(no subject)
Title: Hold Me When I’m Here, Right Me When I’m Wrong...
Pairing: Stephen/Connor
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Spanking, D/s, the usual really...
Spoilers: Season 1 Episode 5
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be, and don’t think they will anyway. The title is from When I’m Gone by 3 Doors Down, also not mine
Feedback: Very much appreciated. What am I doing wrong? What am I doing right? Also what would you like to see more of?
Author’s notes: Being Season 1 based, I am sticking with my original design for Stephen’s flat, in that it’s very similar to Abby’s season 1 place.
I do have the problem now of how to continue this series once I reach the end of season 1 in canon terms, I have a few options currently being worked on.
This is part 5 roughly of a series which shouldn’t have been written, therefore there will be pieces written that precede this, this piece is pretty standalone though and is based on an established, almost by this point, D/s relationship between Stephen and Connor.
Sequel to Trying to Fix This Loss, I Know a Thing About Contrition...
His fingers around your wrist are loose but the command to follow still stands, and you’d shivered slightly at the implied threat in his voice when he’d said it.
His keys jingling in the door pulls you out of your mind and you have to concentrate not to trip up the stairs as he leads you inside, the light flicking on blinds you momentarily and you stumble slightly, falling against his back. He stops walking next to the sofa and uses the grip on your wrist to pull you round to face him, your eyes meet and you feel ridiculously small.
“Abby said you must have let Rex out, she didn’t leave the window open, she’s sure of it.”
“I didn’t, I’m sure I didn’t, I just take more clothes off when it gets too hot.” Even as the words leave your mouth you can hear the tremble in them, you don’t even know if it’s a lie or not. The only thought rushing through your head, as stupid as it seems, is that you aren’t looking forward to the washing up.
“Don’t lie to me Connor.” His grip on your wrist tightens slightly, and you wince at the slight tone of anger that has crept into his voice.
You look up from the floor, realising Stephen’s shoes are not the most interesting things in the world and that you have to do this on as much of an equal footing as you can scramble for. You know he can see the fear in your eyes. “You want the truth?”
He doesn’t say anything, just nods once. Never breaking eye contact.
“The truth. The truth is that I don’t know. I can’t remember.” You can’t hold it anymore, letting your eyes fall back to the floor, realising that scuff marks are safer than keeping Stephen’s eye sight.
His free hand slips under your chin, pulling your head up to lock eyes, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Thank you. At least you were honest.” His voice drops those few tones, making you shiver slightly. “Now strip.”
You take a deep breath. Lifting your hands to start on your tops, noticing his fingers still are still wrapped around your wrist. “Um...” He lets go before you can even say anything, the warm area feeling suddenly horribly cold. You hurriedly start to remove your clothes, folding them and placing them in a small pile on the arm of the sofa.
You turn back to him when you’re done, sighing slightly when one hand reaches up to flick your already erect nipples, before he squeezes them until you let out a small moan, your cock twitching at the flash of pain the action produces.
His fingers go back to your wrist and he slowly turns you to press his chest to your back, his jeans coarse against your bare skin. His hand gives your nipples one final flick before sliding over your skin to the back of your neck, pushing slightly to bend you over the back of the sofa, he lets go of your wrist and you put both arms on the seat in front of you to support your weight, trying to keep from pressing your cock too hard into the rough throw.
“Stephen, what are you...fuck!”
Stephen’s hand falls against your arse, the sharp pain making you jerk upwards, standing and turning quickly to face him, you open your mouth to speak, but he lays a finger across your lips and you close them again, but not before flicking your tongue out briefly to brush against it.
“Trust me.” You see the sincerity in his eyes and you sag slightly against the weight of his words, knowing you do trust him. You nod slightly.
You let him push you back over the sofa, his fingers brushing over the area he hit. You shiver at the thrill of pleasure that slides up your spine like oil over water. Your cock twitches against the sofa.
His hand comes down again, slightly harder than the first one and you exhale quickly, letting out a small moan when he holds his hand there for a few seconds, before stroking his fingertips over the mark.
“Connor.”
“Yeah?” You manage to grind out, trying not to mewl or make some other embarrassing noise that’ll no doubt make him laugh. It feels so good, the pain melting away to leave warmth spreading out over your skin, making it prickle and tingle.
“Count.”
“What?”
“Count them. Now.” His voice has dropped again, the voice that always makes you shiver, and you hope to any god you don’t believe in that he never uses that voice in the field or it’s going to be really fucking embarrassing.
“Two. I suppose.”
“Good.”
His hand falls again, the other cheek this time, and his fingers stay there stroking over it till you manage to choke out a strangled, “Three.”
The pain dissipates quickly, too quickly, leaving that spreading warmth that makes your cock fill and twitch, you manage to lift yourself slightly, letting it bob up to lie against your stomach and out of the canted down position where it was forced against the sofa. You time it wrong though and the fifth stroke lands just at the juncture where your leg meets your arse, the pain somehow more bright, it takes you longer than before to grind out the number.
When he gets to six, he stops for longer, pressing his still denim-clad erection against your arse, you hiss at the sensation of rough denim on sensitised skin, moaning slightly when he grinds slowly, just once, before pulling away again.
“Are you ok?” He sounds concerned, turned on beyond belief if the strain is anything to go by, but concerned none the least. You should be able to answer him, able to reassure him that you’re fine, but you can’t speak, anything but single word numbers and your brain is slightly fried. “Connor, are you ok?” His hand falls to your shoulder slowly, turning you round to face him; his eyes look scared and slightly glassy.
“’m fine.” You manage to pull together the synapses to say.
He kisses you fiercely then, pushing you back against the sofa, the, more coarse than denim, fabric of the throw makes you moan hard into his mouth. You moan louder when you now fully erect cock brushes the front of Stephen’s button fly jeans the cold burn of the metal making it twitch hard, and a white flash wipe out most of your brain.
Stephen finally pulls away, pressing his forehead to yours, your breath mingling as you both pant hard.
“Do you... Do you mind if I do that again?” He presses out.
“The kissing or the other thing?”
“The other thing.”
You don’t answer, just steal a small kiss and turn back around, bending back over the sofa and bracing yourself again.
He groans, pressing a hand into the small of your back and whispering, “Stay here.” You hear him move away, and turn your head to watch him run up the stairs taking them two at a time.
You take the few seconds he’s out of sight to try and figure out why you’re letting him do this, but then he reappears at the top of the stairs, stopping briefly to look at you, and your eyes meet for a split second, and any doubt in your mind disappears. You smile slightly, your head dropping back down between your arms.
He’s back behind you before you know it, stroking a careful hand over your back. “You don’t have to count.”
“Yes I do.” You can’t explain why you said it, why you know you must count them out, you just do.
You’re up to twelve when he pauses again, you gave up trying to hold yourself up, about the time your elbows gave out, now your nails are digging rants in the palms of your hands, and almost your entire brain is trying to say the numbers out loud, or trying to stop you from coming explosively into the throw.
You hear the snick of something opening, but you don’t really register it, the pain/pleasure has whited out most things and it doesn’t seem important. You sigh softly when Stephen’s finger strokes a slow circle around your entrance, bucking slightly forward, the other fingers of his hand stroke over your burning skin, stopping briefly to plunge that single digit in till the palm of his hand is pressed against your skin, the calloused tip stroking gently over your prostate making you shake hard.
“Gonna come.” You manage to grit out your nails finally breaking the skin, the warm coppery scent of blood reaching your nostrils.
His finger pulls out of you fast, his hands wrapping around your hips and pulling you back slightly, your cock now exposed to the air twitches hard, and you groan when one hand reaches under you wrapping thumb and forefinger tightly around the base.
His finger goes back to your entranced sliding back in, this time with its neighbour firmly alongside it, Stephen apparently purposefully avoids touching your prostate, sliding in a third finger quickly after the first two.
His hand pulls away and you can hear him fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, before the broad head of his cock presses against you, sliding deep in one thrust. His fingers still wrapped tightly around your cock, the line between pain and pleasure blurring enough that you begin to question its existence, as everything becomes reduced to sensation, the slight burning of denim against your red arse, the pain of not being able to come, the pleasure at every pass of Stephen’s cock against your prostate, the exquisite pleasure of finally being filled. That slight sensation of owned that seems to flood over part of you whenever he fucks you.
He presses his chest to your back, the buttons of his shirt cold against you sweat slicked skin, his thrusts getting harder and faster, his hand swipes your damp hair from your shoulders giving his mouth free reign over the skin it reveals. Small nips and hard bites pepper your neck and you know some will still be there tomorrow, the ones in strategic places where no-one will see them.
His fingers release the base of your cock slowly, his hands stroking slowly to the top and gathering the precome that’s gathered there, using it to slick his return journey, before he starts stroking hard, near ruthlessly. His mouth moving close to your ear. “Now.” That one whispered word has you splattering come over Stephen’s hand, your stomach and the sofa, but right at that point you couldn’t care less, the white hot sensation that races through you wipes you out completely, and you fall completely limp against the sofa, near unconscious as Stephen thrusts hard once, twice, three more times, before biting down hard at your hairline, near-screaming his completion into your skin.
You’ve lost track of time completely. You know Stephen pulls out, you don’t know if it was straight after, or an hour later. You know he turns you slowly and scoops you into his arms as if you weigh nothing, carrying you slowly upstairs and laying on the bed gently, before getting a washcloth to clean you up. You know you started crying at some point, you don’t remember it though. The dried tear tracks on your face are still there when you come back to yourself.
You’re lying in bed, Stephen’s legs supporting your head, and you are relieved to see he’s finally taken his jeans off, the fabric of a checked pair of boxers brushing the back of your head, his fingers are carding softly through your hair, and you feel safe.
“Stephen?” Your voice is scratchy, and your throat feels like someone made you drink sand, you must have screamed hard. His fingers stop briefly, before starting moving again.
“You’re back. Feel better?”
“Yeah. Um, Stephen. I think...” You want to say I love you, but the words stick in your throat and you can’t do it. “Er, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, now shall we get some sleep?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, lifting your head gently and sliding down next to you, pulling you back close so your head is pressed against his chest. One hand wrapped lightly in your hair, the other running cool fingers over your arse, he rolls you slightly so you aren’t lying on the sore skin. Arms wrapping around you to hold you close.
You’re asleep before you can say goodnight.