. No profit made, don't sue. This is fiction, lies, not true, etc.
Author's Note: For my kink bingo prompt "Dirty Talk". I'm always uncomfortable writing that, go figure, so I took some creative liberties. I'm pretty sure it still counts, though. On an interesting side note: the title came from an informational "how to" article about three or four results down when you Google "dirty talk". It's about the author describing their boyfriend says, "Girls don't like certain words, do they?" and the author says, "No, we don't but when someone asks you to talk dirty it's like getting a hall pass," and I thought that was one of the funniest things I'd read all day, so it's the title, even if it's basically not applicable at all.
Kris knows he may be the only person in the modern world who still believes in it, but he writes letters. Oh, he'll text too, and call and email and tweet, but he writes letters first. It's something about the writing on the page, a slow swirl of letters that he knows took time, that he thinks conveys more sentiment than a regular type, identical no matter who produces it. He's not picky about paper, it can be notebook, lined or not, linen, vellum, napkins from a diner. He doesn't care about pens, either, ballpoint or gel, pencils mechanical or good old graphite and wood. All he cares about is that he has something to write with and write on.
Letters are slow, so by the time they're sent and read he might have spoken to the recipient already. They'll already know about the more recent developments, upcoming events and anything pressing he has to say to them. He's not going to stop writing, though, so instead he ends up writing anecdotes, funny or personal or even made up, but they all mean something to him, to (he hopes) the people he writes them to.
Adam never makes fun of him. Kris doesn't tell many people but he had told Adam, late one night when Adam still didn't ask what was with pen scratching across pages and pages of paper, day after day. He didn't ask so Kris started talking, complaining about never having enough to write about and modern communication being all about technology. Adam listens and only laughs at him a little, so Kris counts it as a win and from then on Adam's a subject in most of his letters. It's safe for Kris because Adam never asks to read them, but Kris edits what he writes, anyway.
When Adam wants to make sure Kris knows he's sincere, he writes him little notes. They're anything from Cheer up! with a funny squiggly smile next to it to Sometimes, I hate the world when he's upset but won't tell anyone, not even Kris, what's caused it. He always leaves the last ones out right before he goes to the bathroom or to an interview or before Kris has to leave, so that Kris can read them but they're never together right after. Kris keeps all of them, not neat and ordered but thrown everywhere, squashed amongst his clothes and lining the bottom of his bag and a couple, at least, in every pocket of all his clothes.
Adam gets his letters and notes fetish, is the thing, knows that the whole point is them being as personal as possible, which is how Kris knows the bad ones aren't from him. They're typewritten, tiny little slips of paper printed from a computer and cut sloppily to fit the text on them. From an outside perspective, it'd be the same ritual with just one little detail changed, but it's exactly enough for Kris to hate them. They're delivered the same way as Adam's, just slipped in front of his eyes on his daily routines, and it's worrying more than anything because it makes Kris realize that whoever wrote the new ones have actually been paying attention.
The first one says simply your hands on buttons and zippers and strings and Kris has no idea what it means. He throws it away, he won't keep it with the letters in boxes or the notes scattered everywhere.
The next ones come in quick succession, one that's never lie with your smile and followed with promise? One that's patience and humor and pretty, pretty eyes and the last one that's matching palette of middle-ground boredom.
They piss Kris off. He can't figure out if someone's trying to be cute or rude, except the last one isn't anything but insulting, probably, and either way whoever it is is being just plain creepy.
Adam leaves one, handwritten, on his pillow. What's with the notes? and Kris waits until he sees him next to throw it at his head, joking.
"It's weird," Kris mentions to Adam a week later, when the notes keep coming. They say things like ugly clothes, misleading visuals and I've always been shit at poetry, because poetry sucks. I almost failed my senior english class.
"Why?" Adam asks, and "Can I see them?" when Kris tries to explain what they contain but fails.
"I throw them all away," Kris says.
"So if it bothers you, why don't you tell anyone?"
"I am," Kris points out.
"I don't count," Adam tells him, and nudges his shoulder. "Does it really bother you?"
"Yeah, I guess," Kris says. "It's like having a stalker."
"But one who's got the hots for you," Adam says brightly. "It could be awesome."
"They aren't notes like that," Kris says.
"Yeah, they are," Adam says confidently. "If they weren't, you wouldn't be so bothered by them."
Kris thinks Adam might be right, so he doesn't read them when they appear the next couple of days. Instead, every time he finds one, he calls Adam over and makes him throw it away, or hides it in a ball in his pocket until Adam will take it somewhere for him. If he holds them in his hand for more than a couple of seconds he invariably reads them, because they're only a few lines and it's harder to avoid than it should be.
After a while they taper off, and when the tour ends Kris hasn't gotten one for nearly a month. He says goodbye to everyone, some more grudgingly than others, and he buys a small, comfy condo that came pre-decorated and is far enough from bright lights and famous people that he usually manages to avoid feeling too homesick.
Once he's settled they show up again. This time they're plain postcards, addressed with print-out stick-on labels you can get at any Kinko's or even do yourself, if you're good with templates and buy the right paper. They have no return address, obviously, but now they're more emotional, as much as type on generic postcards can be. The font changes, sometimes it's large or small and sometimes it's blue or purple or grey, almost too light to see. Around Christmas they're all printed green and red, and they're almost a staple of Kris' daily life, coming every other day, never less but sometimes more.
Kris thinks he can tell how bad a day the person's had, based on the postcards, because the worst day he gets almost twenty and they don't have more than a word or two each, spiteful phrases and nasty names. Kris knows they aren't aimed at him, not because he's going off of some intuition or something but because the last one in the stack says Sorry. PS its not you.
He doesn't get another one for three days, and when he does it says i<3u. It doesn't make sense when he first looks at it, and he has to look it up on the internet, but he rolls his eyes when he figures it out. It's the first one he keeps, and the first one he shows Adam.
It's not like he thinks about it deliberately, stores it in his pocket to drag out, but Adam calls him and Kris mentions the notes and Adam says, "Meet me for dinner," so Kris does.
He has it with him and when he shows Adam he's feeling almost defensive. This, whatever it is, is quite definitely his, and Adam could ruin it. Should ruin it, Kris knows, this is probably going too far, but Adam thumbs the edges of the card gently and then holds it back out to him. He just asks, "You're keeping them?"
"No," Kris says, and, "Not until now. I don't think I can throw this one away."
"Do you want me to do it for you?" Adam offers, because he did it all for a while, but Kris shakes his head a little too hard and folds his hands over it. Adam says, "You said it was weird, when it started."
"It still is," Kris admits, because there's no way out of that one, "But I started liking it anyway."
Adam nods and smiles like he understands, even though Kris can tell he doesn't. He also doesn't say anything, not to anyone, even though Kris has people that are supposed to go through his mail and keep away the creepy fan stuff. It's probably only not creepy because they never ask about Kris, never tell him anything personal about him. He knows all about them, whoever they are, from their first goldfish that was won for free from the school fair but was special enough to warrant buying almost a hundred bucks worth of fish supplies to the nightmare they had last Tuesday.
After i<3u the notes stop for almost two weeks. Kris wonders if that's it, if that's what they were leading up to the entire time, and he's not quite disappointed but he almost is.
Then it's Thursday and it's an entire letter, like they couldn't fit it onto a postcard. Kris almost destroys the envelope he opens it so fast, and the first line says I couldn't find a postcard big enough. Kris starts laughing so hard he thinks he's going to choke, and really starts to worry he's gotten too invested in all of this. But the next line says I had a dream last night. Kris wonders if this is another zombie dream, it's a common theme for the poor person, and he flips the page because that's all the letters on the first page say, just those two sentences. The second page's where it really gets good, and Kris fumbles his way to sitting and reads slowly.
I know what you look like. Not in the creepy way, like I want to wear your skin. I do, in a way, but only if you want to take poetic licenses and use crappy metaphors. More directly, I want to wear you.
You is underlined forcefully with black pen, like they'd forgotten to do it before printing the page but it was really important anyway.
But I know what you look like, and I had a dream. It's probably pretty easy to see where these two are going, how they're connected: I had a dream about you, and I know it was you because I know what you look like. What might not be so easy to see is why this is such a big deal, but it is for me. When I dream, I never see faces. I usually don't even get skin tones or voices, never mind names and facts and emotions, but I did last night. I got you.
I don't know where we were. It was somewhere we probably shouldn't have been, because I felt like there were people waiting, like we shouldn't be doing anything but couldn't help it. You cared more about being rude, or being found out, than I did, so at least my dreams are accurate. Anyway, there was this couch, wherever we were, and it's was one of the good ones, you know? Leather and soft and sticky to the touch, almost, expensive and gorgeous and pretty morally objectionable. Easy to clean, which is why I think my subconscious picked that furnishing.
Like I said, I don't know where we were, because you were just in a t-shirt and jeans, completely dressed down, but I wasn't. I had make up and paint all over me, not just like Halloween but like Mardi Gras; I had it all over me, every inch, and it got on everything I touched. That was the important part, you know.
Because I was touching you. I had you pliant, letting me undress you, and your simple white shirt was every color I could imagine, neon greens and oranges and splashes of black and glitter-gold where I tugged and yanked to get it off of you, needing skin. I left your jeans on, at first, painted all over you. I left handprints, first marks of mine on your shoulders and ribs and one, spread wide, right across your left hip. You let me, just looked down and watched me paint you colors, patient because you wanted it, too.
Kris drops the letter, drags his hands up to dig his palms into his eyes. His heart rate's up, adrenaline, just adrenaline, and he grabs his phone to call Adam, to ask what the line between stalking and admiration is, what the line between flirtation and invasion is. At the end Kris is quiet for six, seven, eight seconds before he says quickly, before he hangs up, "You were right. About the notes and the having the hots thing."
Have I made you nervous yet? The next paragraph asks, and Kris twitches hard enough in surprise that his chair bumps a little on the floor.
It didn't stop there. I used my mouth next, kissed you over and over until your lips and tongue and teeth showed purple and silver and red, red, red. Then I kissed you everywhere else, pushed you down on the couch so I could get at your skin. I sucked your fingers into my mouth, got them wet, and when I was done with them they were dyed all in pastels, like easter eggs.
Kris laughs a little, desperately and trying to distance himself, but he drops his elbows to the counter and leans closer to the letter.
I didn't roll you over, though I think I should have. I would've liked to lick marks into every vertebrae of your spine. I would've started at the top, tilted your head forward and held you still while I went from your neck all the way down, stopping frustrated at your jeans when I couldn't go further. But I didn't do your back, I just did your front, and when I got to your pants you were already hard under them, obvious, and I slid my hands and mouth all over you, ruining your clothes. You didn't mind, except it meant I wouldn't let you take them off quick enough.
When I was done with that you sat up, pushed at my clothes and the rest of yours like you were desperate. I didn't get to mark up your underwear, and I teased you for it. You smacked my shoulder, and your hand came away smeared yellow.
Kris knows that's almost exactly what he'd do, except he's insane for even thinking about it because this whole thing is nuts, somebody fantasizing about leaking colors onto his skin, and it shouldn't be the hottest thing he's ever read. It shouldn't be making him desperate like the first time he saw the wrong type of movie.
You were naked, and because it's my dream I was too, even though I swear I was wearing clothes just before. I didn't wait, when your pants were gone, just grabbed and stroked you. It left white swirls, like snow on windows, and it was the hottest thing at the time, even though now I think, winter weather doesn't equal greatest conditions for that, you know?
My dream got fizzier, now, because you were making noises and touching me, but I don't know what you'd sound like or act like, and it was harder to fill in the details. I think you'd be pretty easy. Not in the way that you sleep with anyone, but in the way that when someone does get you in to bed, you're pretty much golden for anything. I want to find out, sometime. I bet I'm right - after all, you're still reading this.
Kris can feel his face turning red and he's glad it's the end of the page. It feels like it's given him a short break, just a moment to slow down and sit back on the chair so he isn't balanced all the way forward and about to fall off.
I went from your cock down to your ass the paper says, and Kris barely even registers that it's pretty much proof the writer's a guy. He'd been assuming that for months, maybe a little bit sexist but he hadn't thought a girl would be this forward.
You weren't a virgin, despite the fact that I bed you are in real life. But in my dream we'd done this before, we did it all the time, and you knew just how to get your legs as far apart as you could, hooked on knee all the way up over the back of the couch and dropped the other foot to the floor. You looked gorgeous. Took my fingers real well, too, even got pissy and impatient when I tried to tease you and wouldn't give you three. That's what I like, by the way. I like teasing and pulling people apart, fingering and licking and talking until getting fucked could almost be secondary.
I'll want to fuck you the first time, I won't be able to stop myself, but after that, maybe even right after, I want roll you on your stomach and spread you open and rim you for hours, until you come from that and are so desperate you'll finger yourself when I ask. I like watching almost as much as I like doing it. Would you let me use toys? I think you would.
I think you'd let me do anything.
When you were open I moved between your legs, kissed you again becauseit'd been too long while I slid inside you. You were pretty bossy, actually, cute, and demanding. If I'd been thinking about it, maybe I would've had you ride me.
Kris is shaking, he's wound so tight, and he's hard. It's not news, he's been hard, but he's shifting a little in his seat and gripping the paper tight so he doesn't reach down, reach down and pull himself out and get off to words written by a guy who might come by and kill him tomorrow. The rate this is going, though, he'd probably be more for the sex slave route and Kris couldn't honestly say he'd be entirely opposed, right now. He drags a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp, and his nerves spark at it, sensitized like too much foreplay.
You came first. I'd make sure you did, unless I wanted to come inside you and lick it out. You were loud, and it was just a dream because I think you'd be quiet, loud breaths and soft noises, trying not to show how much you want it even though it'll be horribly obvious in every other way. I think I'll even like it, not just because I like everything about you, but because it means I can try to see how loud I can make you.
When we were done we had to get back into our clothes and it was horrible. You were so angry with me for getting yours all stained, embarrassed that there was no way you'd be able to lie and convince anyone we hadn't been doing what they all think we were. The couch was a mess and you were worried about it, sorry someone would have to clean it up, but like I said: it was leather, and the paint wiped off like water. It wasn't even sticky, but for some reason it stayed on you. All over, like you were me (even though my paint was all intact) or a canvas.
And that's it, I think, the main point of the dream. No matter what else, I want you to be my canvas.
The doorbell rings and Kris scrambles up, goes to get it. It's dark outside, has creeped down to night while he reads and rereads paragraphs filthier than any porn he's ever seen. He fumbles for the doorknob, misses, and it's lighter inside than it is out so he can't see who it is. Right now, he doesn't care.
"You okay?" Adam asks teasingly when Kris gets the door open, but his smile gentles when Kris swallows a couple of times and doesn't answer, can't get his eyes less wide. Adam pushes past him, gently, but Kris jumps like it hurt and stumbles into the door when he shuts it.
"Okay," Adam says slowly. "What's up?"
"Another," Kris stops and clears his throat. "Another note, but a letter, this time." He pulls it further from Adam, even though he's made no move towards it. "I really have to throw it away."
"So throw it away," Adam says levelly, almost like he gets the gravity of the situation.
Kris chews on his lips, frantically, to fidget and give himself something to do while Adam watches him too closely. Kris can't share this, he can't, but he can't get rid of it, either.
Adam says, "Your mouth's all raw," and reaches out to thumb his lower lip from between his teeth, "Red," he finishes, vaguely and slightly dreamy.
Kris says, "No, no," shaking his head, and, "I hate anything that's not handwritten, I hate it," over and over.
"I know," Adam says, "But you know my handwriting too well."
Kris makes a noise and Adam grabs his shoulders, hauls him closer. "You always knew it was me," Adam says, and shakes his head when Kris makes a face and starts to argue. "If you didn't know it was me, at least a little, you'd have tried to figure out who it actually was."
Kris privately thinks he's just not that clever; he didn't even think to find the source, not until now. But Adam seems pretty certain about Kris and he's so pleased with it, Kris doesn't do anything but let it go. Instead he says, "This wasn't fair," not whining but pointing it out, just saying.
"Aw," Adam says, but he's smiling, "Poor baby." He smiles slowly. "What'd you think of the last one?"
Kris opens his mouth and shuts it again. He could talk, he could, but he'd probably stutter or squeak because he's breathing too fast and he's been hard for hours, jesus, and Adam's ego does not need the help. "Fucking months," Kris says instead.
"Oh, no," Adam shakes his head. "Longer than that."
"How about," Kris says, and jerks around towards the stairs.
"Did you finish it?" Adam asks, pausing him with a hand on his elbow.
Kris blinks at him. "What?"
"Did you finish?" Adam repeats, nodding down at the papers crumpled in Kris' left hand.
"No," Kris admits. "I kept stopping. But no," and Adam makes a face at him.
"The last page is the best."
"Why?" Kris asks, even though he knows it's a bad idea. "What's on it?" He goes to look but Adam snatches it, crumples it and throws it into the guest bathroom a little ways down. He misses the trash can.
"Oh, no," he says. "Too late. I gave you two hours from when your mail's delivered, I don't know how it took you this long."
"You know when my mail's delivered?" Kris asks. "That really is kind of creepy, I don't even know when my mail's delivered," but he's craning his head towards the bathroom still. Adam pulls him away, and Kris isn't curious enough to argue. Not even close.
"Tell you what," Adam says softly, conspiratorially as he crowds up behind him up the stairs. "I will write out anything you want, that whole thing, everything I've ever wanted to do and will want to do to you."
"Um, yeah," Kris says. "But do you want me to get you, like, food dye in return?"
"Yes! See?" Adam says gleefully as he turns Kris around and goes for his buttons. "I knew this would work. Though fingerpaints would probably be better. I can write with them on you," like this is the best idea in the history of ever.
"Oh, yeah," Kris says dryly, not flushing or grabbing at Adam's shoulders hard when he pushes him back to the bed and goes for his jeans. "Combining the two, how perfect."
Except it really is, probably.
End.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 4,200
Disclaimer: Real people, no owners. No profit made, don't sue. This is fiction, lies, not true, etc.
Author's Note: For my kink bingo prompt "Dirty Talk". I'm always uncomfortable writing that, go figure, so I took some creative liberties. I'm pretty sure it still counts, though. On an interesting side note: the title came from an informational "how to" article about three or four results down when you Google "dirty talk". It's about the author describing their boyfriend says, "Girls don't like certain words, do they?" and the author says, "No, we don't but when someone asks you to talk dirty it's like getting a hall pass," and I thought that was one of the funniest things I'd read all day, so it's the title, even if it's basically not applicable at all.
Kris knows he may be the only person in the modern world who still believes in it, but he writes letters. Oh, he'll text too, and call and email and tweet, but he writes letters first. It's something about the writing on the page, a slow swirl of letters that he knows took time, that he thinks conveys more sentiment than a regular type, identical no matter who produces it. He's not picky about paper, it can be notebook, lined or not, linen, vellum, napkins from a diner. He doesn't care about pens, either, ballpoint or gel, pencils mechanical or good old graphite and wood. All he cares about is that he has something to write with and write on.
Letters are slow, so by the time they're sent and read he might have spoken to the recipient already. They'll already know about the more recent developments, upcoming events and anything pressing he has to say to them. He's not going to stop writing, though, so instead he ends up writing anecdotes, funny or personal or even made up, but they all mean something to him, to (he hopes) the people he writes them to.
Adam never makes fun of him. Kris doesn't tell many people but he had told Adam, late one night when Adam still didn't ask what was with pen scratching across pages and pages of paper, day after day. He didn't ask so Kris started talking, complaining about never having enough to write about and modern communication being all about technology. Adam listens and only laughs at him a little, so Kris counts it as a win and from then on Adam's a subject in most of his letters. It's safe for Kris because Adam never asks to read them, but Kris edits what he writes, anyway.
When Adam wants to make sure Kris knows he's sincere, he writes him little notes. They're anything from Cheer up! with a funny squiggly smile next to it to Sometimes, I hate the world when he's upset but won't tell anyone, not even Kris, what's caused it. He always leaves the last ones out right before he goes to the bathroom or to an interview or before Kris has to leave, so that Kris can read them but they're never together right after. Kris keeps all of them, not neat and ordered but thrown everywhere, squashed amongst his clothes and lining the bottom of his bag and a couple, at least, in every pocket of all his clothes.
Adam gets his letters and notes fetish, is the thing, knows that the whole point is them being as personal as possible, which is how Kris knows the bad ones aren't from him. They're typewritten, tiny little slips of paper printed from a computer and cut sloppily to fit the text on them. From an outside perspective, it'd be the same ritual with just one little detail changed, but it's exactly enough for Kris to hate them. They're delivered the same way as Adam's, just slipped in front of his eyes on his daily routines, and it's worrying more than anything because it makes Kris realize that whoever wrote the new ones have actually been paying attention.
The first one says simply your hands on buttons and zippers and strings and Kris has no idea what it means. He throws it away, he won't keep it with the letters in boxes or the notes scattered everywhere.
The next ones come in quick succession, one that's never lie with your smile and followed with promise? One that's patience and humor and pretty, pretty eyes and the last one that's matching palette of middle-ground boredom.
They piss Kris off. He can't figure out if someone's trying to be cute or rude, except the last one isn't anything but insulting, probably, and either way whoever it is is being just plain creepy.
Adam leaves one, handwritten, on his pillow. What's with the notes? and Kris waits until he sees him next to throw it at his head, joking.
"It's weird," Kris mentions to Adam a week later, when the notes keep coming. They say things like ugly clothes, misleading visuals and I've always been shit at poetry, because poetry sucks. I almost failed my senior english class.
"Why?" Adam asks, and "Can I see them?" when Kris tries to explain what they contain but fails.
"I throw them all away," Kris says.
"So if it bothers you, why don't you tell anyone?"
"I am," Kris points out.
"I don't count," Adam tells him, and nudges his shoulder. "Does it really bother you?"
"Yeah, I guess," Kris says. "It's like having a stalker."
"But one who's got the hots for you," Adam says brightly. "It could be awesome."
"They aren't notes like that," Kris says.
"Yeah, they are," Adam says confidently. "If they weren't, you wouldn't be so bothered by them."
Kris thinks Adam might be right, so he doesn't read them when they appear the next couple of days. Instead, every time he finds one, he calls Adam over and makes him throw it away, or hides it in a ball in his pocket until Adam will take it somewhere for him. If he holds them in his hand for more than a couple of seconds he invariably reads them, because they're only a few lines and it's harder to avoid than it should be.
After a while they taper off, and when the tour ends Kris hasn't gotten one for nearly a month. He says goodbye to everyone, some more grudgingly than others, and he buys a small, comfy condo that came pre-decorated and is far enough from bright lights and famous people that he usually manages to avoid feeling too homesick.
Once he's settled they show up again. This time they're plain postcards, addressed with print-out stick-on labels you can get at any Kinko's or even do yourself, if you're good with templates and buy the right paper. They have no return address, obviously, but now they're more emotional, as much as type on generic postcards can be. The font changes, sometimes it's large or small and sometimes it's blue or purple or grey, almost too light to see. Around Christmas they're all printed green and red, and they're almost a staple of Kris' daily life, coming every other day, never less but sometimes more.
Kris thinks he can tell how bad a day the person's had, based on the postcards, because the worst day he gets almost twenty and they don't have more than a word or two each, spiteful phrases and nasty names. Kris knows they aren't aimed at him, not because he's going off of some intuition or something but because the last one in the stack says Sorry. PS its not you.
He doesn't get another one for three days, and when he does it says i<3u. It doesn't make sense when he first looks at it, and he has to look it up on the internet, but he rolls his eyes when he figures it out. It's the first one he keeps, and the first one he shows Adam.
It's not like he thinks about it deliberately, stores it in his pocket to drag out, but Adam calls him and Kris mentions the notes and Adam says, "Meet me for dinner," so Kris does.
He has it with him and when he shows Adam he's feeling almost defensive. This, whatever it is, is quite definitely his, and Adam could ruin it. Should ruin it, Kris knows, this is probably going too far, but Adam thumbs the edges of the card gently and then holds it back out to him. He just asks, "You're keeping them?"
"No," Kris says, and, "Not until now. I don't think I can throw this one away."
"Do you want me to do it for you?" Adam offers, because he did it all for a while, but Kris shakes his head a little too hard and folds his hands over it. Adam says, "You said it was weird, when it started."
"It still is," Kris admits, because there's no way out of that one, "But I started liking it anyway."
Adam nods and smiles like he understands, even though Kris can tell he doesn't. He also doesn't say anything, not to anyone, even though Kris has people that are supposed to go through his mail and keep away the creepy fan stuff. It's probably only not creepy because they never ask about Kris, never tell him anything personal about him. He knows all about them, whoever they are, from their first goldfish that was won for free from the school fair but was special enough to warrant buying almost a hundred bucks worth of fish supplies to the nightmare they had last Tuesday.
After i<3u the notes stop for almost two weeks. Kris wonders if that's it, if that's what they were leading up to the entire time, and he's not quite disappointed but he almost is.
Then it's Thursday and it's an entire letter, like they couldn't fit it onto a postcard. Kris almost destroys the envelope he opens it so fast, and the first line says I couldn't find a postcard big enough. Kris starts laughing so hard he thinks he's going to choke, and really starts to worry he's gotten too invested in all of this. But the next line says I had a dream last night. Kris wonders if this is another zombie dream, it's a common theme for the poor person, and he flips the page because that's all the letters on the first page say, just those two sentences. The second page's where it really gets good, and Kris fumbles his way to sitting and reads slowly.
I know what you look like. Not in the creepy way, like I want to wear your skin. I do, in a way, but only if you want to take poetic licenses and use crappy metaphors. More directly, I want to wear you.
You is underlined forcefully with black pen, like they'd forgotten to do it before printing the page but it was really important anyway.
But I know what you look like, and I had a dream. It's probably pretty easy to see where these two are going, how they're connected: I had a dream about you, and I know it was you because I know what you look like. What might not be so easy to see is why this is such a big deal, but it is for me. When I dream, I never see faces. I usually don't even get skin tones or voices, never mind names and facts and emotions, but I did last night. I got you.
I don't know where we were. It was somewhere we probably shouldn't have been, because I felt like there were people waiting, like we shouldn't be doing anything but couldn't help it. You cared more about being rude, or being found out, than I did, so at least my dreams are accurate. Anyway, there was this couch, wherever we were, and it's was one of the good ones, you know? Leather and soft and sticky to the touch, almost, expensive and gorgeous and pretty morally objectionable. Easy to clean, which is why I think my subconscious picked that furnishing.
Like I said, I don't know where we were, because you were just in a t-shirt and jeans, completely dressed down, but I wasn't. I had make up and paint all over me, not just like Halloween but like Mardi Gras; I had it all over me, every inch, and it got on everything I touched. That was the important part, you know.
Because I was touching you. I had you pliant, letting me undress you, and your simple white shirt was every color I could imagine, neon greens and oranges and splashes of black and glitter-gold where I tugged and yanked to get it off of you, needing skin. I left your jeans on, at first, painted all over you. I left handprints, first marks of mine on your shoulders and ribs and one, spread wide, right across your left hip. You let me, just looked down and watched me paint you colors, patient because you wanted it, too.
Kris drops the letter, drags his hands up to dig his palms into his eyes. His heart rate's up, adrenaline, just adrenaline, and he grabs his phone to call Adam, to ask what the line between stalking and admiration is, what the line between flirtation and invasion is. At the end Kris is quiet for six, seven, eight seconds before he says quickly, before he hangs up, "You were right. About the notes and the having the hots thing."
Have I made you nervous yet? The next paragraph asks, and Kris twitches hard enough in surprise that his chair bumps a little on the floor.
It didn't stop there. I used my mouth next, kissed you over and over until your lips and tongue and teeth showed purple and silver and red, red, red. Then I kissed you everywhere else, pushed you down on the couch so I could get at your skin. I sucked your fingers into my mouth, got them wet, and when I was done with them they were dyed all in pastels, like easter eggs.
Kris laughs a little, desperately and trying to distance himself, but he drops his elbows to the counter and leans closer to the letter.
I didn't roll you over, though I think I should have. I would've liked to lick marks into every vertebrae of your spine. I would've started at the top, tilted your head forward and held you still while I went from your neck all the way down, stopping frustrated at your jeans when I couldn't go further. But I didn't do your back, I just did your front, and when I got to your pants you were already hard under them, obvious, and I slid my hands and mouth all over you, ruining your clothes. You didn't mind, except it meant I wouldn't let you take them off quick enough.
When I was done with that you sat up, pushed at my clothes and the rest of yours like you were desperate. I didn't get to mark up your underwear, and I teased you for it. You smacked my shoulder, and your hand came away smeared yellow.
Kris knows that's almost exactly what he'd do, except he's insane for even thinking about it because this whole thing is nuts, somebody fantasizing about leaking colors onto his skin, and it shouldn't be the hottest thing he's ever read. It shouldn't be making him desperate like the first time he saw the wrong type of movie.
You were naked, and because it's my dream I was too, even though I swear I was wearing clothes just before. I didn't wait, when your pants were gone, just grabbed and stroked you. It left white swirls, like snow on windows, and it was the hottest thing at the time, even though now I think, winter weather doesn't equal greatest conditions for that, you know?
My dream got fizzier, now, because you were making noises and touching me, but I don't know what you'd sound like or act like, and it was harder to fill in the details. I think you'd be pretty easy. Not in the way that you sleep with anyone, but in the way that when someone does get you in to bed, you're pretty much golden for anything. I want to find out, sometime. I bet I'm right - after all, you're still reading this.
Kris can feel his face turning red and he's glad it's the end of the page. It feels like it's given him a short break, just a moment to slow down and sit back on the chair so he isn't balanced all the way forward and about to fall off.
I went from your cock down to your ass the paper says, and Kris barely even registers that it's pretty much proof the writer's a guy. He'd been assuming that for months, maybe a little bit sexist but he hadn't thought a girl would be this forward.
You weren't a virgin, despite the fact that I bed you are in real life. But in my dream we'd done this before, we did it all the time, and you knew just how to get your legs as far apart as you could, hooked on knee all the way up over the back of the couch and dropped the other foot to the floor. You looked gorgeous. Took my fingers real well, too, even got pissy and impatient when I tried to tease you and wouldn't give you three. That's what I like, by the way. I like teasing and pulling people apart, fingering and licking and talking until getting fucked could almost be secondary.
I'll want to fuck you the first time, I won't be able to stop myself, but after that, maybe even right after, I want roll you on your stomach and spread you open and rim you for hours, until you come from that and are so desperate you'll finger yourself when I ask. I like watching almost as much as I like doing it. Would you let me use toys? I think you would.
I think you'd let me do anything.
When you were open I moved between your legs, kissed you again becauseit'd been too long while I slid inside you. You were pretty bossy, actually, cute, and demanding. If I'd been thinking about it, maybe I would've had you ride me.
Kris is shaking, he's wound so tight, and he's hard. It's not news, he's been hard, but he's shifting a little in his seat and gripping the paper tight so he doesn't reach down, reach down and pull himself out and get off to words written by a guy who might come by and kill him tomorrow. The rate this is going, though, he'd probably be more for the sex slave route and Kris couldn't honestly say he'd be entirely opposed, right now. He drags a hand through his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp, and his nerves spark at it, sensitized like too much foreplay.
You came first. I'd make sure you did, unless I wanted to come inside you and lick it out. You were loud, and it was just a dream because I think you'd be quiet, loud breaths and soft noises, trying not to show how much you want it even though it'll be horribly obvious in every other way. I think I'll even like it, not just because I like everything about you, but because it means I can try to see how loud I can make you.
When we were done we had to get back into our clothes and it was horrible. You were so angry with me for getting yours all stained, embarrassed that there was no way you'd be able to lie and convince anyone we hadn't been doing what they all think we were. The couch was a mess and you were worried about it, sorry someone would have to clean it up, but like I said: it was leather, and the paint wiped off like water. It wasn't even sticky, but for some reason it stayed on you. All over, like you were me (even though my paint was all intact) or a canvas.
And that's it, I think, the main point of the dream. No matter what else, I want you to be my canvas.
The doorbell rings and Kris scrambles up, goes to get it. It's dark outside, has creeped down to night while he reads and rereads paragraphs filthier than any porn he's ever seen. He fumbles for the doorknob, misses, and it's lighter inside than it is out so he can't see who it is. Right now, he doesn't care.
"You okay?" Adam asks teasingly when Kris gets the door open, but his smile gentles when Kris swallows a couple of times and doesn't answer, can't get his eyes less wide. Adam pushes past him, gently, but Kris jumps like it hurt and stumbles into the door when he shuts it.
"Okay," Adam says slowly. "What's up?"
"Another," Kris stops and clears his throat. "Another note, but a letter, this time." He pulls it further from Adam, even though he's made no move towards it. "I really have to throw it away."
"So throw it away," Adam says levelly, almost like he gets the gravity of the situation.
Kris chews on his lips, frantically, to fidget and give himself something to do while Adam watches him too closely. Kris can't share this, he can't, but he can't get rid of it, either.
Adam says, "Your mouth's all raw," and reaches out to thumb his lower lip from between his teeth, "Red," he finishes, vaguely and slightly dreamy.
Kris says, "No, no," shaking his head, and, "I hate anything that's not handwritten, I hate it," over and over.
"I know," Adam says, "But you know my handwriting too well."
Kris makes a noise and Adam grabs his shoulders, hauls him closer. "You always knew it was me," Adam says, and shakes his head when Kris makes a face and starts to argue. "If you didn't know it was me, at least a little, you'd have tried to figure out who it actually was."
Kris privately thinks he's just not that clever; he didn't even think to find the source, not until now. But Adam seems pretty certain about Kris and he's so pleased with it, Kris doesn't do anything but let it go. Instead he says, "This wasn't fair," not whining but pointing it out, just saying.
"Aw," Adam says, but he's smiling, "Poor baby." He smiles slowly. "What'd you think of the last one?"
Kris opens his mouth and shuts it again. He could talk, he could, but he'd probably stutter or squeak because he's breathing too fast and he's been hard for hours, jesus, and Adam's ego does not need the help. "Fucking months," Kris says instead.
"Oh, no," Adam shakes his head. "Longer than that."
"How about," Kris says, and jerks around towards the stairs.
"Did you finish it?" Adam asks, pausing him with a hand on his elbow.
Kris blinks at him. "What?"
"Did you finish?" Adam repeats, nodding down at the papers crumpled in Kris' left hand.
"No," Kris admits. "I kept stopping. But no," and Adam makes a face at him.
"The last page is the best."
"Why?" Kris asks, even though he knows it's a bad idea. "What's on it?" He goes to look but Adam snatches it, crumples it and throws it into the guest bathroom a little ways down. He misses the trash can.
"Oh, no," he says. "Too late. I gave you two hours from when your mail's delivered, I don't know how it took you this long."
"You know when my mail's delivered?" Kris asks. "That really is kind of creepy, I don't even know when my mail's delivered," but he's craning his head towards the bathroom still. Adam pulls him away, and Kris isn't curious enough to argue. Not even close.
"Tell you what," Adam says softly, conspiratorially as he crowds up behind him up the stairs. "I will write out anything you want, that whole thing, everything I've ever wanted to do and will want to do to you."
"Um, yeah," Kris says. "But do you want me to get you, like, food dye in return?"
"Yes! See?" Adam says gleefully as he turns Kris around and goes for his buttons. "I knew this would work. Though fingerpaints would probably be better. I can write with them on you," like this is the best idea in the history of ever.
"Oh, yeah," Kris says dryly, not flushing or grabbing at Adam's shoulders hard when he pushes him back to the bed and goes for his jeans. "Combining the two, how perfect."
Except it really is, probably.
End.