I KNOW IT'S BEEN FOREVER - HAVE SOME LETTERS
Title: A Pillowcase Correspondence
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dear Patrick...
Disclaimer: 100% Disclaimed.
Letter One
Letter Two
Letter Three
Letter Four
Letter Five
Letter Six
Letter Seven
Letter Eight
Letter Nine
Letter Ten
“And Jeanae?” Patrick asked sharply, somehow managing to make his voice a fiery hiss without speaking above a clandestine whisper. Pete’s mouth was still resting against his skin, burrowing into the junction of shoulder and neck and fitting so infuriatingly well there, distracting with warm breezes of breath and brushes of lips. “If you think that you can just come to me whenever she’s not around and you’re feeling lonely, you’re out of your goddamn mind. I am not going to be your-”
Pete’s teeth closed around the pale skin that was so willingly at his mercy and Patrick gasped and fell into obedient silence at the soft “shh” that echoed Pete’s bite. “I’m not trying to use you, Patrick,” he said gently, and the way that every smoky syllable stroked tenderly over his skin, shivery-soft, was enough to placate Patrick instantly. “I don’t know what I’m trying to do, I just need to feel you.” His voice trailed off into a faint murmur, then was lost to his mouth searching desperately along the line of Patrick’s collarbone.
“I need to feel you against me, Trick,” his hands slid over Patrick’s back slowly, taking their time to follow the sloping lines of each curve. “God,” he breathed, tilting his face so that it was pressed against Patrick’s hair and inhaling deeply as he let his body lie flush against his. “I used to think about how this would feel,” he admitted, sounding drunk off of Patrick’s sweat, “to be next to you like this.”
I feel as though everything in the world is pressing against my skin; like every polluted molecule in the air is trying to force its way in through my pores, but I’ve long since closed myself off to any such invasions from the things that surround me. It’s a suffocating weight to have leaning heavily against my ribcage, and trying to repel the thick blanket of these mounting disappointments and calamities from wrapping itself around me only succeeds in making me increasingly aware of their sentinel presence. I’m also finding that my strongest efforts to keep myself from the air that blocks itself in my nostrils, tauntingly refusing to enter my lungs and let me take even a single breath (just one, just one is all I need to fill my lungs and break all of my ribs in the process, but maybe, maybe, maybe it will banish these spots of black from the corners of my vision) are not only creating a fortress against the permeating, melancholy force that has been haunting me. Every vain attempt I make locks the doors from the outside as well as the inside. I’ve managed to keep the murderers from the house, but now I’m stuck inside and will have to sustain myself on my own flesh to survive until the rows of my teeth are imprinted upon bare, bloody bones picked clean and I’ve wasted away completely, courtesy of an entirely inefficient recycling system. I’ve heard that digesting enough of your own blood will kill you. So the question is aroused: what is the point of keeping my blind, mute demons at bay when the cancers that have accumulated within me over the tempestuous years are going to slit my throat in my sleep regardless?
What am I even doing anymore? Do the gnarled phrases that I spew with a shredded tongue and a mouthful of ink bled from the insides of my bitten cheeks make sense to anyone? I find myself wondering if it’s even possible for someone not trapped within the constricting confines of my peeling flesh to comprehend how it feels to see the world behind the rigid steel bars of prison windows stapled over my eyes.
“Pete,” Patrick barely-whispered, his voice trembling with uncertainty and the pinpricks in his chest with each breath, “I… I don’t think this…”
“Don’t think,” Pete urged, broken and pleading in his muted murmurs against Patrick’s chest, his thigh sliding between the other man’s legs, where it had always longed to belong. “Please, just… just let this be what it will.”
Patrick thought for a few moments of a suitable response, and decided, with Pete’s hands trickling beneath the hem of his shirt and ghosting over his stomach like they were afraid to press too hard and break skin, that he could say nothing. Any answer he could have fabricated to convince Pete that he didn’t want this would be a lie, and his body was aching for this too much to be denied it.
He let out a little groan when Pete’s thumbs found both nipples simultaneously, massaging them until they were erect and straining against his fingertips and Patrick was squirming a bit beneath him, his head falling back in a way that Pete saw as a clear invitation. Sucking enthusiastically at the hollow of Patrick’s pale throat, he shifted so that his thigh was pressed into the redhead’s groin and rolled his hips, sharing a shudder with Patrick.
“Pete,” Patrick whispered to the vacant air, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as though the two of them sprawled across the heavy, plastic-like sheets of the hotel bed and the strip of bronzed back that was so invitingly touchable just visible above the waist of Pete’s jeans were a dream, and if he blinked, he would awake once again to find it merely a mirage teasing him with what he could never have. But really, as Pete’s trembling hands gingerly slid the shirt over his head and then lovingly smoothed down the fine strands of hair the movement had tousled, Patrick knew that the warm, wet pressure of lips along his collarbone and fingers tracing down the slopes of his shoulders were entirely too real to be anything but. He was having difficulty coping with the fact that this was actually happening - even more so because his brain seemed temporarily incapable of processing any thoughts.
Somehow, Pete managed to slip out of his own shirt without once detaching his hands or lips from Patrick’s body, and the moment that heated skin was pressed against heated skin, Patrick’s limbs suddenly recalled how to operate and his hands promptly occupied themselves with soaking in every inch of Pete he could reach. He thought that, even in the darkness, with his eyes still tightly clamped shut, he could feel the whorls of ink worked into Pete’s skin as they unfolded in spidery lines beneath his touch. He could taste the salt of Pete’s flesh on the back of his tongue, as if his hands had taste buds.
Pete himself was overwhelmed by the scent of Patrick’s soap and skin filling his nostrils with every breath and the fact that, no matter where he moved, he was met with the other man’s pliable body. His senses were swallowed by white belly and parted thighs, panting lips and hips that rose eagerly to meet his. He had yet to kiss Patrick, for some subconscious fear that his soul would be stolen away if he dared, but his mouth was having its fill as it worked down Patrick’s torso, tongue swiping away the beads of sweat that it came across.
When took the hem of Patrick’s boxers in his teeth and started to slowly drag them down, he heard the other man gasp and fingers curled into his shoulder blades like they were bracing themselves for a fall. Pete glanced up, watching Patrick’s face over the plane of his torso, as the boxers were discarded and he cupped Patrick’s shyly swollen length gently in the palm of his hand. It arched into his tongue before it even got the chance to hit its target, and Patrick’s entire body gave a short, twitchy shudder when Pete finally began lapping lightly at the head.
“I - oh,” Patrick groaned in a breathy sigh, twisting against the bed and digging his fingers in harder. Pete seemed driven by the pain, shivers running down his spine at the sight of Patrick, sweat beginning to dampen his brow, and the soft moan that he let out with his lower lip caught between his teeth. He cried out quietly again when Pete’s lips wrapped around his length, sliding smoothly over the head and down, his tongue tracing devilish patterns as his mouth moved slowly and languidly, tasting and inspecting.
Just when Patrick thought that he was going to spill every last drop of himself down the back of Pete’s throat, the man drew off and Patrick shivered from the sudden loss of body heat, goose bumps turning his skin into a snowy mountain range. He slid his hands, like spots of light on copper, down Pete’s back, feeling the hot, soft skin and the muscles that were sewn tightly together beneath it. The sound of his own heavy breathing and Pete’s long rasps was the only thing to be heard, save for the near-deafening rustle of flesh on bed sheets, and it wasn’t until Pete’s hand cupped the curve of his ass and his fingertips ran deviously over his entrance that Patrick remembered that there was more in the world than just the two of them and the heat coiling in his stomach.
With a start, Patrick snapped his thighs together and sucked back from Pete, whose eyes were round and inky in the darkness - big, black headlights set in a white globes and widened in worry. The apologies were racing one another off the tip of his tongue and they all fell into a useless, jumbled pile at the bottom of his mouth.
“I want you to leave,” Patrick said, slow and careful with all of his limbs tucked neatly out of Pete’s reach.
Torturing his bottom lip (which still tasted sour like the oozing droplets from the head of Patrick’s cock) between his teeth, Pete slid silently from the bed and gathered his clothes with his shoulders hunched and dignity deflated.
“You can’t keep doing this to me, Pete,” he murmured in a static voice at Pete’s retreating form. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob and stayed frozen like that for a moment, like he had finally been turned to actual bronze and would forever remain like that, running from Patrick.
“I won’t,” he finally whispered, not daring a backwards glance over his shoulder as he opened the door. “I just can’t stay away from you.”
Sometimes, I feel as though instead of regarding the sun high in a spotless blue sky from between the bars, it is your face that ignites the sky. When you walk into a room you banish the shadows from every darkened corner.
I am fickle. It’s a curse of mine, to fall for the vibrancy and excitement of someone new and soak up the wonders of discovering them, only to realize afterwards that they were never anything that I needed in the first place, that they are filled with black holes that swallow sunlight; not whole. I notice that they look at me with hollow eyes and that they see nothing. I understand that they leave eventually or I leave or both of us give up on the entire damned fiasco because nobody seems able to grasp me - I am elusive and untouchable because of the parts of me that I keep locked away. None of them could ever survive a glimpse of those.
You’ve had me pinned down since the first day I ever laid eyes on you. Your last letter was so terribly amusing, suggesting that I was the one who once, even for a fraction of a moment, ever had control over you.
Pete
Authors: megyal and lesinnocents
Pairing: Patrick/Peter
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dear Patrick...
Disclaimer: 100% Disclaimed.
Letter One
Letter Two
Letter Three
Letter Four
Letter Five
Letter Six
Letter Seven
Letter Eight
Letter Nine
Letter Ten
“And Jeanae?” Patrick asked sharply, somehow managing to make his voice a fiery hiss without speaking above a clandestine whisper. Pete’s mouth was still resting against his skin, burrowing into the junction of shoulder and neck and fitting so infuriatingly well there, distracting with warm breezes of breath and brushes of lips. “If you think that you can just come to me whenever she’s not around and you’re feeling lonely, you’re out of your goddamn mind. I am not going to be your-”
Pete’s teeth closed around the pale skin that was so willingly at his mercy and Patrick gasped and fell into obedient silence at the soft “shh” that echoed Pete’s bite. “I’m not trying to use you, Patrick,” he said gently, and the way that every smoky syllable stroked tenderly over his skin, shivery-soft, was enough to placate Patrick instantly. “I don’t know what I’m trying to do, I just need to feel you.” His voice trailed off into a faint murmur, then was lost to his mouth searching desperately along the line of Patrick’s collarbone.
“I need to feel you against me, Trick,” his hands slid over Patrick’s back slowly, taking their time to follow the sloping lines of each curve. “God,” he breathed, tilting his face so that it was pressed against Patrick’s hair and inhaling deeply as he let his body lie flush against his. “I used to think about how this would feel,” he admitted, sounding drunk off of Patrick’s sweat, “to be next to you like this.”
I feel as though everything in the world is pressing against my skin; like every polluted molecule in the air is trying to force its way in through my pores, but I’ve long since closed myself off to any such invasions from the things that surround me. It’s a suffocating weight to have leaning heavily against my ribcage, and trying to repel the thick blanket of these mounting disappointments and calamities from wrapping itself around me only succeeds in making me increasingly aware of their sentinel presence. I’m also finding that my strongest efforts to keep myself from the air that blocks itself in my nostrils, tauntingly refusing to enter my lungs and let me take even a single breath (just one, just one is all I need to fill my lungs and break all of my ribs in the process, but maybe, maybe, maybe it will banish these spots of black from the corners of my vision) are not only creating a fortress against the permeating, melancholy force that has been haunting me. Every vain attempt I make locks the doors from the outside as well as the inside. I’ve managed to keep the murderers from the house, but now I’m stuck inside and will have to sustain myself on my own flesh to survive until the rows of my teeth are imprinted upon bare, bloody bones picked clean and I’ve wasted away completely, courtesy of an entirely inefficient recycling system. I’ve heard that digesting enough of your own blood will kill you. So the question is aroused: what is the point of keeping my blind, mute demons at bay when the cancers that have accumulated within me over the tempestuous years are going to slit my throat in my sleep regardless?
What am I even doing anymore? Do the gnarled phrases that I spew with a shredded tongue and a mouthful of ink bled from the insides of my bitten cheeks make sense to anyone? I find myself wondering if it’s even possible for someone not trapped within the constricting confines of my peeling flesh to comprehend how it feels to see the world behind the rigid steel bars of prison windows stapled over my eyes.
“Pete,” Patrick barely-whispered, his voice trembling with uncertainty and the pinpricks in his chest with each breath, “I… I don’t think this…”
“Don’t think,” Pete urged, broken and pleading in his muted murmurs against Patrick’s chest, his thigh sliding between the other man’s legs, where it had always longed to belong. “Please, just… just let this be what it will.”
Patrick thought for a few moments of a suitable response, and decided, with Pete’s hands trickling beneath the hem of his shirt and ghosting over his stomach like they were afraid to press too hard and break skin, that he could say nothing. Any answer he could have fabricated to convince Pete that he didn’t want this would be a lie, and his body was aching for this too much to be denied it.
He let out a little groan when Pete’s thumbs found both nipples simultaneously, massaging them until they were erect and straining against his fingertips and Patrick was squirming a bit beneath him, his head falling back in a way that Pete saw as a clear invitation. Sucking enthusiastically at the hollow of Patrick’s pale throat, he shifted so that his thigh was pressed into the redhead’s groin and rolled his hips, sharing a shudder with Patrick.
“Pete,” Patrick whispered to the vacant air, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as though the two of them sprawled across the heavy, plastic-like sheets of the hotel bed and the strip of bronzed back that was so invitingly touchable just visible above the waist of Pete’s jeans were a dream, and if he blinked, he would awake once again to find it merely a mirage teasing him with what he could never have. But really, as Pete’s trembling hands gingerly slid the shirt over his head and then lovingly smoothed down the fine strands of hair the movement had tousled, Patrick knew that the warm, wet pressure of lips along his collarbone and fingers tracing down the slopes of his shoulders were entirely too real to be anything but. He was having difficulty coping with the fact that this was actually happening - even more so because his brain seemed temporarily incapable of processing any thoughts.
Somehow, Pete managed to slip out of his own shirt without once detaching his hands or lips from Patrick’s body, and the moment that heated skin was pressed against heated skin, Patrick’s limbs suddenly recalled how to operate and his hands promptly occupied themselves with soaking in every inch of Pete he could reach. He thought that, even in the darkness, with his eyes still tightly clamped shut, he could feel the whorls of ink worked into Pete’s skin as they unfolded in spidery lines beneath his touch. He could taste the salt of Pete’s flesh on the back of his tongue, as if his hands had taste buds.
Pete himself was overwhelmed by the scent of Patrick’s soap and skin filling his nostrils with every breath and the fact that, no matter where he moved, he was met with the other man’s pliable body. His senses were swallowed by white belly and parted thighs, panting lips and hips that rose eagerly to meet his. He had yet to kiss Patrick, for some subconscious fear that his soul would be stolen away if he dared, but his mouth was having its fill as it worked down Patrick’s torso, tongue swiping away the beads of sweat that it came across.
When took the hem of Patrick’s boxers in his teeth and started to slowly drag them down, he heard the other man gasp and fingers curled into his shoulder blades like they were bracing themselves for a fall. Pete glanced up, watching Patrick’s face over the plane of his torso, as the boxers were discarded and he cupped Patrick’s shyly swollen length gently in the palm of his hand. It arched into his tongue before it even got the chance to hit its target, and Patrick’s entire body gave a short, twitchy shudder when Pete finally began lapping lightly at the head.
“I - oh,” Patrick groaned in a breathy sigh, twisting against the bed and digging his fingers in harder. Pete seemed driven by the pain, shivers running down his spine at the sight of Patrick, sweat beginning to dampen his brow, and the soft moan that he let out with his lower lip caught between his teeth. He cried out quietly again when Pete’s lips wrapped around his length, sliding smoothly over the head and down, his tongue tracing devilish patterns as his mouth moved slowly and languidly, tasting and inspecting.
Just when Patrick thought that he was going to spill every last drop of himself down the back of Pete’s throat, the man drew off and Patrick shivered from the sudden loss of body heat, goose bumps turning his skin into a snowy mountain range. He slid his hands, like spots of light on copper, down Pete’s back, feeling the hot, soft skin and the muscles that were sewn tightly together beneath it. The sound of his own heavy breathing and Pete’s long rasps was the only thing to be heard, save for the near-deafening rustle of flesh on bed sheets, and it wasn’t until Pete’s hand cupped the curve of his ass and his fingertips ran deviously over his entrance that Patrick remembered that there was more in the world than just the two of them and the heat coiling in his stomach.
With a start, Patrick snapped his thighs together and sucked back from Pete, whose eyes were round and inky in the darkness - big, black headlights set in a white globes and widened in worry. The apologies were racing one another off the tip of his tongue and they all fell into a useless, jumbled pile at the bottom of his mouth.
“I want you to leave,” Patrick said, slow and careful with all of his limbs tucked neatly out of Pete’s reach.
Torturing his bottom lip (which still tasted sour like the oozing droplets from the head of Patrick’s cock) between his teeth, Pete slid silently from the bed and gathered his clothes with his shoulders hunched and dignity deflated.
“You can’t keep doing this to me, Pete,” he murmured in a static voice at Pete’s retreating form. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob and stayed frozen like that for a moment, like he had finally been turned to actual bronze and would forever remain like that, running from Patrick.
“I won’t,” he finally whispered, not daring a backwards glance over his shoulder as he opened the door. “I just can’t stay away from you.”
Sometimes, I feel as though instead of regarding the sun high in a spotless blue sky from between the bars, it is your face that ignites the sky. When you walk into a room you banish the shadows from every darkened corner.
I am fickle. It’s a curse of mine, to fall for the vibrancy and excitement of someone new and soak up the wonders of discovering them, only to realize afterwards that they were never anything that I needed in the first place, that they are filled with black holes that swallow sunlight; not whole. I notice that they look at me with hollow eyes and that they see nothing. I understand that they leave eventually or I leave or both of us give up on the entire damned fiasco because nobody seems able to grasp me - I am elusive and untouchable because of the parts of me that I keep locked away. None of them could ever survive a glimpse of those.
You’ve had me pinned down since the first day I ever laid eyes on you. Your last letter was so terribly amusing, suggesting that I was the one who once, even for a fraction of a moment, ever had control over you.
Pete