Day 17: Cover (Primeval, NC-17, Stephen/Ryan)
Title: Cover
Author: fides
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Stephen/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What's one more near miss?
Notes: Happy birthday bigtitch - sorry it is late.
Also at AO3 (review/concrit at either)
"What the hell do you think you were doing?" Stephen hisses. A small part of his brain is pointing out loudly that getting in the face of a trained killer is not the best way to live a long and pain free life but, Hell, they spend most days chasing or being chased by creatures that may be a footnote in the fossil record (if they are lucky) and who think he's lunch.
Captain Ryan, whatever else might be said about him (and Stephan has said quite a bit), might want to kill him occasionally - but at least sees him as more than an appetiser. At least Stephen is pretty sure he does.
Ryan lets go of the wet handful of collar and harness he has just dragged Stephen back through the anomaly by, but otherwise ignores him as he barks orders to his squad. Only when his team are stationed to his satisfaction, each of them ready to unleash a hail of lead on anything unlucky enough to poke a whisker into the 21st century, does he pay Stephen any attention.
"My job," he answers shortly and turns right back to his men.
Insufferable bloody wanker! Stephen straightens his pack and walks over to where the others were huddled damply.
"You should thank him, Stephen," Nick says lightly when he joins them. "He pulled you out of there just in time."
Stephen looks back to see the anomaly closing in on itself. "I could have got the sample," he disagrees, "just a few more seconds..."
Nick's hand falls on his shoulder, friendly and calming despite the clammy cloth of his t-shirt. "And it wouldn't have done any good if we had lost you."
They don't say anything else as they load up the kit and head back but Abby gives him a thump on the arm. Stephen isn't sure if that is punishment for worrying her or welcome back. It's nice but unnecessary. He hadn't cut it that fine. Wouldn't have even if he hadn't had six foot of irresistible force proving he wasn't an immovable object. But then it doesn't all hit Stephen until much later - not until he's alone in the locker rooms, the sharp beat of water from the shower pricking at his skin. He scrubs at his hair savagely, suddenly needing to get out the memory of millennia-old mud and monsoon-drenched failure. He doesn't know why the thought of getting trapped doesn't phase him as much as it should. He supposes that he just doesn't think it would happen - not for long. They would have found a way to get him home. Or he would have found a way. There is something so real and brilliant about the men and women that he works with that compared to them the universe has no chance. He'd miss this while he waited though - the little joys of modern life; warm water that could be wasted just soothing the day from him, clean enough that he can let it run into his face, his mouth, and not need to worry about bacteria or parasites or any one of a number of other things.
He's just contemplating the joys of shower gel over primitive soap (or, worse, sand) when he hears the soft footfalls of another lost soul without something to lure them away from work. He doesn't look as the feet get closer or when a shower off to his right starts, taking some of his water pressure with it. Finally, when the creeping irritation of having an unknown presence that close to him gets too much he glances over. It doesn't seem surprising that it is Ryan standing there; the man had been following him all day - through strange phenomena into dense tropical forests, down gullies and into root caves - what was the locker room compared to that?
"Tell me you aren't going to pull me out of the showers as well," he says.
"And send you home for your own good," Ryan looks over at him. "I should do. What you did today was stupid."
"No. Stupid was following me."
They look at each other, water splattering around them - a replay of their earlier argument.
Ryan chuckles, a sound that Stephen has never expected to hear. "Is this where we whip them out and prove once and for all whose is bigger?"
Stephen blinked, his gaze dropping instinctively before his brain kicked in. Ryan smirks at him and Stephen glares, refusing to blush. Or to cover up. He might not be as toned as Mr - Sorry, Captain - Muscles, but he does his share of exercise (even more now that running is an important part of his job description) and doesn't think he has anything to be ashamed over. Not that he's comparing their physiques, or anything else. And everyone knows that flaccid length doesn't count for shit except when trying to impress other guys in the shower... which, okay, pretty much sums up the situation but is beside the point.
"So it just all comes down to gun size for you?" Stephen mocks.
Ryan shrugs the jibe off. "Always a good idea to be better armed than the other guy."
And there is the military mentality right there. And it isn't like Stephen disagrees per say - it's just that if you go somewhere looking for a fight then you are pretty much guaranteed to find one. It's hardly the first time he has made that particular point.
"The problem is you guys are all too quick on the trigger."
Just as it is hardly the first time Ryan had come right back with barely a flicker of temper: "Because you insist on just leaping in with no thought and just expect us to cover your arse."
Stephen snorts, turning away and back to his shower. They've had this argument too many times and he just can't be bothered, not right then. "Trust me," he says, partly over his shoulder, "I don't expect you to do anything with my arse." Without really being aware of it he knows that Ryan's gaze just bounced down swiftly and that it's his turn to smirk.
"Don't flatter yourself, Hart," Ryan says with a growl but one laced with humour, "you aren't that pretty."
Stephen doesn't think twice about replying, "Pretty enough for you to follow around all day," as he washes down his chest.
His taunt gets a bark of laughter. "Don't get the wrong idea - I just want you for your brains."
"Whatever gets you off." It should seem odd, running slick soapy hands over his groin while he has this conversation but it's another of those things, like being chased by prehistoric creatures or nearly getting trapped in some other time, that just doesn't bother him like he thinks maybe it would have done once.
"Luckily for both of us you aren't the last man on earth."
He can't not think of the rain drenched forest and the furious embarrassment of being dragged through it like a recalcitrant child. The memory puts more bite into his voice than he intends. "According to you I nearly was."
It is one of the more annoying things about the man that nothing seems to phase him. "So you should be more thankful I dragged you back."
Should he? Stephen wonders. The verdant green had been beautiful in its own way, so rich and alive. The world had seemed a little dead when he returned, all the colours muted. He knew it was an illusion - a coniferous forest in England with it's cloudy, pollution-filled days is never going to compete with a primordial Eden. He's not even a hundred percent sure he made it back. Or that a hundred percent of him did. Maybe he is still standing back there - so long ago that his body is dust. The rain is warmer and gentler than he remembers it.
For all their high ideals and justifiable fears he wonders sometimes if that is what they are really searching for; a new paradise. Would they ever just leave and not come back..? Would he ever not come back?
Then Ryan is there, too close and looking at him worriedly.
"Shit, Hart, are you okay?"
Stephen shakes his head, trying to clear it. He doesn't know what had been up with him recently. To little sleep maybe, plagued by dreams of an anomaly opening up in his room. He always wakes before he finds out if he stepped through or not. Or if anything else did. Worry over Nick, Hell, over what Helen has planned, over the younger team members for whom it is all a game and who are blithely unconcerned about the fact that they might accidently destroy the world. About the fact that half the time that describes him just as well.
He wants to laugh because he has no way to explain any of this and Ryan's hands were all over him, checking his skull for injuries with a gentle but smothering thoroughness and asking "did you hit your head?" as if it could be something as simple as that.
Stephen bats his hands away with an embarrassed "I'm fine". Because really he is. He just needs to pull himself together and get over this whatever-it-is.
Ryan's face is so near, creased with concern, and without really thinking about it Stephen leans forwards and kisses the out-of-focus lips. And then everything comes crashing down...
-- Interesting --
-- Alive! Home! --
-- Soft. Strong. Wet. Good. --
-- So much out there. So many worlds. So different. --
-- Oh fuck - he's going to kill me! --
The vague ennui that has gripped him flees in a bolt of adrenalin laced-fear, returning the clarity he had lost. Stephen pulls himself together and physically back, desperately trying to find the words of apology and explanation that would get him out of this, and if that failed, of defiance.
Ryan is staring at him and Stephen can feel the hot flush of shame across his skin. He isn't going to blink first though.
"You insane bastard," Ryan snarls and then Stephen's shocked mind registers that he was being kissed rather than punched, although given the force that was behind it it's a little hard to tell. Stephen's back hits the shower wall before he thinks to respond, the impact making him gasp and giving Ryan - Tom - an opening to deepen the kiss. Not that Stephen hadn't been planning on doing that as soon as his brain finally kicked in. Except, he realises, it kicked in, only to abdicate all decisions to his body and then step right back out again. And, at that moment, Stephen doesn't have any problem with that at all because Tom tastes of water and restrained power and here and now. His fingers catch on Tom's short hair, mussing it into fractal spikes - his very own anomaly that he can fall into and lose himself.
He is vaguely aware that the flow of water around them has stopped as Tom kisses a way down his neck, hot sucking kisses that Stephen can only arch into. He's panting now, every little detail turning him on further: the slide of rough tongue along his collar bone, the solid press of Tom's erection against his side and the shear presence of the man against him. He clenches his teeth against the sound of surprise and pleasure as he feels the first suck on his right nipple. It puckers under the attention, hard and sensitive as Tom rolls his tongue around it and captures it between his lips. It is not quite a bite but close enough. The sensation of it floods him and he thrusts against Tom's hip desperate for a balancing madness.
Tom chuckles against his chest. "Like that do you?" he mutters.
Stephen's only response is a whine of need as Tom reaches up to pinch his other nipple. It's been... too long since someone has touched him like this. Too long since he has had any relief except his own hand when he could be bothered. And he hadn't cared because he had his work and the rush of new worlds, new creatures and new theories. What was a five minute knuckle shuffle compared to the payoff of re-writing everything they knew about the world? Not that he could tell anyone. That was their lives - so top secret that they have their very own PR division to cover up every trace of their work and all for the sake of a possible understanding, evidenced in ephemera that showed them glimpses of what might be in what had been before it all got ripped away from them. They are dealing with phenomena so dangerous that they had to act to save people but in doing so could be destroying everything.
And here he is finding deliverance from his own mind in a secret, barely explicable and dangerous act of defiance? Lust? Affirmation? He would have laughed if he had had the breath but all he can manage is gasps of encouragement as Tom takes him apart as effortlessly as he dismantles his gun. He feels that he should be doing something more, offering some reciprocation beyond his fingers mindlessly kneading the strong muscle of Tom's shoulders and his cock rubbing against the taunt stomach except Tom is always a step ahead of him, his mouth and hands mapping out the plains and angles of Stephen's skin and incidentally blocking Stephen from touching him in return. Stephen hopes it isn't deliberate.
"Let me," Stephen pleads. Even he isn't sure if he is asking for release or to explore Tom's body. He kisses what he can reach - Tom's hair, his ear and the sensitive area behind - but even that is taken away from him as Tom sinks lower.
And Holy fucking Christ - he has a fucking commando on his knees sucking him off and that seems suddenly weirder than any space-time disturbance because those are just maths and physics and this is a whole new paradox. Not that he is complaining. Or capable of stringing two coherent thoughts together. Firm hands grasp his hips, holding them still as Tom skilfully annexes Stephen's dick. He feels a dull pain as the back of his head impacts with the wall behind him but it is nothing compared to the sweet beauty of what is in front of him. Tom's mouth is hot and tight around his cock. He knows if he looked down he could see the hollowed out dips of Tom's cheeks as he moves but that image has to remain in his head because he hasn't the wit or capability to do so. He had no body, no being, except what is in Tom's hands, his mouth. There is a crack across one of the tiles in his eyeline on the opposite wall and it fascinates him in an abstract way; the world, his world, in an inch square, held in place by increasingly flaky and disintegrating bonds. He focuses on it, holding on because he is not ready to give in yet, not ready to lose himself in the rising pins-and-needles tornado of sensation.
'They aren't in Kansus any more,' he thinks wildly. They haven't been for a while.
Tom wraps one hand around the base of his cock and with he other encourages Stephen to thrust. He manages to look then - to see the straining flesh of his erection begin to pump into Tom's fist and then through the kiss of his lips. He moves shallowly at first, hardly daring to do so despite Tom's urgings. It is too good. Too right. Tom releases his hips totally and Stephen stutters to a stop until Tom reaches up and runs his hand over the sensitive pebble of his nipple. He bucks at that and feels as much as hears Tom grunt in encouragement. He can feel the pressure in his fingers where he is gripping Tom's shoulder and hopes he isn't leaving bruises because he can't make himself let go even a little. This is going to be hard and fast and he has very little say in the matter. Tom's fingers pinch one nipple and then then other sending jolts of more through him. Need and the desire not to get bitten if he got this wrong war within him for a moment but he can take a hint and Tom has been more than clear. He still holds back slightly as he begins to thrust, finding the limits of what the hand around his cock will allow. The answer seems to be pretty much anything and he lets the last of his inhibitions fall away. And, oh God, it is glorious! Every thought is gone but the basest and most primitive responses of his body. Nothing matters except the slip-slide race into oblivion, the tension pulling him onwards. He does everything he can to increase it until it is screaming through every nerve in his body and he knows, just knows, that in any second it is going to snap and take him with it.
"Tom," he manages in a strangled voice that comes too close to a scream to be his.
And Tom, oh fucking God!, lets go with his hand and swallows him down. It's the shock of it that breaks him. He's coming, his body shuddering in reaction as the strain and release racks him. Tom just takes it and he has no idea how as he pushes forward more frantically only to freeze as his muscles lock and Tom is there sucking him tight as the overwhelming joy of it all hits him.
The wall is cool and solid against his back. He thinks it might be the only thing holding him upright. Then Tom stands and he kisses the fuck-plumped lips, the promise of Tom's erection pressed against his hip. He reaches for it, jacking him gently as he licks into the hot, damp mouth.
He realises suddenly that Tom is actually slightly shorter than he is and wonders why he never noticed before and why he notices now. Now the urgency is gone, taking the disassociation with it, he wants to repay what he has just been given. A new compulsion that he happily gives into - letting his movements become rougher and wholly about Tom's needs. He can feel it working, Tom is grinding into his fist, dangerous suddenly in a way that is at once frightening and perfect.
"Fuck me?" Stephen asks.
Tom stills, pulling back just enough to look at him.
'God', Stephen thinks. 'Yes.'
He suspects Tom read that in his eyes as he roughly pushes him around and Stephen braces himself against the tiles. "No rubbers, no lube," Tom reminds him, voice rough and almost broken next to his ear. Then Tom is flush against him, erection pushing a path between his thighs. He shifts slightly, helping Tom find the right angle so that he can thrust into the sweat-slicked space. Wanting to make it even better he grabs for the shower gel. A quick squeeze and he's reaching down between his legs, soaping Tom as if he was washing himself. He's still mostly hard after his own orgasm and the brush of his arm against his groin makes him gasp at the pleasure-pain of the too sensitive touch. Satisfied he puts his soapy hand back on the wall, it skids slightly, throwing him back against Tom before he finds his balance.
Tom grunts in his ear and Stephen thinks it might have been have been his name, distorted and shortened. They move together with a fierce ease. Stephen can feel the teasing brush of pressure rub between his cheeks, against the sensitive skin behind his balls and arches into it. Maybe not now, but soon he will get to feel what he really wants - the give and stretch of Tom forcing his body open, the pressure within and against and through him as he takes all of the coiled power he can feel at his back. Until then he enjoys the hints in the push and pull of Tom's cock against him. He feels a butterfly kiss on the nape of his neck - careful, deliberate and unexpected. Turning his head he captures Tom's mouth for a long moment, kissing in a clumsy mash of lips and tongue before he drops his head back down the better to meet Tom's body with his own. Tom mouths at his neck and shoulder, teeth scraping against skin but not hard enough to mark. He can hear the pants of breath in his ear, knows from the way that Tom grips his hips and pounds against him that he must be close. He does what he can, gripping his legs tight around the hard, burrowing cock, pushing back into each thrust as Tom picks up the pace...
There is a moment's pause and then he can feel the pulse of Tom's release against his inner thigh. It's his turn to take the weight of them both as Tom comes, driving into him in ragged, vigourous lurches before slumping down against him. They rest like that: Stephen leaning against the wall and Tom against him. Then with a little shake Tom laughs. The absurdity of the situation hits Stephen and he is laughing as well. He stands properly and catches Tom's eye before hitting the dial to turn the shower back on. Still chuckling they wash themselves down, all it takes is looking at Tom's smiling face and Stephen is set off again, the exhilaration bubbling from him. In an effort to bring some propriety back to the room Stephen concentrates on the solid, muscled bulk on Tom's torso, the tight curves of his arse and the slowly deflating column of his cock. He doesn't ask what Tom is thinking, or what he is looking at, but he does lean into the touch when Tom runs a knuckle down his spine. It isn't quite a caress but it is close enough.
"Guess your arse is worth following around all day," Tom teases gently.
Stephen grins, stretching and knowing that Tom is watching. "Not just my brain then?" he asks.
"Maybe some of the mission parameters could be updated," Tom agrees. "Although you are just giving me more reasons to drag your butt back."
"I don't know... less chance of getting interrupted over there..." Stephen is joking, but he still feels some relief at knowing that he really doesn't mean it. Whatever part of him that, maybe, just maybe, wasn't sure what he really wanted is gone - burned out of him in their passion. He feels Tom go stiff besides him. He looks over and the mask is back in place.
Tom, Ryan, is pulling away, putting a more socially acceptable distance between them and Stephen curses himself for reminding him where they are.
"It's okay," he says quickly.
Ryan gives him a stony look which strongly suggests he is an idiot.
"No, really," Stephen insists. "No one is around." He can see Ryan start to object and raises a hand to stop him. Amazingly it works. "And if there were then 'oh dear - that strange substance we both got on our hands during our last mission must have done something to us.' It would have been okay."
"And you don't think that one of your scientist pals would have had something to say about that?" Ryan asks, the disbelief clear in his tone.
Stephen shakes his head. "Cutter likes you. He'd have backed us even if he thought..."
"Knew," Ryan corrects.
"Thought," Stephen repeats, "that is was bollocks."
Ryan frowns. "We still shouldn't have done that..." He takes a breath and Stephen waits, not sure how he wants that sentence to end. "Not here."
"Not here," Stephen agrees. They can only be so lucky and Stephen would prefer to save that luck for missions. "So do you get locked in here at night or do you get time off for good behaviour?"
Tom licks his lips, still puffy and used. His eyes track down Stephen's body and he knows he has him, it's just a matter of when and where.
"You are insane," Ryan breathes but there is a definite respect underlying his words.
Stephen smiles. It could be true - and he doesn't care.
Author: fides
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Stephen/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What's one more near miss?
Notes: Happy birthday bigtitch - sorry it is late.
Also at AO3 (review/concrit at either)
"What the hell do you think you were doing?" Stephen hisses. A small part of his brain is pointing out loudly that getting in the face of a trained killer is not the best way to live a long and pain free life but, Hell, they spend most days chasing or being chased by creatures that may be a footnote in the fossil record (if they are lucky) and who think he's lunch.
Captain Ryan, whatever else might be said about him (and Stephan has said quite a bit), might want to kill him occasionally - but at least sees him as more than an appetiser. At least Stephen is pretty sure he does.
Ryan lets go of the wet handful of collar and harness he has just dragged Stephen back through the anomaly by, but otherwise ignores him as he barks orders to his squad. Only when his team are stationed to his satisfaction, each of them ready to unleash a hail of lead on anything unlucky enough to poke a whisker into the 21st century, does he pay Stephen any attention.
"My job," he answers shortly and turns right back to his men.
Insufferable bloody wanker! Stephen straightens his pack and walks over to where the others were huddled damply.
"You should thank him, Stephen," Nick says lightly when he joins them. "He pulled you out of there just in time."
Stephen looks back to see the anomaly closing in on itself. "I could have got the sample," he disagrees, "just a few more seconds..."
Nick's hand falls on his shoulder, friendly and calming despite the clammy cloth of his t-shirt. "And it wouldn't have done any good if we had lost you."
They don't say anything else as they load up the kit and head back but Abby gives him a thump on the arm. Stephen isn't sure if that is punishment for worrying her or welcome back. It's nice but unnecessary. He hadn't cut it that fine. Wouldn't have even if he hadn't had six foot of irresistible force proving he wasn't an immovable object. But then it doesn't all hit Stephen until much later - not until he's alone in the locker rooms, the sharp beat of water from the shower pricking at his skin. He scrubs at his hair savagely, suddenly needing to get out the memory of millennia-old mud and monsoon-drenched failure. He doesn't know why the thought of getting trapped doesn't phase him as much as it should. He supposes that he just doesn't think it would happen - not for long. They would have found a way to get him home. Or he would have found a way. There is something so real and brilliant about the men and women that he works with that compared to them the universe has no chance. He'd miss this while he waited though - the little joys of modern life; warm water that could be wasted just soothing the day from him, clean enough that he can let it run into his face, his mouth, and not need to worry about bacteria or parasites or any one of a number of other things.
He's just contemplating the joys of shower gel over primitive soap (or, worse, sand) when he hears the soft footfalls of another lost soul without something to lure them away from work. He doesn't look as the feet get closer or when a shower off to his right starts, taking some of his water pressure with it. Finally, when the creeping irritation of having an unknown presence that close to him gets too much he glances over. It doesn't seem surprising that it is Ryan standing there; the man had been following him all day - through strange phenomena into dense tropical forests, down gullies and into root caves - what was the locker room compared to that?
"Tell me you aren't going to pull me out of the showers as well," he says.
"And send you home for your own good," Ryan looks over at him. "I should do. What you did today was stupid."
"No. Stupid was following me."
They look at each other, water splattering around them - a replay of their earlier argument.
Ryan chuckles, a sound that Stephen has never expected to hear. "Is this where we whip them out and prove once and for all whose is bigger?"
Stephen blinked, his gaze dropping instinctively before his brain kicked in. Ryan smirks at him and Stephen glares, refusing to blush. Or to cover up. He might not be as toned as Mr - Sorry, Captain - Muscles, but he does his share of exercise (even more now that running is an important part of his job description) and doesn't think he has anything to be ashamed over. Not that he's comparing their physiques, or anything else. And everyone knows that flaccid length doesn't count for shit except when trying to impress other guys in the shower... which, okay, pretty much sums up the situation but is beside the point.
"So it just all comes down to gun size for you?" Stephen mocks.
Ryan shrugs the jibe off. "Always a good idea to be better armed than the other guy."
And there is the military mentality right there. And it isn't like Stephen disagrees per say - it's just that if you go somewhere looking for a fight then you are pretty much guaranteed to find one. It's hardly the first time he has made that particular point.
"The problem is you guys are all too quick on the trigger."
Just as it is hardly the first time Ryan had come right back with barely a flicker of temper: "Because you insist on just leaping in with no thought and just expect us to cover your arse."
Stephen snorts, turning away and back to his shower. They've had this argument too many times and he just can't be bothered, not right then. "Trust me," he says, partly over his shoulder, "I don't expect you to do anything with my arse." Without really being aware of it he knows that Ryan's gaze just bounced down swiftly and that it's his turn to smirk.
"Don't flatter yourself, Hart," Ryan says with a growl but one laced with humour, "you aren't that pretty."
Stephen doesn't think twice about replying, "Pretty enough for you to follow around all day," as he washes down his chest.
His taunt gets a bark of laughter. "Don't get the wrong idea - I just want you for your brains."
"Whatever gets you off." It should seem odd, running slick soapy hands over his groin while he has this conversation but it's another of those things, like being chased by prehistoric creatures or nearly getting trapped in some other time, that just doesn't bother him like he thinks maybe it would have done once.
"Luckily for both of us you aren't the last man on earth."
He can't not think of the rain drenched forest and the furious embarrassment of being dragged through it like a recalcitrant child. The memory puts more bite into his voice than he intends. "According to you I nearly was."
It is one of the more annoying things about the man that nothing seems to phase him. "So you should be more thankful I dragged you back."
Should he? Stephen wonders. The verdant green had been beautiful in its own way, so rich and alive. The world had seemed a little dead when he returned, all the colours muted. He knew it was an illusion - a coniferous forest in England with it's cloudy, pollution-filled days is never going to compete with a primordial Eden. He's not even a hundred percent sure he made it back. Or that a hundred percent of him did. Maybe he is still standing back there - so long ago that his body is dust. The rain is warmer and gentler than he remembers it.
For all their high ideals and justifiable fears he wonders sometimes if that is what they are really searching for; a new paradise. Would they ever just leave and not come back..? Would he ever not come back?
Then Ryan is there, too close and looking at him worriedly.
"Shit, Hart, are you okay?"
Stephen shakes his head, trying to clear it. He doesn't know what had been up with him recently. To little sleep maybe, plagued by dreams of an anomaly opening up in his room. He always wakes before he finds out if he stepped through or not. Or if anything else did. Worry over Nick, Hell, over what Helen has planned, over the younger team members for whom it is all a game and who are blithely unconcerned about the fact that they might accidently destroy the world. About the fact that half the time that describes him just as well.
He wants to laugh because he has no way to explain any of this and Ryan's hands were all over him, checking his skull for injuries with a gentle but smothering thoroughness and asking "did you hit your head?" as if it could be something as simple as that.
Stephen bats his hands away with an embarrassed "I'm fine". Because really he is. He just needs to pull himself together and get over this whatever-it-is.
Ryan's face is so near, creased with concern, and without really thinking about it Stephen leans forwards and kisses the out-of-focus lips. And then everything comes crashing down...
-- Interesting --
-- Alive! Home! --
-- Soft. Strong. Wet. Good. --
-- So much out there. So many worlds. So different. --
-- Oh fuck - he's going to kill me! --
The vague ennui that has gripped him flees in a bolt of adrenalin laced-fear, returning the clarity he had lost. Stephen pulls himself together and physically back, desperately trying to find the words of apology and explanation that would get him out of this, and if that failed, of defiance.
Ryan is staring at him and Stephen can feel the hot flush of shame across his skin. He isn't going to blink first though.
"You insane bastard," Ryan snarls and then Stephen's shocked mind registers that he was being kissed rather than punched, although given the force that was behind it it's a little hard to tell. Stephen's back hits the shower wall before he thinks to respond, the impact making him gasp and giving Ryan - Tom - an opening to deepen the kiss. Not that Stephen hadn't been planning on doing that as soon as his brain finally kicked in. Except, he realises, it kicked in, only to abdicate all decisions to his body and then step right back out again. And, at that moment, Stephen doesn't have any problem with that at all because Tom tastes of water and restrained power and here and now. His fingers catch on Tom's short hair, mussing it into fractal spikes - his very own anomaly that he can fall into and lose himself.
He is vaguely aware that the flow of water around them has stopped as Tom kisses a way down his neck, hot sucking kisses that Stephen can only arch into. He's panting now, every little detail turning him on further: the slide of rough tongue along his collar bone, the solid press of Tom's erection against his side and the shear presence of the man against him. He clenches his teeth against the sound of surprise and pleasure as he feels the first suck on his right nipple. It puckers under the attention, hard and sensitive as Tom rolls his tongue around it and captures it between his lips. It is not quite a bite but close enough. The sensation of it floods him and he thrusts against Tom's hip desperate for a balancing madness.
Tom chuckles against his chest. "Like that do you?" he mutters.
Stephen's only response is a whine of need as Tom reaches up to pinch his other nipple. It's been... too long since someone has touched him like this. Too long since he has had any relief except his own hand when he could be bothered. And he hadn't cared because he had his work and the rush of new worlds, new creatures and new theories. What was a five minute knuckle shuffle compared to the payoff of re-writing everything they knew about the world? Not that he could tell anyone. That was their lives - so top secret that they have their very own PR division to cover up every trace of their work and all for the sake of a possible understanding, evidenced in ephemera that showed them glimpses of what might be in what had been before it all got ripped away from them. They are dealing with phenomena so dangerous that they had to act to save people but in doing so could be destroying everything.
And here he is finding deliverance from his own mind in a secret, barely explicable and dangerous act of defiance? Lust? Affirmation? He would have laughed if he had had the breath but all he can manage is gasps of encouragement as Tom takes him apart as effortlessly as he dismantles his gun. He feels that he should be doing something more, offering some reciprocation beyond his fingers mindlessly kneading the strong muscle of Tom's shoulders and his cock rubbing against the taunt stomach except Tom is always a step ahead of him, his mouth and hands mapping out the plains and angles of Stephen's skin and incidentally blocking Stephen from touching him in return. Stephen hopes it isn't deliberate.
"Let me," Stephen pleads. Even he isn't sure if he is asking for release or to explore Tom's body. He kisses what he can reach - Tom's hair, his ear and the sensitive area behind - but even that is taken away from him as Tom sinks lower.
And Holy fucking Christ - he has a fucking commando on his knees sucking him off and that seems suddenly weirder than any space-time disturbance because those are just maths and physics and this is a whole new paradox. Not that he is complaining. Or capable of stringing two coherent thoughts together. Firm hands grasp his hips, holding them still as Tom skilfully annexes Stephen's dick. He feels a dull pain as the back of his head impacts with the wall behind him but it is nothing compared to the sweet beauty of what is in front of him. Tom's mouth is hot and tight around his cock. He knows if he looked down he could see the hollowed out dips of Tom's cheeks as he moves but that image has to remain in his head because he hasn't the wit or capability to do so. He had no body, no being, except what is in Tom's hands, his mouth. There is a crack across one of the tiles in his eyeline on the opposite wall and it fascinates him in an abstract way; the world, his world, in an inch square, held in place by increasingly flaky and disintegrating bonds. He focuses on it, holding on because he is not ready to give in yet, not ready to lose himself in the rising pins-and-needles tornado of sensation.
'They aren't in Kansus any more,' he thinks wildly. They haven't been for a while.
Tom wraps one hand around the base of his cock and with he other encourages Stephen to thrust. He manages to look then - to see the straining flesh of his erection begin to pump into Tom's fist and then through the kiss of his lips. He moves shallowly at first, hardly daring to do so despite Tom's urgings. It is too good. Too right. Tom releases his hips totally and Stephen stutters to a stop until Tom reaches up and runs his hand over the sensitive pebble of his nipple. He bucks at that and feels as much as hears Tom grunt in encouragement. He can feel the pressure in his fingers where he is gripping Tom's shoulder and hopes he isn't leaving bruises because he can't make himself let go even a little. This is going to be hard and fast and he has very little say in the matter. Tom's fingers pinch one nipple and then then other sending jolts of more through him. Need and the desire not to get bitten if he got this wrong war within him for a moment but he can take a hint and Tom has been more than clear. He still holds back slightly as he begins to thrust, finding the limits of what the hand around his cock will allow. The answer seems to be pretty much anything and he lets the last of his inhibitions fall away. And, oh God, it is glorious! Every thought is gone but the basest and most primitive responses of his body. Nothing matters except the slip-slide race into oblivion, the tension pulling him onwards. He does everything he can to increase it until it is screaming through every nerve in his body and he knows, just knows, that in any second it is going to snap and take him with it.
"Tom," he manages in a strangled voice that comes too close to a scream to be his.
And Tom, oh fucking God!, lets go with his hand and swallows him down. It's the shock of it that breaks him. He's coming, his body shuddering in reaction as the strain and release racks him. Tom just takes it and he has no idea how as he pushes forward more frantically only to freeze as his muscles lock and Tom is there sucking him tight as the overwhelming joy of it all hits him.
The wall is cool and solid against his back. He thinks it might be the only thing holding him upright. Then Tom stands and he kisses the fuck-plumped lips, the promise of Tom's erection pressed against his hip. He reaches for it, jacking him gently as he licks into the hot, damp mouth.
He realises suddenly that Tom is actually slightly shorter than he is and wonders why he never noticed before and why he notices now. Now the urgency is gone, taking the disassociation with it, he wants to repay what he has just been given. A new compulsion that he happily gives into - letting his movements become rougher and wholly about Tom's needs. He can feel it working, Tom is grinding into his fist, dangerous suddenly in a way that is at once frightening and perfect.
"Fuck me?" Stephen asks.
Tom stills, pulling back just enough to look at him.
'God', Stephen thinks. 'Yes.'
He suspects Tom read that in his eyes as he roughly pushes him around and Stephen braces himself against the tiles. "No rubbers, no lube," Tom reminds him, voice rough and almost broken next to his ear. Then Tom is flush against him, erection pushing a path between his thighs. He shifts slightly, helping Tom find the right angle so that he can thrust into the sweat-slicked space. Wanting to make it even better he grabs for the shower gel. A quick squeeze and he's reaching down between his legs, soaping Tom as if he was washing himself. He's still mostly hard after his own orgasm and the brush of his arm against his groin makes him gasp at the pleasure-pain of the too sensitive touch. Satisfied he puts his soapy hand back on the wall, it skids slightly, throwing him back against Tom before he finds his balance.
Tom grunts in his ear and Stephen thinks it might have been have been his name, distorted and shortened. They move together with a fierce ease. Stephen can feel the teasing brush of pressure rub between his cheeks, against the sensitive skin behind his balls and arches into it. Maybe not now, but soon he will get to feel what he really wants - the give and stretch of Tom forcing his body open, the pressure within and against and through him as he takes all of the coiled power he can feel at his back. Until then he enjoys the hints in the push and pull of Tom's cock against him. He feels a butterfly kiss on the nape of his neck - careful, deliberate and unexpected. Turning his head he captures Tom's mouth for a long moment, kissing in a clumsy mash of lips and tongue before he drops his head back down the better to meet Tom's body with his own. Tom mouths at his neck and shoulder, teeth scraping against skin but not hard enough to mark. He can hear the pants of breath in his ear, knows from the way that Tom grips his hips and pounds against him that he must be close. He does what he can, gripping his legs tight around the hard, burrowing cock, pushing back into each thrust as Tom picks up the pace...
There is a moment's pause and then he can feel the pulse of Tom's release against his inner thigh. It's his turn to take the weight of them both as Tom comes, driving into him in ragged, vigourous lurches before slumping down against him. They rest like that: Stephen leaning against the wall and Tom against him. Then with a little shake Tom laughs. The absurdity of the situation hits Stephen and he is laughing as well. He stands properly and catches Tom's eye before hitting the dial to turn the shower back on. Still chuckling they wash themselves down, all it takes is looking at Tom's smiling face and Stephen is set off again, the exhilaration bubbling from him. In an effort to bring some propriety back to the room Stephen concentrates on the solid, muscled bulk on Tom's torso, the tight curves of his arse and the slowly deflating column of his cock. He doesn't ask what Tom is thinking, or what he is looking at, but he does lean into the touch when Tom runs a knuckle down his spine. It isn't quite a caress but it is close enough.
"Guess your arse is worth following around all day," Tom teases gently.
Stephen grins, stretching and knowing that Tom is watching. "Not just my brain then?" he asks.
"Maybe some of the mission parameters could be updated," Tom agrees. "Although you are just giving me more reasons to drag your butt back."
"I don't know... less chance of getting interrupted over there..." Stephen is joking, but he still feels some relief at knowing that he really doesn't mean it. Whatever part of him that, maybe, just maybe, wasn't sure what he really wanted is gone - burned out of him in their passion. He feels Tom go stiff besides him. He looks over and the mask is back in place.
Tom, Ryan, is pulling away, putting a more socially acceptable distance between them and Stephen curses himself for reminding him where they are.
"It's okay," he says quickly.
Ryan gives him a stony look which strongly suggests he is an idiot.
"No, really," Stephen insists. "No one is around." He can see Ryan start to object and raises a hand to stop him. Amazingly it works. "And if there were then 'oh dear - that strange substance we both got on our hands during our last mission must have done something to us.' It would have been okay."
"And you don't think that one of your scientist pals would have had something to say about that?" Ryan asks, the disbelief clear in his tone.
Stephen shakes his head. "Cutter likes you. He'd have backed us even if he thought..."
"Knew," Ryan corrects.
"Thought," Stephen repeats, "that is was bollocks."
Ryan frowns. "We still shouldn't have done that..." He takes a breath and Stephen waits, not sure how he wants that sentence to end. "Not here."
"Not here," Stephen agrees. They can only be so lucky and Stephen would prefer to save that luck for missions. "So do you get locked in here at night or do you get time off for good behaviour?"
Tom licks his lips, still puffy and used. His eyes track down Stephen's body and he knows he has him, it's just a matter of when and where.
"You are insane," Ryan breathes but there is a definite respect underlying his words.
Stephen smiles. It could be true - and he doesn't care.