For kristiinthedark
Recipient
kristiinthedark
Title New Skyline Apocalypses
Fandom (and pairing, if applicable) Last Night, Patrick/Craig
Your LJ name:
llassah
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1200
Summary and/or prompt: Postfilm, and the world keeps on ending
“World’s ending again.”
Same room, same day. Countless fucking times like this, the blank at midnight, rushing air, sound of everything whispering out of existence and then back again, back to this endless day of endings. He looks down, is surprised to find his hand isn’t skeletal, surprised to find pink flesh, not grey. Surprised he can still be surprised.
“Wanna fuck?”
Craig asks this with a smile, his relaxed, shy, self deprecating smile. Sometimes Patrick thinks the reason he’s stayed here in this groundhog apocalypse is that Craig still smiles. His barometer, his lifeline is that smile. He stays on the deckchair he’s put on the roof. Public sex is the item on his list that Craig’s fixed on, like a jammed tape. Sex indoors makes Patrick feel claustrophobic, now.
It isn’t so bad. At least it’s peaceful. He puts his hand to the side of his neck, checks his own pulse, wonders what he’d do if it didn’t jump up onto his lightly pressed finger. Craig watches him, smiling a little.
“C’mon, necrophilia wasn’t on the list,” he says, drop kicking an empty jar off the roof. The bright shattering sound takes a while to come, and when it does, it echoes. A breeze moves Patrick’s hair gently, and he smiles. At least they’re still alive. He gets up out of the chair, kisses Craig, first on the cheek, then his jaw, stubble prickling his lips, then on the mouth. He keeps expecting to feel the gun in his hand when he’s kissing now, to feel the hesitation of staring, or the awkwardness of refusing something he wanted but didn’t know enough to know he did, so he hides in circular thoughts and bunches his fists into the back of Craig’s t shirt-
orange? Why choose orange as the last colour to wear?
I like orange
Christ you’re warped
you love it
--doesn’t care how needy he seems, because the world keeps on not ending, and he can’t help but feel responsible, because what if it was his fault, his hesitation?
“I had no idea you hated this shirt so much,” Craig murmurs, reaching behind and prying Patrick’s fingers apart.
“Shut up,” Patrick whispers, backing him up to the wall, looking down briefly at the inevitably empty street. He doesn’t let him move, puts a hand over his mouth when he makes an attempt to speak. Neither of them wear underpants any more; he suggested once that Craig should wear a skirt, make things easier. Craig’s pupils had widened momentarily, he’d pinned Patrick to the floor, fucked him so slowly he’d almost cried, dragged his nails down Craig’s back, marks that lasted through the whiteout and into the next ending.
He wears trousers, still. Patrick pulls them down, runs his hand down from his ass to his thigh, bitten down nails scraping, just a little. Craig hisses, laughs, surprised and Patrick forgets about keeping him quiet. Even in school, even when they couldn’t stand the sight of each other, that laugh would do something to him, give him something. Here, it’s optimism, of a sort. Nothing’s ever going to be okay, but it doesn’t matter that it isn’t.
“The world’s ending,” he whispers, takes off his shirt, his trousers, his pointless fucking clothes, because the weather’s warm and no one’s going to see him anyway. Naked, then, he lets the breeze kiss him, the light wash over him. Craig does the same. He stands close, but doesn’t touch. “We could get out of the city, see us some mountains. See the world end on a new skyline. Spread our wings. This is our world now.”
Craig grabs his hand, pulls him so he’s facing the wall, the city spread out beneath them, a map of looted cars and scattered sleeping corpses, then stands behind him, close, breath hot on his neck, skin to skin. “Having a Titanic moment, Rose?” he murmurs, twining his fingers on both hands with Patrick’s, spreading his arms.
“How come I have to be Rose?” he asks, pushing slightly back moving his hips until he hears Craig groan. Weird sort of dance, this. Craig leans down, presses his lips to where neck meets shoulder, then bites, gently.
“Keep your arms up.”
He obeys, looking out at the beautiful dead skyline. The breeze has dropped. He can hear himself breathing; can hear breaths turn to gasps as Craig’s hand closes around his cock, other hand running up and down his chest, fingertips trailing with maddening lightness. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up; it’s ending again soon. Craig moves his hand a little faster, nudges Patrick’s legs apart a little. His other hand leaves Patrick’s chest, gets the tube of lube he keeps on the wall-
are you some sort of boy scout?
fuck off. I just like knowing where stuff is
anal
you love it
true--
--and then there are slippery fingers, smeared across one buttock, lube cold, press of a finger, in, gentle invasion that he leans back into, doesn’t flinch away from like he used to. His arms are starting to ache from holding them out straight.
Two fingers, now, moving in the same rhythm as the hand on his cock, a slow sweet pull and twist. He looks up, right up so he’s squinting into the sun, head resting on Craig’s shoulder. Not long now. He shivers again, flexes the muscles in his outstretched arms. “Keep leaning back,” Craig murmurs, then he’s pressing in, in, Patrick’s up on the balls of his feet involuntarily, trying to arch up out of himself, then the discomfort’s moved into fullness, completion, the ache something he wants to stretch into. Craig leans forward, bracing one arm on the wall, fingers wrapped around the railing, and they move together, clumsily at first, then remembering, reacquainting, reconnecting as the sun blazes down, warm air kisses his skin. He tastes the silence surrounding them, flexes his arms again, breathes in, deep and steady, jerking into Craig’s hand.
He turns his head, kisses Craig, angle awkward as he’s twisted, tensing and the world’s turning whiter, orgasm rolling through him in waves, drawn from his toes, the tips of his aching fingers. He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to escape from the whiteness, but it’s engulfed him, behind his eyes, into every pore of him as Craig keeps moving, faster, arrhythmically, both hands gripping the wall as Patrick sags back, wrung out blind.
“It’s ending,” Patrick murmurs, his lips brushing Craig’s cheek, stubble rough against them. He brings his arms up and round his neck as he comes, breathing hot and harsh. He looks at Craig’s hands, watches as his grip goes from white-knuckled to limp, turns around so they can kiss the apocalypse in intertwined, waits for the ending to begin again. The breeze picks up, and he can feel Craig smiling against his lips.
so it’ll keep on stopping and starting?
yeah, imagine, an eternity of doomladen days
I miss her
I know
I have you though
don’t be so fucking sappy, fag
just because you’re the last man on earth doesn’t mean I won’t withhold sexual favours
yeah it does, but Patrick?
Yes?
You love me
true
kristiinthedark
Title New Skyline Apocalypses
Fandom (and pairing, if applicable) Last Night, Patrick/Craig
Your LJ name:
llassah
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1200
Summary and/or prompt: Postfilm, and the world keeps on ending
“World’s ending again.”
Same room, same day. Countless fucking times like this, the blank at midnight, rushing air, sound of everything whispering out of existence and then back again, back to this endless day of endings. He looks down, is surprised to find his hand isn’t skeletal, surprised to find pink flesh, not grey. Surprised he can still be surprised.
“Wanna fuck?”
Craig asks this with a smile, his relaxed, shy, self deprecating smile. Sometimes Patrick thinks the reason he’s stayed here in this groundhog apocalypse is that Craig still smiles. His barometer, his lifeline is that smile. He stays on the deckchair he’s put on the roof. Public sex is the item on his list that Craig’s fixed on, like a jammed tape. Sex indoors makes Patrick feel claustrophobic, now.
It isn’t so bad. At least it’s peaceful. He puts his hand to the side of his neck, checks his own pulse, wonders what he’d do if it didn’t jump up onto his lightly pressed finger. Craig watches him, smiling a little.
“C’mon, necrophilia wasn’t on the list,” he says, drop kicking an empty jar off the roof. The bright shattering sound takes a while to come, and when it does, it echoes. A breeze moves Patrick’s hair gently, and he smiles. At least they’re still alive. He gets up out of the chair, kisses Craig, first on the cheek, then his jaw, stubble prickling his lips, then on the mouth. He keeps expecting to feel the gun in his hand when he’s kissing now, to feel the hesitation of staring, or the awkwardness of refusing something he wanted but didn’t know enough to know he did, so he hides in circular thoughts and bunches his fists into the back of Craig’s t shirt-
orange? Why choose orange as the last colour to wear?
I like orange
Christ you’re warped
you love it
--doesn’t care how needy he seems, because the world keeps on not ending, and he can’t help but feel responsible, because what if it was his fault, his hesitation?
“I had no idea you hated this shirt so much,” Craig murmurs, reaching behind and prying Patrick’s fingers apart.
“Shut up,” Patrick whispers, backing him up to the wall, looking down briefly at the inevitably empty street. He doesn’t let him move, puts a hand over his mouth when he makes an attempt to speak. Neither of them wear underpants any more; he suggested once that Craig should wear a skirt, make things easier. Craig’s pupils had widened momentarily, he’d pinned Patrick to the floor, fucked him so slowly he’d almost cried, dragged his nails down Craig’s back, marks that lasted through the whiteout and into the next ending.
He wears trousers, still. Patrick pulls them down, runs his hand down from his ass to his thigh, bitten down nails scraping, just a little. Craig hisses, laughs, surprised and Patrick forgets about keeping him quiet. Even in school, even when they couldn’t stand the sight of each other, that laugh would do something to him, give him something. Here, it’s optimism, of a sort. Nothing’s ever going to be okay, but it doesn’t matter that it isn’t.
“The world’s ending,” he whispers, takes off his shirt, his trousers, his pointless fucking clothes, because the weather’s warm and no one’s going to see him anyway. Naked, then, he lets the breeze kiss him, the light wash over him. Craig does the same. He stands close, but doesn’t touch. “We could get out of the city, see us some mountains. See the world end on a new skyline. Spread our wings. This is our world now.”
Craig grabs his hand, pulls him so he’s facing the wall, the city spread out beneath them, a map of looted cars and scattered sleeping corpses, then stands behind him, close, breath hot on his neck, skin to skin. “Having a Titanic moment, Rose?” he murmurs, twining his fingers on both hands with Patrick’s, spreading his arms.
“How come I have to be Rose?” he asks, pushing slightly back moving his hips until he hears Craig groan. Weird sort of dance, this. Craig leans down, presses his lips to where neck meets shoulder, then bites, gently.
“Keep your arms up.”
He obeys, looking out at the beautiful dead skyline. The breeze has dropped. He can hear himself breathing; can hear breaths turn to gasps as Craig’s hand closes around his cock, other hand running up and down his chest, fingertips trailing with maddening lightness. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up; it’s ending again soon. Craig moves his hand a little faster, nudges Patrick’s legs apart a little. His other hand leaves Patrick’s chest, gets the tube of lube he keeps on the wall-
are you some sort of boy scout?
fuck off. I just like knowing where stuff is
anal
you love it
true--
--and then there are slippery fingers, smeared across one buttock, lube cold, press of a finger, in, gentle invasion that he leans back into, doesn’t flinch away from like he used to. His arms are starting to ache from holding them out straight.
Two fingers, now, moving in the same rhythm as the hand on his cock, a slow sweet pull and twist. He looks up, right up so he’s squinting into the sun, head resting on Craig’s shoulder. Not long now. He shivers again, flexes the muscles in his outstretched arms. “Keep leaning back,” Craig murmurs, then he’s pressing in, in, Patrick’s up on the balls of his feet involuntarily, trying to arch up out of himself, then the discomfort’s moved into fullness, completion, the ache something he wants to stretch into. Craig leans forward, bracing one arm on the wall, fingers wrapped around the railing, and they move together, clumsily at first, then remembering, reacquainting, reconnecting as the sun blazes down, warm air kisses his skin. He tastes the silence surrounding them, flexes his arms again, breathes in, deep and steady, jerking into Craig’s hand.
He turns his head, kisses Craig, angle awkward as he’s twisted, tensing and the world’s turning whiter, orgasm rolling through him in waves, drawn from his toes, the tips of his aching fingers. He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to escape from the whiteness, but it’s engulfed him, behind his eyes, into every pore of him as Craig keeps moving, faster, arrhythmically, both hands gripping the wall as Patrick sags back, wrung out blind.
“It’s ending,” Patrick murmurs, his lips brushing Craig’s cheek, stubble rough against them. He brings his arms up and round his neck as he comes, breathing hot and harsh. He looks at Craig’s hands, watches as his grip goes from white-knuckled to limp, turns around so they can kiss the apocalypse in intertwined, waits for the ending to begin again. The breeze picks up, and he can feel Craig smiling against his lips.
so it’ll keep on stopping and starting?
yeah, imagine, an eternity of doomladen days
I miss her
I know
I have you though
don’t be so fucking sappy, fag
just because you’re the last man on earth doesn’t mean I won’t withhold sexual favours
yeah it does, but Patrick?
Yes?
You love me
true