Fear of Loss - Primeval - Connor/Cutter
Title: Fear of Loss
Pairing: Connor/Cutter
Word Count: 512
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Implied character deaths
A/N: Written for comment_fic.
Summary: After everything he's lost, Connor's terrified of losing Cutter too.
His hands travel between them, ripping open the button and zip of Cutter's trousers. Not elegant and bordering on clumsy, but even when Cutter - smiling - tells him that it's okay (it's okay, Connor, you can slow down, nothing's gonna happen to me). Connor doesn't listen. Can't listen. Won't.
And he hates that smile of Cutter's, makes him sick, so he surges forward to press their lips together. Cutter's hand tangles in the back of his hair, throwing his hat away to land on the ground; he tries to make it slow, tries to make it gentle, but Connor doesn't listen to his silent instruction. (you could have died.) Every thought of it makes his hands shake, makes him want to yell at Cutter for needlessly endangering himself. Haven't there been enough funerals already?
He drops to his knees, here in the locker room of the Arc. Bad place for this, such a bad place, but he doesn't think he can wait. He needs this now. Needs something to convince him that Cutter is there, is okay, isn't going anywhere. Cutter's soothing words won't do it. Abby had reassured him as well, hadn't she, and nobody had seen Stephen's death coming. The world snatches the people he cares about away as if it's a game.
Cutter is already half-hard when Connor pulls him from his underwear, and a few rushed strokes are all it takes to make him ready. He's done this before, they have, in other times - happier times. When they were working together as a team, Connor had thought he could see forever: fighting dinosaurs with their friends, pushing the boundaries of science, making history.
(now he knows that forever is a dream and history is death.)
"Connor…" Cutter moans when Connor first takes him into his mouth, lips sliding over his thick cock. It's a familiar taste, a familiar weight on his tongue. Familiar hands threading through his black hair and holding on tightly. He knows how to do this, knows how to make Cutter unravel behind him. He thinks maybe he's always known.
Cutter's moans are low and guttural as Connor clutches his hips and works him with his mouth. He rocks, searching for more, and it's easy to accommodate even if the depth makes his eyes water: Connor never got the hang of deep-throating. Tended to cough, splutter and give up every time he tried. He breathes through his nose now and lets Cutter take what he needs, because he needs to give it to him (i'll give you everything if it keeps you alive).
Cutter comes with a sudden jerk, spilling deep within Connor's mouth, and Connor pulls off quickly, covering his mouth as he swallows the bitter liquid. He rests his head against Cutter's leg, catching his breath, and he can feel Cutter's hand softly stroking his hair, petting him, soothing him. Makes him close his eyes.
"Are you alright?" Cutter asks, breathless.
"Fine," Connor says, smiling. (i'm scared; you scare me every time you get hurt.) Some things don't need to be said with words.
Pairing: Connor/Cutter
Word Count: 512
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Implied character deaths
A/N: Written for comment_fic.
Summary: After everything he's lost, Connor's terrified of losing Cutter too.
His hands travel between them, ripping open the button and zip of Cutter's trousers. Not elegant and bordering on clumsy, but even when Cutter - smiling - tells him that it's okay (it's okay, Connor, you can slow down, nothing's gonna happen to me). Connor doesn't listen. Can't listen. Won't.
And he hates that smile of Cutter's, makes him sick, so he surges forward to press their lips together. Cutter's hand tangles in the back of his hair, throwing his hat away to land on the ground; he tries to make it slow, tries to make it gentle, but Connor doesn't listen to his silent instruction. (you could have died.) Every thought of it makes his hands shake, makes him want to yell at Cutter for needlessly endangering himself. Haven't there been enough funerals already?
He drops to his knees, here in the locker room of the Arc. Bad place for this, such a bad place, but he doesn't think he can wait. He needs this now. Needs something to convince him that Cutter is there, is okay, isn't going anywhere. Cutter's soothing words won't do it. Abby had reassured him as well, hadn't she, and nobody had seen Stephen's death coming. The world snatches the people he cares about away as if it's a game.
Cutter is already half-hard when Connor pulls him from his underwear, and a few rushed strokes are all it takes to make him ready. He's done this before, they have, in other times - happier times. When they were working together as a team, Connor had thought he could see forever: fighting dinosaurs with their friends, pushing the boundaries of science, making history.
(now he knows that forever is a dream and history is death.)
"Connor…" Cutter moans when Connor first takes him into his mouth, lips sliding over his thick cock. It's a familiar taste, a familiar weight on his tongue. Familiar hands threading through his black hair and holding on tightly. He knows how to do this, knows how to make Cutter unravel behind him. He thinks maybe he's always known.
Cutter's moans are low and guttural as Connor clutches his hips and works him with his mouth. He rocks, searching for more, and it's easy to accommodate even if the depth makes his eyes water: Connor never got the hang of deep-throating. Tended to cough, splutter and give up every time he tried. He breathes through his nose now and lets Cutter take what he needs, because he needs to give it to him (i'll give you everything if it keeps you alive).
Cutter comes with a sudden jerk, spilling deep within Connor's mouth, and Connor pulls off quickly, covering his mouth as he swallows the bitter liquid. He rests his head against Cutter's leg, catching his breath, and he can feel Cutter's hand softly stroking his hair, petting him, soothing him. Makes him close his eyes.
"Are you alright?" Cutter asks, breathless.
"Fine," Connor says, smiling. (i'm scared; you scare me every time you get hurt.) Some things don't need to be said with words.