(no subject)
Title: As The Pieces Fall
Pairing: Stephen/Connor
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: All episodes including season 2 episode 1.
Warning: None really, sex, angst.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, although I do own the DVD’s for season one. But no, they belong to cleverer people than me.
Feedback: Yes please. Would love to know what you think.
Author’s Notes: This fic was never supposed to be written like this. It was actually intended to be part of a bigger fic I’m trying not to write which seems to be being written anyway, however this seemed to work better.
AN2: Have been trying to use this title for god knows how long for a fic!
You’re just about to knock on the door when it opens sharply, revealing a muss-haired Stephen, bottle of beer in hand.
“You’re late.” He calls strolling to the kitchen.
“Abby made me tidy up because I shot her.” You take the beer he offers you, taking a long draw, before pulling your coat and bag off, hanging them by the door and falling onto the sofa next to him.
“How’s she been punishing you for that one?” He smiles at you, one hand idly flipping through channels with the remote control, the other settling warmly, and seemingly automatically on your thigh.
“Oh it’s bad, I had to clean Rex’s tank. For a small thing he sure produces a lot of mess.”
“This is why we don’t trust you with the guns. You shoot the wrong things.” His voice is soft and you know he’s just toying with you.
“Hey, I fired three shots, two hit raptors.” Doesn’t mean the toying doesn’t sting. “One of those shots saved your life, and I hit the other one with my eyes closed.”
“I know, I’m just kidding. I fully intend to thank you for that later. First, however, movie.”
You stand, the warmed patch on your thigh from his hand chilling quickly. You grab the two cases from your bag and quickly return to the sofa, handing the boxes over for inspection.
“Constantine or Batman Begins? Christ, Connor, you really are a geek!” He smirks, flipping the Constantine case onto the table and opening the other.
After inserting the disc in the player he detours to the kitchen, grabbing more beer and snacks, before settling back on the sofa, his hand going back to your thigh, minutely higher than the first time.
About halfway through his arm has migrated to the back of the sofa and you push back lightly into the warmth pouring off him. His fingers start to comb through the long strands of hair at the base of your neck, stroking and playing over the skin underneath, your head drops forward slightly, unconsciously, to give him more access, a small near-purr catching in your throat. His hand stills at that and you look up to catch his eyes, watching you.
The moment stretches between you until finally you can’t stand the silence anymore. “I was really scared when I saw that raptor running at you.” You blame the beer.
“So was I.” He offers softly, something intense appearing in his gaze. His hand tightens slightly in your hair, pulling a few of the strands and you snap, hands going up to grab his head and crush your mouths together in a hard kiss, pouring out all the fear you’d felt earlier.
He returns the kiss in kind, and you can feel his lips move in silent speech, every word swallowed up by hungry lips and clashing teeth. You thank God that your beer is already on the table as you swing yourself round to straddle his thighs, not breaking the kiss.
Your lungs burn and you finally pull away, resting your forehead against his and panting slightly. His hand still tangled in your hair, small movements making it pull. He keeps saying things, lips working near-soundlessly, and you can feel the slight tremble through his body. You can feel his erection pressed against your upper thigh.
You press a short kiss to his lips, before going to move off him, wincing slightly when his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in hard enough that you know it’ll bruise.
He makes a small sound in the back of his throat and it scares you. He’s so much stronger than you and you can’t stand to see that sudden flash of fear in his eyes. You look away quickly, taking a deep breath. “I’ll be back, I’ll be right back. I’m not going anywhere. Trust me.”
You almost miss the whispered, “I do.” But his fingers loosen and his hands fall to his side, you hurry to your coat, grabbing the small tube from the pocket and going back to the sofa, you stop briefly to strip yourself of trousers and underwear, your hard cock bobbing up to rest between the front tails of you shirt, the wash-softened fabric making you groan as it brushes over it. You’d lost your shoes much earlier when you were getting comfortable.
His eyes flick to your cock, hands reaching out to grab your hips again, and you let him pull you back to his lap. Your head falling back in a soft sigh as his finger strokes over the slit.
Your hands reach between you to fumble with his jeans, pulling the buttons open as quickly as your shaking will allow, unsurprised to find him commando beneath them.
His cock bobs free as you push his jeans as far down his hips as you can. You grab the tube from the arm of the sofa, shaking hands trying to open it. Stephen grabs it, despite the small tremors wracking his frame, he’s still far steadier than you are right now, popping the cap and slicking two fingers and reaching behind you to stroke them over your entrance.
“Don’t, please, just do it.” You’re so close to begging even more, you literally bite your tongue to stop it slipping out. Groaning gratefully when he thrusts his two fingers in hard, pressing the tips against your prostate, making you buck in his lap. You swear loudly when he pulls them out, slicking his cock with more lube.
You let out a small whimper when he uses one hand on your hip to guide you into the right position, and pulls you down onto him, thrusting up when you obviously take to long. Your head falls forward to rest on his shoulder, your whole body shaking, neither of you moving much. Your hips roll in small circles pressing him against your prostate again and again. His hands wrap around you tightly, holding you still, buried as deep as he can be in this position inside. You feel his mouth on your throat, sucking and biting lightly at the skin, you twitch at every nip, small whimpers and moans slipping out.
“Jesus, fuck, Connor, you feel so good. Want you. Need you.” His voice sounds broken, small sobs slipping in between syllables and you pull back slightly, stroking his hair back from his face and looking straight into his eyes.
“You’ve got me. I’m right here, we‘re fine. Want you too. Need you too.” You kiss him, repeating the last two sentences over and over, the sudden realisation that you could have lost him, either one of you could have been killed that day, and you’d joked about it, but you were scared.
His arms tighten even more around you, and he twists slightly, manoeuvring you to lie down on the sofa with him on top of you, still buried deep inside. His arms slip from around you, palms landing on the sofa either side of your head, and he starts moving, deeper and harder inside you, broken words still falling from his lips.
Your legs go up to wrap around his hips, letting him deeper. One hand going to the sweat soaked hair at the back of his neck, stroking through the short strands slowly. His mouth presses to your throat again, teeth worrying at a piece of skin that can be easily hidden just at the juncture where throat meets shoulder.
You don’t even notice his hand moving until still slick fingers wrap around your cock and give it one long slow perfect stroke twisting slightly at the top. Making you buck into his hand. Driving yourself back onto him. You can feel your orgasm building, your head tossing slightly from side to side, fucking yourself faster on him, his hand moving faster on your cock. Teeth biting harder into your skin, and strangely the pain reminds you that you are still alive, that you are both still alive and that thought pushes you over the edge, splattering come over Stephen’s hand and your shirt and his.
His groan as he pushes himself as hard as possible inside of you and comes is low and deep, muffled by your skin.
He falls on top of you, panting harshly, and shaking harder than ever, you wrap your arms around him and try to comfort him, but you know it’s just a stopgap. A sticking plaster on the gaping realisation that one of you could die doing this job, and suddenly you hate it, hate that you can’t just lock the both of you away and never come out, but you love this job, even if you do hate it, and you know you’ll just have to be there for each other as the pieces fall apart, and hope that you’ll both be able to pick them up and stick them back together.