for: omphale23
For: omphale23
Title: Another Day at the End of the World
Author: kristiinthedark
Fandom: Last Night, Patrick/Craig
Rating: R
Summary: Patrick finds something to occupy his time until the next end of the world.
Thanks to the very awesome slidellra and slinkling, especially for beta'ing this on a Sunday morning. They win all my adoration.
Another Day at the End of the World
As endings go, it was all very anti-climatic. I've heard that they were off by a year, whoever it is that calculates these kinds of events, and so the sun still shines brilliantly on, while we all watch the days tick slowly by once more. Fantastic.
For some, the world did end that night. Jenny and Alex never made it home -- along with a whole bunch of other party-goers -- because they were killed in the riot that happened when the clock struck 12:01. The arsonists who lit up much of the city took more lives, then there were the suicides, and many more people simply gave up on living. Like Sandra, who stays curled up in a ball on the couch and rarely ever moves. She'll stare at me alertly every now and then and talk about the baby growing inside of her, but soon she falls silent again. The possibility of her pregnancy actually coming to full term seems to be more than she can bear, and I find her wandering around on the roof around midnight, sometimes, hovering on the edge as if she's going to jump over at any moment. I lead her back inside, but more than once I've thought about letting her go.
There is no gas, not much food, and I'm not sure how much longer the electricity is going to stay on. There are plans to get it all into motion again, just in case next year it's all another mistake, but so far they are only that: plans. I wonder if many people are like me and find that it's hard to give a shit.
My mother is determined to live, though, and calls me every day. "Come for dinner," she pleads. "Your father and I need you. I've made stew."
She means canned soup, but she must present it in the best possible light, always. I usually decline.
I tell her I can't leave Sandra, that I have to take care of her, but, of course, that is a lie. I took care of my wife until the very last, I wanted to, but I find my desire to do the same for Sandra is weak. So I often set out crackers -- which will probably still be there, uneaten, when I return -- for her on the coffee table and leave for a few hours. I have to, or I'll go crazy. Crazier. I tell myself when I'm shutting the door behind me that I'm just going for a walk, but that's a lie, too. I always end up at the same place -- Craig's apartment.
He's still bitter about the car, of course, and he reminds me every time I show up.
"It was a collection," he says, enunciating every syllable. "Now what am I? Some jerk with two cars."
But then he looks at me from underneath his eyelashes, smiles as if the world is one big joke and we're the only ones who are in on it, and leads me into the bedroom. The sheets are often warm and damp with sweat, and I have to force myself to not think about the person, or persons, who have been there before me. I can't say anything now, not when I haven't said anything so far. And I'm surprised that it matters to me; but then again, I'm surprised by a lot of things when it comes to Craig.
I'm surprised that Craig's lips are so soft, and by how much I get off on his kisses. That his hands are rough, yet gentle, and that his fingers feel so good inside of me. The first time we had sex, a week after the non-ending-of-the-world, I don't know what I was after... closeness, maybe? Human fucking contact. Whatever. So Craig and I rubbed and stroked each other and it all seemed so new in an existence that was so close to death that I came almost immediately, and then again, later, with him.
I was afraid that it would be all weird and uncomfortable between us if we did more and didn't like it, so I told him we shouldn't go any further than that. Craig nodded, like, "sure, anything you say, Patrick," but the next time I came over, he pushed me down and licked and bit his way down my chest, pinning my hips to the bed as he sucked my cock into his mouth. After that, any lines either one of us had were gone.
I gave him a hard time when he told me he wanted to be fucked. "I thought you said no anal. You've already crossed that off the list."
"Yeah, I did, but that was with a woman. I haven't like that." He took a deep breath, and didn't quite look at me. "I want you to do me."
So I turned him over on the bed, got him on his hands and knees, and did him. I felt stupid for ever worrying, because it was slick and messy and noisy, and so incredibly good. For him, too, I think. I heard his moans, I saw the way his hands clawed at the sheets, almost ripping them, while I thrust into him. And then afterward, he rolled back over, looked at me wide-eyed and said, "I want to do that again."
And we have, many times, until our bodies wear out but are strangely far from sated. He hasn't returned the favor yet, only using his fingers so far, but I've been alright with that. It gives me something to look forward to, and a reason for him to keep asking me to come back. Here in this place, past the end of the world, I find that is all that I need.
Title: Another Day at the End of the World
Author: kristiinthedark
Fandom: Last Night, Patrick/Craig
Rating: R
Summary: Patrick finds something to occupy his time until the next end of the world.
Thanks to the very awesome slidellra and slinkling, especially for beta'ing this on a Sunday morning. They win all my adoration.
Another Day at the End of the World
As endings go, it was all very anti-climatic. I've heard that they were off by a year, whoever it is that calculates these kinds of events, and so the sun still shines brilliantly on, while we all watch the days tick slowly by once more. Fantastic.
For some, the world did end that night. Jenny and Alex never made it home -- along with a whole bunch of other party-goers -- because they were killed in the riot that happened when the clock struck 12:01. The arsonists who lit up much of the city took more lives, then there were the suicides, and many more people simply gave up on living. Like Sandra, who stays curled up in a ball on the couch and rarely ever moves. She'll stare at me alertly every now and then and talk about the baby growing inside of her, but soon she falls silent again. The possibility of her pregnancy actually coming to full term seems to be more than she can bear, and I find her wandering around on the roof around midnight, sometimes, hovering on the edge as if she's going to jump over at any moment. I lead her back inside, but more than once I've thought about letting her go.
There is no gas, not much food, and I'm not sure how much longer the electricity is going to stay on. There are plans to get it all into motion again, just in case next year it's all another mistake, but so far they are only that: plans. I wonder if many people are like me and find that it's hard to give a shit.
My mother is determined to live, though, and calls me every day. "Come for dinner," she pleads. "Your father and I need you. I've made stew."
She means canned soup, but she must present it in the best possible light, always. I usually decline.
I tell her I can't leave Sandra, that I have to take care of her, but, of course, that is a lie. I took care of my wife until the very last, I wanted to, but I find my desire to do the same for Sandra is weak. So I often set out crackers -- which will probably still be there, uneaten, when I return -- for her on the coffee table and leave for a few hours. I have to, or I'll go crazy. Crazier. I tell myself when I'm shutting the door behind me that I'm just going for a walk, but that's a lie, too. I always end up at the same place -- Craig's apartment.
He's still bitter about the car, of course, and he reminds me every time I show up.
"It was a collection," he says, enunciating every syllable. "Now what am I? Some jerk with two cars."
But then he looks at me from underneath his eyelashes, smiles as if the world is one big joke and we're the only ones who are in on it, and leads me into the bedroom. The sheets are often warm and damp with sweat, and I have to force myself to not think about the person, or persons, who have been there before me. I can't say anything now, not when I haven't said anything so far. And I'm surprised that it matters to me; but then again, I'm surprised by a lot of things when it comes to Craig.
I'm surprised that Craig's lips are so soft, and by how much I get off on his kisses. That his hands are rough, yet gentle, and that his fingers feel so good inside of me. The first time we had sex, a week after the non-ending-of-the-world, I don't know what I was after... closeness, maybe? Human fucking contact. Whatever. So Craig and I rubbed and stroked each other and it all seemed so new in an existence that was so close to death that I came almost immediately, and then again, later, with him.
I was afraid that it would be all weird and uncomfortable between us if we did more and didn't like it, so I told him we shouldn't go any further than that. Craig nodded, like, "sure, anything you say, Patrick," but the next time I came over, he pushed me down and licked and bit his way down my chest, pinning my hips to the bed as he sucked my cock into his mouth. After that, any lines either one of us had were gone.
I gave him a hard time when he told me he wanted to be fucked. "I thought you said no anal. You've already crossed that off the list."
"Yeah, I did, but that was with a woman. I haven't like that." He took a deep breath, and didn't quite look at me. "I want you to do me."
So I turned him over on the bed, got him on his hands and knees, and did him. I felt stupid for ever worrying, because it was slick and messy and noisy, and so incredibly good. For him, too, I think. I heard his moans, I saw the way his hands clawed at the sheets, almost ripping them, while I thrust into him. And then afterward, he rolled back over, looked at me wide-eyed and said, "I want to do that again."
And we have, many times, until our bodies wear out but are strangely far from sated. He hasn't returned the favor yet, only using his fingers so far, but I've been alright with that. It gives me something to look forward to, and a reason for him to keep asking me to come back. Here in this place, past the end of the world, I find that is all that I need.