![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceTitle: Dragon
Author: Claire
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Stephen/OMC, Stephen/Nick implied
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's not about names.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kink_bingo's 'Anonymous Sex' kink. The title comes from a line in the Placebo song My Sweet Prince.
Stephen nods his thanks to the barman as the bottle of beer is put onto the counter in front of him. He hasn't asked for anything, and he's surprised the guy remembers what Stephen drinks, considering he's certainly not in here enough to be called a regular. Although, maybe the barman's one of those guys who thinks it's only polite to remember what someone drinks once they've sucked your cock.
Draining half the bottle in one go, Stephen scans the club, gaze moving over the thrum of people, of male bodies pressed together on the dance floor. He knows what he's looking for, it's the same thing he looks for every time he comes here.
He only walks through those doors when it gets too much. When the ARC is too sterile and Nick is too silent and all Stephen can think is of how it used to be.
He finishes his beer as soon as he finds what he's looking for, putting the empty bottle back on the bar before he starts to make his way across the room.
He slides easily into the mass of dancers, the smell of sweat permeating the air as the too-high bass rumbles through his body with each step. He shakes off the hand on his arse, its owner is too young, too sharp, to be what Stephen needs tonight.
The music runs through him as he feels more hands on his body. These ones he doesn't shake off. These ones he lets pull him closer, hard body, too hard, grinding against his. The guy leans forward and it's too loud in the club for Stephen to hear a word, but he doesn't need to. Stephen nods his head, following the guy off the dance floor.
The toilets are stark and clean and the smirk the man pissing at the urinal throws them as Stephen is pushed into ones of the cubicles says everything.
His back against the cubicle wall, Stephen watches as the lock on the door slides home before brown eyes (Stephen chases away the thought that they should be blue) look at him.
"What's your name?"
"Does it matter?" Stephen replies, only a moment passing before the bloke runs his fingers through scruffy blonde hair and shakes his head.
"No, it doesn't matter."
"Good," says Stephen. Because tonight's not about names. It's about a cock pushing into him and a stubborn Scotsman who won't even look him in the eyes. Pulling a condom out of his jeans pocket, Stephen hands it to not Nick, never Nick, not any more and turns around.
His hands press against the cubicle wall, fingers covering graffiti declaring that Michael sucked great cock. He closes his eyes as the fingers press into him. They're too long and too slim and too wrong, but he pushes back anyway, riding the moment until they pull out of him.
"Ready?"
Stephen doesn't open his eyes as he nods, drops his head forward, cool plastic of the cubicle wall against his forehead as fingers wrap around his hip and a cock nudges at his arse.
The cock slides in with one thrust, almost knocking Stephen off balance as it bottoms out, jeans zip rough as the metal scratches at Stephen's skin.
There are words as Stephen is fucked, tight and yes and at least one slut, but they're drowned out by another voice in Stephen's head, harsher and more cutting than the one dropping filth into his ear could ever be.
The guy stutters behind him, dick slamming into Stephen one last time as he groans, fingers tightening on Stephen's hip before he finally pulls out.
A moment passes before the rubber splashes into the loo and is flushed away.
"Are you--"
"Yeah, mate," Stephen replies, eyes still closed, forehead still against the wall, "I'm good."
There's a second, and Stephen thinks that the bloke's going to say something else, but then the door opens and he's gone.
Opening his eyes, Stephen turns around. The stark light from the bulb above him reflects off the too shiny tiles and it makes him think of the ARC, white lines and clean rooms and Nick, who went from needing him to hating him in five simple words.
Tucking his still-soft dick back into his jeans, Stephen zips himself up and scrubs a hand over his face. Tomorrow he'll walk into the ARC like he hasn't lost everything. He'll smirk at Connor and he'll flirt with Abby and he'll throw inappropriate comments at Lester just like he does every other day. And if anyone notices that he doesn't wander into Nick's office as much as usual, that he doesn't automatically make Nick a mug of tea every time he makes himself one, then he'll shrug it off. Shrug it off and carry on.
But that's tomorrow, Stephen thinks, and morning is still a long way off.
Author: Claire
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Stephen/OMC, Stephen/Nick implied
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's not about names.
Notes: Written for
kink_bingo's 'Anonymous Sex' kink. The title comes from a line in the Placebo song My Sweet Prince.Stephen nods his thanks to the barman as the bottle of beer is put onto the counter in front of him. He hasn't asked for anything, and he's surprised the guy remembers what Stephen drinks, considering he's certainly not in here enough to be called a regular. Although, maybe the barman's one of those guys who thinks it's only polite to remember what someone drinks once they've sucked your cock.
Draining half the bottle in one go, Stephen scans the club, gaze moving over the thrum of people, of male bodies pressed together on the dance floor. He knows what he's looking for, it's the same thing he looks for every time he comes here.
He only walks through those doors when it gets too much. When the ARC is too sterile and Nick is too silent and all Stephen can think is of how it used to be.
He finishes his beer as soon as he finds what he's looking for, putting the empty bottle back on the bar before he starts to make his way across the room.
He slides easily into the mass of dancers, the smell of sweat permeating the air as the too-high bass rumbles through his body with each step. He shakes off the hand on his arse, its owner is too young, too sharp, to be what Stephen needs tonight.
The music runs through him as he feels more hands on his body. These ones he doesn't shake off. These ones he lets pull him closer, hard body, too hard, grinding against his. The guy leans forward and it's too loud in the club for Stephen to hear a word, but he doesn't need to. Stephen nods his head, following the guy off the dance floor.
The toilets are stark and clean and the smirk the man pissing at the urinal throws them as Stephen is pushed into ones of the cubicles says everything.
His back against the cubicle wall, Stephen watches as the lock on the door slides home before brown eyes (Stephen chases away the thought that they should be blue) look at him.
"What's your name?"
"Does it matter?" Stephen replies, only a moment passing before the bloke runs his fingers through scruffy blonde hair and shakes his head.
"No, it doesn't matter."
"Good," says Stephen. Because tonight's not about names. It's about a cock pushing into him and a stubborn Scotsman who won't even look him in the eyes. Pulling a condom out of his jeans pocket, Stephen hands it to not Nick, never Nick, not any more and turns around.
His hands press against the cubicle wall, fingers covering graffiti declaring that Michael sucked great cock. He closes his eyes as the fingers press into him. They're too long and too slim and too wrong, but he pushes back anyway, riding the moment until they pull out of him.
"Ready?"
Stephen doesn't open his eyes as he nods, drops his head forward, cool plastic of the cubicle wall against his forehead as fingers wrap around his hip and a cock nudges at his arse.
The cock slides in with one thrust, almost knocking Stephen off balance as it bottoms out, jeans zip rough as the metal scratches at Stephen's skin.
There are words as Stephen is fucked, tight and yes and at least one slut, but they're drowned out by another voice in Stephen's head, harsher and more cutting than the one dropping filth into his ear could ever be.
The guy stutters behind him, dick slamming into Stephen one last time as he groans, fingers tightening on Stephen's hip before he finally pulls out.
A moment passes before the rubber splashes into the loo and is flushed away.
"Are you--"
"Yeah, mate," Stephen replies, eyes still closed, forehead still against the wall, "I'm good."
There's a second, and Stephen thinks that the bloke's going to say something else, but then the door opens and he's gone.
Opening his eyes, Stephen turns around. The stark light from the bulb above him reflects off the too shiny tiles and it makes him think of the ARC, white lines and clean rooms and Nick, who went from needing him to hating him in five simple words.
Tucking his still-soft dick back into his jeans, Stephen zips himself up and scrubs a hand over his face. Tomorrow he'll walk into the ARC like he hasn't lost everything. He'll smirk at Connor and he'll flirt with Abby and he'll throw inappropriate comments at Lester just like he does every other day. And if anyone notices that he doesn't wander into Nick's office as much as usual, that he doesn't automatically make Nick a mug of tea every time he makes himself one, then he'll shrug it off. Shrug it off and carry on.
But that's tomorrow, Stephen thinks, and morning is still a long way off.
