Fandom: Primeval
Characters: (Abby)/Connor
Story: Guilt
Rating: NC-17/MA
Warnings/Spoilers: Set vaguely around 1x06. Entirely unreasonable amounts of angst.
Author's Note: I really ought to write some fluff one of these days. Just not today, apparently.
Summary: Connor's drowning in frustration and guilt
Guilt
This is wrong.
I shouldn’t.
She’d hate me if she knew.
His brain knew better, he supposed. But his body? That was a different story.
As it did nearly every morning, the sound of the shower woke him, and the mental image soon followed. She was there, just on the other side of the wall: naked, wet, touching herself. Though separated from him by just a few inches of wood and plaster, she was undoubtedly oblivious of his waking moments. And for that, he was grateful.
Today, like some days, she was singing a little to herself, probably thinking she couldn’t be heard over the sound of the rushing water. And today, like most days, like a predator running its prey to ground, his hand found its way south.
His initial joy at getting to move in with her had quickly given way to frustration, as he realized that being in such close proximity to her was going to slowly drive him insane. In every corner of every room, she was constantly, inescapably there. Her image. Her sound. Her scent. He tried to ignore it--tried to keep in control--but at times it was just too much for his baser instincts to resist. Her maddening habit of running around the flat in little more than tiny pants and a cami certainly didn't help, leaving few gaps for his (florid) imagination to fill.
But even those gaps disappeared a few days ago.
It was an afternoon shower this time, as she was back from a run. She must have thought he was out with his mates, so she left the door open. It was only a glimpse—he couldn’t let himself get more than that—but the memory was now etched in his mind. Slim, tight; her body almost like a boy’s, in some ways. Yet entirely different in other, very important ones.
That was how he now pictured her, every morning since: The water cascading over her face and down the soft hills of her breasts. The streams tracing the curves of her hips and arse and sparkling on the fluffy nest of hair between her thighs. The water left wet trails across the skin he wanted to caress with his hands and mouth, and washed through the warm, secret places he wanted to bury his fingers and cock.
It never took long: by the time the water went off, so did he. The wave would crash, his body would tense, and for a moment—for one blissful moment of release—he didn’t care whether what he was thinking and doing was right.
All too soon, however, the pleasure would ebb. He’d be left there alone with a shrinking cock in his fist and a sticky puddle on his belly. Then the guilt would come; the queasy, unclean feeling of shame and disgust. Sometimes it faded quickly and he could go about his business, pretending it had never happened. But other times, it lasted all day, and he couldn't even meet her eye for fear she'd somehow read his mind, and see the naked glory of her own sexuality written on his thoughts.
He dared not hope that someday she'd offer him what he so desperately wanted. The pleasure, yes, but more: an absolution of sorts, for these months of daily sin. But she was undoubtedly too good for that. Or, more likely, he wasn't good enough.
Knowing that absolution would never come from her, all he was left with was limp, self-directed rage: a fury borne of conviction that he was irredeemable. Not just because of his filthy habit or lurid thoughts, but also simply because of the reality of who he was: the scrawny, overgrown adolescent who pathetically nursed that futile crush. In the face of her three-dimensional perfection, his own shortcomings loomed large, and every day he felt more and more unworthy of the attention he would never get.
He heard the door open, and heard her pad her way over to the kitchen. Heard her fill the kettle and switch it on. Heard her, as he always did, automatically performing these mundane little tasks of her daily life. Without thought. Without care. Without knowing the desperation, anguish and raw self-loathing that lurked so near her every step.
--End--
Characters: (Abby)/Connor
Story: Guilt
Rating: NC-17/MA
Warnings/Spoilers: Set vaguely around 1x06. Entirely unreasonable amounts of angst.
Author's Note: I really ought to write some fluff one of these days. Just not today, apparently.
Summary: Connor's drowning in frustration and guilt
Guilt
This is wrong.
I shouldn’t.
She’d hate me if she knew.
His brain knew better, he supposed. But his body? That was a different story.
As it did nearly every morning, the sound of the shower woke him, and the mental image soon followed. She was there, just on the other side of the wall: naked, wet, touching herself. Though separated from him by just a few inches of wood and plaster, she was undoubtedly oblivious of his waking moments. And for that, he was grateful.
Today, like some days, she was singing a little to herself, probably thinking she couldn’t be heard over the sound of the rushing water. And today, like most days, like a predator running its prey to ground, his hand found its way south.
His initial joy at getting to move in with her had quickly given way to frustration, as he realized that being in such close proximity to her was going to slowly drive him insane. In every corner of every room, she was constantly, inescapably there. Her image. Her sound. Her scent. He tried to ignore it--tried to keep in control--but at times it was just too much for his baser instincts to resist. Her maddening habit of running around the flat in little more than tiny pants and a cami certainly didn't help, leaving few gaps for his (florid) imagination to fill.
But even those gaps disappeared a few days ago.
It was an afternoon shower this time, as she was back from a run. She must have thought he was out with his mates, so she left the door open. It was only a glimpse—he couldn’t let himself get more than that—but the memory was now etched in his mind. Slim, tight; her body almost like a boy’s, in some ways. Yet entirely different in other, very important ones.
That was how he now pictured her, every morning since: The water cascading over her face and down the soft hills of her breasts. The streams tracing the curves of her hips and arse and sparkling on the fluffy nest of hair between her thighs. The water left wet trails across the skin he wanted to caress with his hands and mouth, and washed through the warm, secret places he wanted to bury his fingers and cock.
It never took long: by the time the water went off, so did he. The wave would crash, his body would tense, and for a moment—for one blissful moment of release—he didn’t care whether what he was thinking and doing was right.
All too soon, however, the pleasure would ebb. He’d be left there alone with a shrinking cock in his fist and a sticky puddle on his belly. Then the guilt would come; the queasy, unclean feeling of shame and disgust. Sometimes it faded quickly and he could go about his business, pretending it had never happened. But other times, it lasted all day, and he couldn't even meet her eye for fear she'd somehow read his mind, and see the naked glory of her own sexuality written on his thoughts.
He dared not hope that someday she'd offer him what he so desperately wanted. The pleasure, yes, but more: an absolution of sorts, for these months of daily sin. But she was undoubtedly too good for that. Or, more likely, he wasn't good enough.
Knowing that absolution would never come from her, all he was left with was limp, self-directed rage: a fury borne of conviction that he was irredeemable. Not just because of his filthy habit or lurid thoughts, but also simply because of the reality of who he was: the scrawny, overgrown adolescent who pathetically nursed that futile crush. In the face of her three-dimensional perfection, his own shortcomings loomed large, and every day he felt more and more unworthy of the attention he would never get.
He heard the door open, and heard her pad her way over to the kitchen. Heard her fill the kettle and switch it on. Heard her, as he always did, automatically performing these mundane little tasks of her daily life. Without thought. Without care. Without knowing the desperation, anguish and raw self-loathing that lurked so near her every step.
--End--