Entry tags:

genre: drama, genre: romance, pairing: jon/"stephen", sequel, series: fake news

Title: Anonymous
Rating: R
Contents: Sex, violence, humiliation
Characters/pairings: "Stephen"/???, "Stephen"/Jon
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

Summary: A sequel/remix/sandbox-type-thing of sarcasticsra's For Granted. The premise of the original: "Stephen" is living with Jon, but still has this compulsive, self-destructive need to sneak off and have tawdry sex with nameless men in bars.

So, being the cheerful and upbeat writer I am, I decided to write fixit fic!

...No, really. Stop laughing.

(It looks bad at first, but it gets fixed in the end, I swear.)



Anonymous


The eyes catch Stephen's across the bar. It only lasts a second, but it's all he needs to abandon his half-finished drink and follow.

A thousand cutting remarks run through his mind about the man's shirt, which is a shade of orange that in Stephen's opinion ought to be a criminal offense. Then he's being pressed roughly against the cement-block wall, and a thigh between his legs grinds the whole collection from his mind.

"Don't," he gasps, twisting aside as his companion tries to nip at the sensitive skin. "I have...someone. He can't see."

"Must be a lousy someone, if you're coming here."

"He's good to me," whispers Stephen, hips thrusting even as he protests. "He has no idea I'm here. I shouldn't...."

"Hey," says the other man sharply, grabbing Stephen by the hair and dragging them apart, so that for a moment Stephen writhes in thin air like a fish on a line. "Not interested. Either go home to your boyfriend, or shut up about your guilty conscience and get on your knees. What's it gonna be?"

Stephen tries to announce that he's leaving, but all that comes out is a desperate whimper. He needs this: needs to be taken, used, and tossed aside, all in a way he can't get at home, where the sex is caring and tender and therefore never enough.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," drawls the other man, letting him go. "Make this quick enough, and maybe he won't even notice you're gone."

Moaning his consent, Stephen sinks to the floor and gives himself up.


*

The latch is whisper-soft as Stephen pulls the front door shut.

So far, so quiet. Now, if he can just make it to the stairs without turning on any lights....

"Where have you been?"

Stephen's breath catches.

There's a click of a lamp chain being pulled, and then an armchair is bathed in a pool of yellow light. Stephen blinks away the afterimages until he can see a figure, legs crossed and shoulders stiff, looking far too imposing for a man in pajamas.

"Jon," he stammers. "I, I, I was just...."

"Nobody 'just' goes missing in the middle of the night," interrupts Jon. "What were you doing?" Then, with increasing horror: "Who were you doing?"

Heart racing, Stephen cringes. "Don't know."

The chair springs creak; Jon pads across the carpet in his bare feet, hands clenching and unclenching with pent-up tension. "Why do you do this, Stephen? Why do you keep running off for cheap anonymous hookups?"

"Don't know," mumbles Stephen again, shrinking into himself. "I'm sorry. I don't know."

"Can't you be honest for once?" demands Jon, coming to an abrupt halt in front of him. "If you don't want me—!"

"I do!" Dropping to the carpet, Stephen clings to Jon's ankles, head bowed, cheek pressed against Jon's trembling calf. "Please, I'm sorry, I want you, I just need—"

Jon kicks.

Stephen doubles over with a cry. Those muscles may be old, but there's something of the college soccer player in them yet.

For a moment there's silence, except for two sets of labored breathing.

"I — God, Stephen, I can't look at you right now," mutters Jon at last. The fury has gone out of his voice; now he just sounds drained. "Sleep on the couch. Or get out of here, I don't care. Just don't come upstairs tonight."

"Hurts," chokes Stephen, clutching his stomach as he huddles in a ball on the floor.

"Good," hisses Jon under his breath, and stalks from the room.

A few minutes pass before Stephen has the strength to do anything but lie in the dark.


*

He's managed to crawl out of his stale clothes when Jon comes back down the stairs, fresh boxers and Stephen's favorite flag-patterned robe folded in his arms.

Stephen slips into the new offerings, pausing to prod gingerly at his side. "I think this is going to bruise," he pouts.

Jon winces. "Sorry! Too harsh?"

Leaning against him, Stephen replies with a hum of wordless content.

He's still a bit unsteady on his feet, though, so he leans on Jon's shoulder as they head for the stairs. Jon guides Stephen all the way with a gentle hand on the small of his back, pausing only to toss his dirty clothes in the laundry basket on top of the orange shirt before leading him into the bedroom.