An Ever-Fixed Mark

1.

“So,” Connor says. “Just say the word and I’d be happy to kneel for you.” The bar is dim and noisy, and there are plenty of subs already kneeling on the floor for their chosen doms of the night. Connor’s done that before, but he’s done everything before. He’s on a mission. He needs to stay focused.

The dom chuckles nervously and ducks his head, avoiding Connor’s eyes. A gaggle of the dom’s co-workers are giggling to themselves at another table. “Oh, ignore them,” he says. “I don’t talk to subs in bars that often.”

God, Connor loves it when they’re shy, especially when they’re a little inexperienced. They’re far more trainable than the ones who think they’re god’s gift to dominance, who roll their eyes when you try to set limits or only begrudgingly respect your safeword. This guy, though -- Asian, glasses, cute smile, hunched shoulders -- he’s exactly the kind of dom that Connor would love to take home on a regular night.

Too bad it’s not a regular night.

They chat a bit, exchange pleasantries. The dom’s name is Oliver. He works in IT, which of course, Connor already knew. He has a nervous laugh. He also doesn’t know how to take compliments. It makes Connor want to know how Oliver would react if Connor told him how much he loves his cock while Oliver’s fucking him with it.

“The legal department warned us not to talk about that,” Oliver says, when Connor tries to wheedle some information out of him.

“Sorry,” Connor says. “I shouldn’t have asked.” Another dom, smoother and more confident, walks by and gives Connor the eye. Connor tilts his head slightly, exposing more of his neck.

Oliver doesn’t miss the gesture. “Okay, okay,” he says, dropping his voice lower, “but no one can know I told you this.”

Connor manages to keep the smug grin off his face, but it’s a close thing. Oliver spills all the beans, the e-mails, the photos, a goldmine to take back to Annalise.

“Yeah,” Oliver says. “So that’s all of it. I’m guessing you don’t work for the bank across the street.” He shakes his head, eyes downcast, and Connor almost feels a little bad for lying to him.

“No as such, no,” Connor says. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Oliver says, pulling back from the table. “I get it. You wanted information, and I made it easy for you.” His smile has morphed into something a little sad, a little rueful. “Look, you don’t actually have to do anything for me. I’ll give you what you want, no strings attached.”

It’s a little late for Connor to find someone else for the night. A lot of doms don’t like how pushy and forward he can be, even the gay ones who are trolling for pickups in a bar. And besides, he’d be more than happy to wipe that dejected look off Oliver’s face.

“How about you take me home first?” Connor offers. “Pleasure before business and all of that.”

Oliver frowns, a look of confusion passing over his face. “Are you sure about that?” he asks.

Connor looks him straight in the eye and tries not to get distracted by all the things he could get Oliver to do to him. “Yes,” Connor says.

---

As soon as they close the door to Oliver’s apartment behind them, Connor kisses him, grabbing his face in his hands and bringing their lips together. It’s unusual for a sub to initiate things like this, but Connor almost never gets what he wants when he plays by the rules.

Oliver makes a startled noise against Connor’s mouth, but he’s just lagging behind. Connor’s already in the process of peeling off his own shirt, before he gets started on Oliver’s. So much skin to touch, and Connor wants all of it. It’s so hot and alive under his palms. He’s greedy for it. He wants to taste it all.

His parents weren’t sure whether or not Connor would turn out to be a sub, but Connor’s never doubted it, not when it feels so good to let go, to get lost in the feel of bodies pressed up against one another.

“Connor,” Oliver says.

He pushes Connor back, and Connor can’t help the angry whine that comes out of his throat.

“No,” Oliver says. His voice is shaky but still threaded through with a confidence that Connor recognizes, that Connor craves. “We are going to talk about this, like adults, and then we can have a scene.” He takes off his glasses and settles them on the counter.

Connor tries to get his breathing under control. He slides to his knees and lets his head drop. Whatever it takes to get Oliver back on track.

“Fuck,” Oliver says. “I didn’t really think you’d--”

“Oliver,” Connor says, interrupting him. “Hurry up.” There’s a rug underneath his knees, thick and soft, but he wants to go back to the fun part of the evening. He’s hard in his under his dress slacks, an insistent throb that matches the thrum of blood underneath his skin.

Oliver chuckles at that, a warm, pleasant sound. “Limits,” Oliver says.

Connor thinks about it. “No toys for tonight. Just what you can do with your hands.” He likes bondage and cockrings and vibrators, but he’s not patient enough for any of it tonight. He just wants Oliver and what Oliver can do.

Oliver says, “Easy enough.”

Connor’s mind is whirling, and there’s just so many options, but a few things stand out, clear as day. “I want to rim you.”

He hears more than sees Oliver’s sharp intake of breath. “That can be arranged.”

Connor straightens his posture, fixing his form, trying to seem more obedient than he is. “And then maybe I could fuck you, sir?” God, that would be amazing, being inside Oliver with Oliver telling him how fast, how hard to go, making sure that Connor doesn’t fuck it all up, but Connor can do it, Connor can rock his world, and maybe if he’s good enough, Oliver might even let Connor come inside him. A lot of doms out there aren’t interested in it, but he has a good feeling about Oliver. Oliver might be nice enough, flexible enough to let Connor fuck him.

“Okay,” Oliver says. “We can do that.” Connor tries not to smirk. He’s glad that his head is bowed so that Oliver doesn’t get a good look at his face. He can stare at Oliver’s feet instead. Oliver has managed to lose his shoes, but he’s still wearing a pair of black socks underneath his gray suit pants.

“What do you want?” Connor asks. Sometimes, with shyer doms, you have to draw them out. And Connor doesn’t have the patience to wait.

“I want you to undress yourself, and then I want you to undress me,” Oliver says.

Connor strips off his pants, his socks, his boxers as fast as he can, and then he’s kneeling again at Oliver’s feet, hands on Oliver’s belt buckle. It’s a nice belt, with a padded grip, an extra loop for easy folding. It’s making Connor think of all sorts of things he hasn’t negotiated for tonight. He looks up. Oliver meets his eyes. “Go on,” Oliver says, and his voice is soft, encouraging.

Not that Connor needs a whole lot of encouragement. He undoes the buckle, pulling the belt apart just enough that he can get at the fly underneath. Oliver is hard, his cock obviously distending the shape of his pants. Connor feels his mouth water at the sight.

He pulls at Oliver’s pants and boxers at the same time. Off. He wants them off yesterday. Finally, he manages to get them out from underneath Oliver’s legs and feet, and then Oliver is gloriously naked, except for those stupid black socks. Connor keeps getting distracted by the tense and release of Oliver’s thigh muscles. He wants to taste them. He leans forward, but Oliver digs a hand into Connor’s hair, breaking through some of the gel, and tugs his head back.

“No,” Oliver says. “All of it.” He gestures towards his feet. He sounds more steady now. Most doms are like that after the initial bout of nerves, just doing what comes naturally to them.

Connor reaches down for Oliver’s ankles, and Oliver lifts each foot up so Connor can strip the socks off, one at a time. Oliver has weird, knobby feet. Connor’s never been good at worship; doesn’t really have the patience or the relationship with his doms for that kind of thing. But he’d kiss Oliver’s feet right now if Oliver asked him to.

Oliver lets go of Connor’s hair and steps back, and Connor has trouble staying still. No, this isn’t what Connor wants. This isn’t what Connor needs.

“No,” Connor says, “stay.” He doesn’t even care if he sounds like a whiny five year old.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “I’m not letting you rim me on my couch. Come on, into the bedroom.” He turns, and Connor gets to admire the long lines of Oliver’s back. How did he manage to hide those under that suit?

Connor stands up so that he can follow after him. Oliver didn’t specify that he need to crawl, and Connor isn’t going to drag this out any longer than he has to.

Oliver’s bedroom is smaller than the living room. Most of the space has been taken up by the full size bed. “Sit down,” Oliver says. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Connor sits. The bed dips under his weight. “I could shower with you,” he says. He’s always enjoyed showering with doms, all that water everywhere making everything slippery so that the doms have to grip harder, push with a little more force, if they want to manhandle him.

“I get the feeling like exercising a little patience would be good for you,” Oliver says, a smirk lingering at the corner of his lips. “I should be quick. Be good.”

Connor is capable of being good. He is. And if he were in the mood to get put up against the nearest wall and have his back tanned, he’d probably misbehave a bit. Oliver seems like he might have a certain sort of appealing creativity to him. But no, he wants to this Oliver’s way for now. He closes his eyes and imagines Oliver in the shower, the drops of water sliding down his skin, and he imagines getting to taste that water, and he imagines the sounds Oliver will make when Connor eats him out. Connor shifts, restless, doing his best not to touch his erection, even when it twitches and throbs.

He can hear the shower stopping, and Connor does his best not to squirm in anticipation.

Oliver walks back into the room, still drying himself with a towel. Connor watches him, but he doesn’t move. Good. He can be good.

Oliver leans over and cups Connor’s chin in one of his hands. “Wow,” he says, sounding slightly stunned. “I didn’t think you’d actually listen to me.”

“Please,” Connor says. He lowers his eyes in the way he knows doms like.

“Yeah,” Oliver says. “Come on.” He stretches out on the bed, face down. It’s an invitation if Connor has ever seen one.

He straddles Oliver’s long, skinny legs, and he almost doesn’t know what he wants to do first, too paralyzed by the options laid out in front of him. But then Oliver huffs out a breath, causing his back to ripple, and Connor leans down, presses kisses to the soft, damp skin there, still smelling strongly of soap. He licks at the long, knobbly line of Oliver’s spine, and drifts down, down, down, to the curve of Oliver’s ass.

Oliver doesn’t have the most impressive ass Connor’s ever seen, but it’s nicely rounded. Connor presses a kiss to each cheek.

“Are you going to do that all night or are you going to get on with it?” Oliver asks.

Connor moves up and presses a wet, dirty kiss to the small of Oliver’s back. “Mmm. Who’s impatient now?”

“Connor.” There’s steel in Oliver’s voice, and Connor shivers at the sound of it.

“Yes, okay,” Connor says. He parts Oliver’s cheeks, to get a good look at Oliver’s small, puckered hole, and then he puts his mouth on it.

There was a particular dom who Connor knew in undergrad that was adamant about teaching Connor everything there was to know about rimming. Those were some pleasant lessons, both giving and receiving, and Connor makes sure to use every bit of that knowledge now.

Oliver groans underneath him, shifting his hips up to get closer to Connor’s mouth. “More,” he says.

Connor does, licks harder, presses just the tip of his tongue inside. Oliver makes another beautiful noise. He tastes musky here, a little like soap, but so familiar, so male, and Connor could stay down here forever. Oliver’s body shivers underneath his mouth, and that’s good too, almost as good as a compliment spilling from Oliver’s lips.

“Fuck, okay,” Oliver says. “Enough.”

Connor pulls back, but he lets his hands rest on Oliver’s thighs, not willing to stop touching him.

Oliver turns over, and Connor can see how flushed his face is, the pleasure still lingering there. “You wanted to fuck me, right?”

“Yes,” Connor says. “Please.” His cock throbs at just the sound of Oliver saying it.

“Condoms and lube are in the bedside drawer,” Oliver says. “I’ll let you prep me, too.”

Connor scrambles to get everything together. The thought of being inside Oliver, who is so gorgeous like this, all languid and at ease, is making him frantic and sloppy.

He manages to get a condom on his cock, and lube onto his fingers without making a huge mess, but it’s a close thing.

“Go slow,” Oliver says. “It’s been a while.”

Fuck. Connor doesn’t know how slow he can take things right now, but Oliver-- Oliver asked for it, and Connor is good at this.

He presses one finger in, can feel Oliver relax around it. Oliver’s eyes are closed, face slack. He’s hot on the inside, burning. The rim is still wet from where Connor was licking it earlier. Connor tries a few experimental thrusts with his finger, and Oliver makes a pleased noise.

“Another finger,” Oliver says.

Two fingers now, slow, so slow. Oliver’s loose enough now that he could take it faster than this, but Oliver hasn’t told him to go faster yet, and all Connor can think about is his cock being where his fingers are.

Oliver rolls his hips up, forcing Connor’s fingers in deeper. “More. Harder.”

Three fingers now, Oliver’s body parting easily for them, and Connor fucks them in harder, and he wants-- he wants--

“Okay,” Oliver says. “You can fuck me now.”

It’s a bit of scramble after that. Connor’s eager, overeager if Oliver’s amused laugh is anything to go by, but he manages to get more lube onto his cock, and he also manages to line his cock up with Oliver’s hole. “I--” he says. He doesn’t know how to say it, how to ask for it.

“I want it,” Oliver says, and when Connor looks at him, there’s only a steadiness that Connor finds himself trusting.

He pushes in, and Oliver’s as hot and as tight around his cock as he was around his fingers. Connor ends up tucking his face into Oliver’s neck so that he doesn’t do something as embarrassing as coming in five seconds flat. “Fuck,” he says.

“Mm,” Oliver says. “You feel good, but don’t come before I do.”

Connor manages to get back a little bit of self-control because Oliver wants that control from him, needs it, and Connor needs it because Oliver needs it.

He pulls back, pushes in, and it’s still too much. Oliver wraps a hand around the back of Connor’s neck, steadying him.

“You really do like this, don’t you?” Oliver asks.

“Kind of obvious, isn’t it?” Connor asks, panting out a rough breath as he manages another hard thrust.

Oliver laughs, shaking his head, his eyes warm. “Come on,” he says. “Give it to me hard.” He spreads his legs wider, cants his hips up, and Connor groans at at the way he can push in deeper.

Connor speeds up his thrusts, but Oliver feels so good that he’s rough, clumsy. Oliver makes loud huffing breaths, his hard cock pressed up against Connor’s stomach. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back, so obviously pleased with Connor and what Connor’s doing.

There’s something about that look on his face that twists something low in Connor’s stomach, and it pushes Connor right up to the edge again. “Can I-- can I touch you?” Connor asks. “Please. I’m close.”

Oliver nods, and Connor reaches between them, wrapping a hand around Oliver’s cock. He jerks fast and tight, because he needs Oliver to get there before he loses control. Oliver lets out a low groan, arching his back as his comes, spilling wet and sticky over Connor’s fist and onto his stomach.

Just the sight of it is too much, and Connor only gets one more thrust in before comes himself, moaning Oliver’s name as he spills into the condom. “Fuck,” he says.

He manages to pull out, get the condom off his dick, and collapse onto his back, breathing hard.

Oliver gets out of bed next to him and pads over to the bathroom to get some washcloths to clean them up. When he comes back, there’s an expression on his face, softer than anything Connor’s seen on the other doms he’s scened with, and Connor feels a sudden, strange clench in his chest to echo it. Oliver settles on the bed next to him. The washcloth is warm, pleasant on Connor’s skin.

“You’re beautiful,” Oliver says, and it’s not anything Connor hasn’t heard a million times before -- while he’s being chatted up, while he’s sucking a cock, while he’s being strung up by his wrists, while a dom is paddling his ass bright red -- but he still feels the same shiver of pleasure that he gets every time he hears it.

“Mmm,” Connor says. He closes his eyes. A smile spreads across his face. The afterglow is lingering, and he wants to sink into it, let it lead him to sleep. He can get the e-mails from Oliver in the morning.

“You’re kind of mouthy,” Oliver says, and the amusement threading through his voice is almost better than the words themselves, “but you’re beautiful, too.”

***

2.

Oliver’s phone rings as soon as he steps out of the office. Connor’s name shows up on the call display. Oliver didn’t expect to hear from him again after they parted ways a week ago, even though they exchanged numbers when Oliver gave Connor copies of the e-mails he wanted

Connor is the kind of sub who has better prospects than Oliver. Prospects who are less gawky and nerdy and Asian. Oliver can’t imagine why Connor would be calling him now.

“Hi,” Oliver says, when he answers it. He’s not sure what to say.

“Hey,” Connor says, like they’re friends instead of two guys who hooked up once. “I need a favor.”

Oliver can feel an awful sinking in his chest. Of course. That’s why Connor bothered talking to him in the first place. What kind of dom must Connor think he is? Someone desperate, someone easy. It’s not too far from the truth, but Oliver doesn’t have to admit that to him. Oliver starts walking towards the bus stop. It’s starting to get dark earlier, but it’s still September warm, far more pleasant than the sweltering summer heat. Oliver doesn’t want to linger here. Everything is always so much easier to deal with when he’s back within the four walls of his apartment. “What do you need?” he asks.

“So,” Connor says, “my boss has these server logs from this company, but none of us know how to read them.”

“Okay,” Oliver says. “And?” He already has a sense that he knows what Connor’s asking, but he’s going to make Connor say it out loud.

“I figured that you’d know a lot more about how to read them than any of us would. What do you say? I stop by, bring dinner, and then we can figure things out from there.”

Connor is using that voice, the one that Oliver already thinks of as his ’lawyer voice,’ smooth, persuasive. Being in IT, he gets more than enough requests for favors, and this one he shouldn’t handle any differently from all the others, a polite refusal. Sorry, I don’t have the time.

But-- but Oliver knows what Connor means when he says ‘figuring things out from there.’ And it’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that subs like Connor are used to fluttering their eyelashes and getting anything they want. Oliver shouldn’t be enabling that, but he also sadly, pathetically, wants to see Connor again in any sort of capacity. His mind has been stuck on the image of Connor splayed out on his bed, languid and sleepy, for the last week.

“Fine,” Oliver says. “I’m still at the office, but I’ll meet you at my place in half an hour.”

---

It’s exactly half an hour before Connor knocks on Oliver’s door.

Oliver feels a little self-conscious answering the door in his pajamas, but Connor’s seen them before, and besides, this isn’t exactly a social call. Connor wants something from him. He can deal with Oliver not looking his best.

“Hey,” Connor says, grinning as Olver opens the door. He’s holding a plastic bag in one hand. “I got some Ethopian from the place down the street I’ve been meaning to try.” It smells delicious. Oliver’s stomach grumbles. Even if this turns into a shitty teen movie about pretty subs manipulating desperate doms into helping them with their homework, at least he’ll get some dinner out of it.

Oliver steps aside to let him in. Of course, Connor decided to show up in a beautiful suit, his hair gelled perfectly into place, a magazine person come to life and occupying Oliver’s living room. Oliver still remembers what the scratch of Connor’s beard feels like on his skin. Sometimes, he finds it hard to believe it actually happened.

Oliver’s laptop is sitting on the coffee table in the middle of the living room, so that’s where they end up, shoulder-to-shoulder on Oliver’s couch as Oliver boots up the laptop.

“So, you had some server logs for me to look through?” Oliver says. Connor’s watching him, leaning over his shoulder. Oliver can smell his cologne.

“Of course,” Connor says. “Tada.” He holds out his hand. A USB drive sits on his palm.

Oliver takes it from him and plugs it into the computer, flipping through the files that he can see. Of course, there’s five gigs worth of logs. There’s no way anyone is going to go through it by hand.

“What are you looking for, specifically?” Oliver asks. “Are you even allowed to tell me about it?” It’s such an exhaustive amount of data that they could be after anything.

“Nothing huge,” Connor says. “Just a list of the logins and logouts for a particular day.”

Oliver sighs. “Should be easy enough. I’ll have to figure out which logs have that information first.”

“Well,” Connor says, leaning forward and smiling, obviously flirting. “Do whatever you need to do. I can make it up to you afterwards.”

It would be a lie to say that Oliver doesn’t feel something at that, the temptation to have Connor owe him something. Making Connor pay him back, inch by inch, with his ass, his cock, his mouth. But-- “Is this some kind of prostitute roleplay thing?” Oliver blurts out, and almost instantly regrets it.

Connor’s eyebrows go up. “Is that what you think this is?”

“Look,” Oliver says. He rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s just-- I’m not that kind of dom, okay? I don’t want you subbing for me just because you think you have to.”

Connor’s grin goes predatory, not a word that Oliver ever thought he’d associate with a sub. “Trust me,” he says. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.” He gives Oliver an obvious once over and licks his lips. Oliver can’t help but wonder what he’d do if Oliver were to kiss him right now, force him to the ground, if Connor would give into it or fight back. It’s not like Oliver is some sort of blushing virgin, but most of the subs he’s dated have been like him, nerdy and a little shy, who had to be coaxed into their submission slowly and carefully. Connor is an entirely different class of sub.

Oliver manages to force his eyes away from him. “Okay,” he says. “I’m hungry, so we’re going to eat some dinner first, and then I’ll take a look at these logs, and then we can talk about doing a scene.”

There’s a shift besides Oliver, a movement in the corner of his eye, that means Connor has leaned back on the couch. “Works for me,” Connor says, and Oliver can hear the smirk in his voice.

***

3.

The morning sun is bright, and the fall air has a pleasant sort of chill. Up til now, Connor’s morning runs have been boring, just down one long street, cutting across to the next block over, and then running back. His neighborhood’s quiet enough that he doesn’t run into too many leering doms on the street, even when he’s wearing running shorts and a tight t-shirt, so there’s not a whole lot of incentive to try new things just yet.

Everything about Philadelphia is still so new to him. Sure, he’d visited once or twice, with his family or with his friends, but that’s nothing like moving to a new place, having to figure out how to make his life work when it’s been forced into different patterns, new buildings, new streets, new stores.

He laces up his sneakers against a nearby concrete step and considers whether or not he wants to change up the route. Philadelphia’s just a big grid. He should be able to get back to his apartment as long as he makes four right turns someplace.

But he’s feeling edgy after seeing Aiden show up again all straight and a sub all of a sudden, engaged to Michaela Pratt of all the fucking people in the world. Aiden didn’t look much different from boarding school, aged a little, filled out, but the engagement collar around his neck had just looked wrong on a boy who had once gagged Connor with his cock.

Connor probably just needs to get dominated a little bit. Maybe tied up and spanked if he can get Oliver to go for it.

Law school and sort-of interning for Annalise has kept him busy enough that he can’t go clubbing the way he used to when he was still an undergrad. Back then, he could go once a week at least. During good weeks, once a night. There were so many doms back then that all their faces and names blurred together. Connor can’t deal with that sort of distraction here, no matter how pleasurable it would be. That’s why he keeps going back to Oliver; it’s a two-for-one. Work and sex all in one place. And Oliver’s sweet, caring and hiding a real toughness underneath his unassuming exterior. He hasn’t balked at anything Connor’s asked him to do, and he doesn’t let Connor push him around. Much.

Connor knows the route to Oliver’s apartment. He’s driven there and back more than enough times. It’d be a good and long run from here, a chance to work off the worst of it before he has to kneel for Oliver.

He takes off in that direction, trying not to push himself to a pace he can’t maintain, but that’s a difficult thing when he can’t quite ignore the buzz of anticipation underneath his skin.

---

He reaches Oliver’s apartment at 7:58am, sweaty and out of breath. He bangs on the door in his usual way, and Oliver opens the door, dressed in a gray suit that looks exactly like every other gray suit he owns. Connor wants to tear it off him, wants to lick his neck and his abs and his thighs, but he gets the feeling that Oliver wouldn’t appreciate that very much.

Connor’s lucky that Oliver hasn’t already left for work. He’s spent enough mornings here that he knows Oliver’s morning routines pretty well, and he’s always out the door by eight, sometimes a little earlier than that. “Hurt me,” Connor says, as soon as he meets Oliver’s eyes.

“Did you run all the way here?” Oliver asks, his forehead furrowing. Sometimes, his brain gets distracted by really pointless things. Connor can’t help but find it cute, even if it is stopping him from getting what he wants.

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Now slap me around for a bit.” He pushes his way into Oliver’s apartment and kneels on his favorite corner of Oliver’s living room rug.

“Are you sure this isn’t a weird kink for you, pushing doms around?” Oliver’s doing that thing where he’s putting things off just because he doesn’t like jumping into things the way Connor does. Most nights, Connor can deal with it, even enjoys watching Oliver flail around a little bit, but this morning, he’s just cranky.

Connor rolls his eyes. “No, I just really want you to hurt me. Is that really too much to ask?” If he annoys Oliver enough, he might get some bruises that will ache for the whole day. The thought of it sends pleasurable shivers down his spine.

Oliver looks like he’s about to say something else, but he shakes his head and mutters something under his breath instead.

“Come on,” Connor says, raising his eyebrows in a blatant challenge. “Think about how pissed you are at me right now and make me feel it.”

The look Oliver gives him is a little unsettling. It’s too sharp, too assessing. Oliver doesn’t have sharp edges. That’s the point. “That’s really not how we’re going to do this,” Oliver says, and his voice has changed. It’s his sex-voice, his dom-voice, and Connor squirms happily from his kneeling position.

“Oh?” Connor asks. “How are we going to do this, then?” The endorphin high from the run is leaving him a little wild, a little rebellious. He wants to push Oliver a bit. Oliver can take it. Oliver can take it and give it right back to him.

Oliver doesn’t say anything, but he does make a big production of unbuckling his belt and sliding it out of its loops.

Oh.

So that’s how they’re going to do this then.

Connor can’t quite keep the grin off his face.

***

4.

Connor lets out a loud groan as he comes, hard, all over Oliver’s sheets. Oliver really is going to have to wash those later. Oliver gives him a few moments, but Connor doesn’t move from where he is, panting, on his knees with his forehead still pressed against the mattress and his arms still stretch out above his head

He’s a little further down than he usually goes. Connor doesn’t have much use for full subspace, Oliver’s noticed, or maybe Oliver’s just terrible at bringing him there. But tonight, there’s something a little bit rawer about him, an exposed nerve, and he fell into it almost as soon as Oliver tied his wrists to the headboard.

He’s still there now, as he shudders on the bed, and Oliver is going to have to be careful with him. Oliver undoes the rope, checking Connor’s wrists to make sure there’s no bleeding.

“Hey,” Oliver says. He places a hand on Connor’s back, which is still sweaty and shivering. “I’ll be right back. Let me just get you something.”

He has a pretty extensive stash of chocolate, not really for his mostly non-existent subs (well, until Connor) who stay over, but because he has a sweet tooth. He has a reputation around his office for liking odd, exotic chocolates, and people just keep getting him some when they go on business trips or vacations. The smart ones always know it pays off to be on IT’s good side.

He grabs the first bar he finds, bringing it back with him to the bedroom. Connor is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a little more like himself. His eyes aren’t quite so unfocused, and there’s a wry twist to his mouth. Oliver hands him the chocolate and the look Connor gives him is so painfully adoring, Oliver has to turn away from it. That’s just-- that’s just the endorphins. Connor isn’t like that. He doesn’t do collars or cuffs or ownership. He’s made that clear enough. Oliver is a convenience to him, nothing more.

“Shower?” Oliver asks. He watches as Connor breaks off a piece of the chocolate and pops it in his mouth. Like this, Connor does everything at half-speed. Oliver tries not find it just a little bit hot.

“Yeah,” Connor says. His smile is dopey. Oliver knows it won’t last.

---

Connor comes out of the shower far more like himself. He explains his weird mood a little bit. A man related to the case had committed suicide, he tells Oliver. Connor got to watch it happen. He just needed to go down for a while. It was good for him.

“I’ll grab us some beers,” he says, and the smile he gives Oliver is fake. He wanders off into the kitchen in his boxers and a tank top. He keeps talking, about how the guy just wasn’t tough enough to take the stress of the job, and how could Connor have known that getting that recording would provoke his boss into being a complete and total bitch?

Oliver knows it’s a bad idea as soon as he thinks it, but Connor’s phone is right there, blinking at him. He wants to understand his own whole part in this fiasco. He was the one that dug through the phone records, after all. If Connor’s feeling guilty, maybe Oliver shares part of the blame.

There’s an audio recording on Connor’s phone, labeled only with a date. Oliver, against his better judgment, starts playing it.

The man’s voice is smug as he talks. That’s the first thing Oliver notices. “I know, I just hooked up with one of the lawyers right now. What can I say? I’m fully committed to the cause. And he did this thing to my ass that made my eyes water.”

The worst part about hearing it out loud is that Oliver already knew. There was some dark corner of Oliver’s mind that had already put the pieces together and only needed this, solid proof, to really acknowledge that it was true, that Connor did go out and fuck someone else so he could win his case.

It’s not a possessiveness thing -- though the thought of someone else touching Connor, someone else seeing Connor like that makes Oliver’s blood boil. It’s the stark reminder that Connor isn’t playing for keeps here. Oliver might as well be this guy, whoever he was, to be used and thrown away at Connor’s whim. Oliver knew that this wasn’t going to turn into some kind of storybook romance, with a wedding and a collaring and a happily ever after, but he’d hoped that Connor at least gave half a shit about him.

He hears Connor come back in from the kitchen. Oliver can’t look at him now. “That’s why you were so angry. He played you,” he says.

“Come on,” Connor says. “It’s not like we said we were exclusive.” It’s possibly the worst thing he could have said right now. He doesn’t even sound sure of it, all of his trademark certainty bled out of him.

Oliver finally works up the willpower to face him. Connor has his arms folded across his chest, and even as rumpled and disheveled as he is right now, he’s so beautiful and so terrible that Oliver can’t stand to be in the same room as him. He can’t even stand to be in the same building. “Get out,” he says.

“Oliver--” Connor says, sighing, like he can still talk his way out of this.

“You heard me,” Oliver says. “Take your things and leave.”

“Oliver, don’t do this.” Connor shakes his head, an edge of pleading in his voice.

It’s awful taking advantage of the mess of Connor’s head right now, while Connor’s still shaking off the last remnants of subspace, but Oliver is going to crawl out of his skin if he has to spend another moment in Connor’s company. “That’s an order, Connor,” he says, looking Connor straight in the eye. He can make this a physical confrontation if he has to. Connor could take him in a fair fight, but Oliver knows exactly which buttons he’d need to push to get Connor to do what he wants.

Connor knows that he knows how to do it, too. Connor purses his lips. “Fine,” he says, backing down. “Just so you know, he was just sex. And that’s not-- that’s not what this was.”

He turns around, picks up his things, and walks out the door, slamming it behind him as he leaves.

***

5.

There’s a florist on campus who sits right outside the student center, her little cart bursting with greens and yellows and reds. Connor usually walks right past it. It’s easy enough to ignore day-in and day-out, but today, today Connor needs flowers.

He thought of getting Oliver something else, chocolate, a cockring, some computer thing Connor would have to beg someone at the store to help him out with, but that sub at the club last night suggested flowers, and Connor -- Connor could do flowers. Connor could do the whole damn cart if he could just get Oliver to talk to him again. He’s tried a few times to get in touch with phone calls and texts, but Oliver hasn’t responded.

Connor’s not proud to admit this, but Oliver’s Facebook profile is public enough that Connor can check up on it. All of Oliver’s status updates are bland, impersonal, about the lunch he had that day or this new song he liked on Spotify. There’s not even a blip in his timeline from their breakup. The day after he kicked Connor out, he posted a link to an article about the next Star Wars movie like the giant nerd he is.

Connor knows that he’s being obvious about it, how badly this not-breakup has messed him up. Michaela has been smug, and Laurel and Wes have been pitying, and Asher has been confused. Fuck them. Connor doesn’t need any of it.

Julian in the bathroom was a mistake. Oliver wouldn’t be happy to hear about that one, if Connor ever got around to telling him about it. But Connor didn’t let Julian mark him, so on the off chance that Oliver would be willing to let Connor sub for him again, Oliver wouldn’t even be able to tell.

The middle-aged lady with graying hair and tortoiseshell glasses who runs the cart smiles at Connor as he looks over the options. “I assume a pretty sub like yourself is looking to give some flowers to someone special?”

“I, uh, yes,” Connor says. He cringes internally at how he uncertain he sounds. He’s better than this. He once seduced a dom at boarding school into stealing him old AP Chemistry answer keys with just a smile. This should be child’s play by comparison.

Her smile gets even bigger. “Ah, young love. I remember it well. Well, what sort of message do you want your flowers to send?”

“Forgiveness,” Connor says. He pokes at a few yellow flowers that he doesn’t know the names of. Does Oliver even like the color yellow? It never came up as a topic of conversation between them.

“Mmmhmm,” she says. She looks him over, and he can tell she’s making all sorts of assumptions about what he needs to ask for forgiveness over.

Connor puts on his best I-am-tolerating-your-bullshit-but-fuck-you smile. He doesn’t need her judgment, but he does need her flowers.

She continues, “Well, white is the color of forgiveness. How about this lovely bouquet right here?”

It’s pretty enough. And Oliver will probably appreciate the gesture more than the flowers itself. “I’ll take it,” Connor says.

---

It’s not until he’s standing outside Oliver’s door that the nerves start to hit. What is Connor even doing, asking Oliver to take him back? Is he really that pathetic? Is he really going to chase after a guy who wears glasses and listens to terrible pop music and enjoys trying to explain what a firewall actually does?

And then he thinks about this: the curve of Oliver’s smile when he’s sleepy, the press of his hand against Connor’s cheek, the narrowing of his eyes while he’s typing away at his computer, the sting of his teeth on Connor’s bottom lip.

Connor can do this. He wants to do this.

He knocks, shifting uneasily on his feet.

He waits.

He waits some more.

Oliver must have seen him through the peephole. Oliver must have decided that he’s not going to answer the door, and Connor will be still standing here, pathetic, like the kind of desperate, clingy sub he never wanted to be.

He turns in the hallway. There’s another door behind him. Whoever lives there must like flowers, right? Connor leans over to drop off the flowers, so he can just walk away with his dignity intact.

The door to 303 finally opens, though. Connor turns to see an unfamiliar man standing in the doorway, turning a spatula in his hands. A sub, judging by the fresh mark low on his neck.

“Hi,” Connor says. He looks down at the flowers in his hands, and it’s almost kind of absurd. All that worrying, and Oliver isn’t even here. “Sorry. I used to know the guy that lived here.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “Oliver,” he says. “He’s in the shower.”

Connor feels all the air leave his lungs at the same time. All that time, all those fucking weeks of trying to figure out how to get Oliver out of his head, and Oliver had already moved on. He was dominating other subs that looked like this guy: handsome, built, and oozing self-assurance.

“Are those for him?” the other sub asks.

Connor isn’t really one for relationships, but he can tell that this is a faux pas any way he could try to slice it. “I’ll go,” he says. He heads towards the nearest stairwell.

“Connor, right?” he hears.

That makes him stop in his tracks, turns to face the guy again. They can talk it out sub-to-sub, but Connor’s always been terrible at that. He’d always been happier messing around with the doms that befriending any of the subs in school. “Hey, I don’t want to cause any trouble, okay?”

There’s this expression on the man’s face, almost pitying, as if he can understand how terrible it is to be out of Oliver’s good graces. Connor hates that look. That look is going to be burned into his brain until the day he dies. The man says, “Look. If you care about the guy at all, don’t ever come back here.” He closes the door, and Connor is once again alone in the hallway, holding a useless bouquet of flowers.

He leaves. He’s not planning on coming back.

***

6.

Oliver wakes to the sound of a heavy banging on his front door. He rolls over, rubbing his face with his hands, and sits up. He can’t deal with anything this early on a Saturday morning. Faint morning light filters in through the windows. The sun has been coming up so much later as the year drags on. It feels earlier than it is.

He doesn’t bother putting on his glasses before walking to his front door, yanking it open with one hand.

Oliver half expects it to be his father, annoyed at him for not returning his calls all week, or James, who has taken to mothering Oliver in the wake of his disastrous failure of a relationship by shoving as many home-cooked meals down Oliver’s throat as he can manage. That doesn’t quite make sense, though, because they both know better than to annoy Oliver before seven, and Oliver has convinced them both that they need to give him at least an hour’s advance notice before turning up. Oliver appreciates their attention, but he really is fine. He’s over it. He’s moved on.

Well, at least that’s what he can tell himself before he sees Connor standing there in the hallway.

For once in his life, Oliver can say that Connor honestly looks like shit. He’s dressed down, a jacket and hoodie and jeans, and his smile is trying way too hard. His eyes are ringed red. His hair is a mess. He also smells kind of funky, a lingering thing that Oliver can’t quite place yet.

“What are you doing here?” Oliver asks, and there’s a nastiness in his voice that he isn’t awake enough to control.

Connor shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood.”

That’s about as believable as the idea that Connor was a virgin when Oliver met him. Oliver says, “It’s six AM.”

“Well, early bird gets the worm and all of that.” Connor starts pacing a little bit, and his smile gets bigger, gets more plastic. Oliver isn’t sure what to make of any of it. He’s never seen Connor like this before.

“Are you on something?” Oliver blurts out.

That gets him a laugh from Connor, but it’s a short and ugly thing. “I wish.”

Oliver really doesn’t have time for twenty questions, but it’s not like Connor’s volunteering any information. “God, you smell. What is that, smoke?” The Middleton Bonfire was last night, that must be it. Oliver does his best to avoid anything to do with it every year, and last night was no different. He’s not surprised that Connor went to it. He is surprised that Connor decided to show up on his doorstep like this afterwards, though.

Connor takes the moment to stop pacing and face him. “I screwed up, Oliver,” he says. “I screwed up.” The smile has fallen off his face, and all that’s left is pure desperation. Not the kind that Oliver likes to see, when Connor is tied up and needy and wanting, but something darker, scarier.

Connor’s breathing comes fast, too fast, and he keeps repeating it, “I screwed up,” between sobs. He finds a wall and slides down it until he’s curled up into a ball right next to Oliver’s doorway.

Oliver kneels down next to him, and he doesn’t know what to say. “It’s going to be okay,” he tries, and he puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder. Maybe if he tied Connor up and put him under, that would calm him down, but they don’t have that sort of relationship anymore.

“No,” Connor says, shaking his head, his breath still coming too fast. “It isn’t. It isn’t.”

“It will be,” Oliver says. “Come inside, and you can tell me everything.” At the very least, he won’t end up bothering the neighbors as much if Connor freaks out any further.

Connor pulls himself together a little bit, relaxed by the simple directions. He manages to stand up on shaky feet and walk through the doorway, but he ends up waiting in the middle of the room, lost and confused, while Oliver closes the door behind him. Connor’s breathing is slowing, but it’s still heavy, and there’s still a wildness in his eyes.

Oliver gestures towards the couch. “Sit down.”

Connor sits. He ends up bent over, leaning over with his elbows resting on his knees, and his face in his hands. Oliver has seen Connor asleep and in subspace and after he’s witnessed a suicide, but he’s never seen Connor quite like this, so entirely stripped of his usual defenses.

Oliver sits next to him, rubs his back the way Oliver’s father used to do for him when he was sad and upset about something. He’s had upset friends and upset subs come to him from time to time, but this is on another level. Oliver is entirely out of his depth.

Connor shudders underneath the touch, and Oliver can’t tell whether or not he’s crying. “Are you--?” Oliver starts.

But then Connor turns towards him, curls up against Oliver’s side. His face gets mashed up against Oliver’s shoulder, and his arms wrap around Oliver’s waist. There’s nothing sexual about it, but it’s unsettling all the same.

This is the kind of thing that Connor used to scoff at when they were still-- still seeing each other. He always prided himself on his ability to keep everything within the bounds of a scene. Outside of that, they were friends, kind of. Oliver would hack into something for Connor and Connor would smile at him and that would be the extent of it. Mostly, they just had a lot of sex.

Connor doesn’t say anything else, but Oliver can feel the way his breath steadies, can feel the way Connor’s arms tighten as he nuzzles in closer.

They stay like that for a while. Ten minutes, maybe. Connor relaxes, his body going pliant and his breath even.

“Okay,” Oliver says, breaking the silence. “Why don’t you go take a shower, and then when you get out, you can tell me what’s going on.”

Connor disengages himself, and Oliver can see that some of his self-control has reasserted itself. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

***

7.

Oliver’s shower is the most perfect thing Connor has ever felt. It’s hot and steamy and enclosed in frosted glass so that the rest of the world can’t get into it. He doesn’t have to worry about anything else. There’s only this, the heat of the water on his skin, the smell of soap, Oliver’s soap, washing away the ash from the fire.

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream. He leans his forehead against the slick tile and closes his eyes and breathes in, breathes out. His mind is blissful, blank, just the way he wants it.

When he steps outside of this room, everything will come crashing back down again. Oliver will be waiting for him, waiting for answers. Oliver with his dark, concerned eyes and his gentle, measured voice. Oliver with his perfect new Connor-less life and his perfect new not-Connor sub.

Connor had been frantic and crazy when he showed up this morning, but the sight of Oliver again, live and in the flesh, had been sudden and overwhelming, a punch to the chest. He can’t-- he can’t--

And no, calm, blank. Oliver took him in, let him freak on on his shoulder, and gave him access to his shower. That’s probably more than Connor deserves, to be honest, especially now that he just helped cover up a murder and is almost definitely going to jail over it at some point..

In the heat of the shower, his fingers start to prune. That’s probably a sign that he needs to get out. He shuts off the water and pulls the shower door open. The room is steamy, but it’s still cooler than it was inside the shower, and Connor shivers.

He thinks about the warmth of Oliver’s body, the faint woodsy smell of Oliver’s t-shirt, the steadiness of Oliver’s arm on his back, and it cuts him open. All of this, all off this that Connor didn’t even know he wanted in the first place, and he can’t-- it’s not going to be his ever again.

He pulls on his boxers and his jeans, fastens his belt, and wanders into the bedroom with a borrowed towel in hand.

As predicted, Oliver is sitting on the bed, his expression a mask of calm understanding. “Feeling better?” he asks.

Connor buries his face in the towel so that he doesn’t have to look at Oliver at all. “Yeah,” he says.

“Good, because we need to talk.” Oliver’s voice is softer than Connor expected. He’s being so kind, like a dom with a skittish first-time sub.

“Right,” Connor says. A talk. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the fire, still smell the burning flesh. The worst of the smell is gone from his skin now, but it still lingers on his clothes. His stomach turns.

Oliver doesn’t let up. “What the hell happened last night?”

Connor opens his mouth. He could tell Oliver everything right now, let it spill out from his lips, and it would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? Confession is good for the soul. But Oliver doesn’t need any of Connor’s shit, and Connor -- for once -- wants to do right by him. “I was high,” he says instead. “I was mixing a bunch of stuff, some pills, and some stuff I’d never tried before.”

Oliver’s eyes narrow slightly. “I thought you didn’t do drugs.”

“I lied. I have a drug problem.” Connor mumbles. The lie is lumpy and awkward. He wonders if Oliver can see all the misshapen parts of it.

That’s when Connor’s phone decides to go off, buzzing because it has a new text message. He checks it immediately, because it could be anything. Wes with a bunch of new instructions after becoming Mr. I-Cover-Up-Murders-In-My-Spare-Time. Michaela with a note about the police wanting to speak to her. Laurel with a warning to not go to Annalise’s class on Monday.

“Sorry,” Connor says out loud as he reads it, and it’s a relief to not have this conversation anymore. “It’s from Bonnie. She needs us back at the office.” He gathers his things and starts towards the door. He can hear Oliver following him.

“Are you serious?” Oliver says. “You’re not going to work-- You just told me you have a drug addiction. We need to talk about this.” His voice gets louder at the end, but he doesn’t try to get in Connor’s way.

Connor pauses at the doorway. He owes Oliver that much. “I know. And we will, but my boss needs me. I’ll talk to you later.” He glances back at Oliver for a moment. It’s a mistake.

He leaves as fast as he can, a ball of jittery nerves. He does his best not to think of the expression on Oliver’s face as he left, looking as if Connor betrayed him all over again.

***

8.

Oliver is in the process of figuring out what he wants for dinner when he hears a knock on the front door.

Oliver knows it’s Connor without having to check. He’s the only person who shows up these days completely unannounced. He puts down his collection of takeout menus on the kitchen counter and takes a deep breath.

He needs to decide whether or not it’s going to be a good idea to voluntarily subject himself to Connor’s bullshit right now. It’s been two weeks since Oliver saw him last, that morning after the bonfire. Oliver wasn’t sure if he’d ever get to talk to Connor again, drug addiction or no drug addiction. There’s part of him that would be more than happy if he never had to see Connor ever again, and there’s a part of him that would always regret it if Connor were to fall out of his life completely. Maybe three weeks ago, his answer would be different, more certain, but the picture has changed. He has no idea what Connor is going through right now.

He manages to steel himself against whatever Connor is going to throw at him, and he walks over to the front door and opens it.

Connor is looking better, wearing one of his suits again, his armor. He smiles at Oliver. It looks almost like his flirty one, but it’s softer, more open. “Hi,” Connor says. “Can we talk?”

Oliver nods and steps back, letting him in. “Sure.”

Connor seems more like himself, but as he stands there in Oliver’s living room once again, there’s a hollowness in his eyes that Oliver recognizes all too well. “I--” Connor starts, but he loses his nerve.

“Just spit it out,” Oliver sighs. From the moment Oliver met him, he’s never seen Connor be shy about telling him what he wants. “Or are you just going to drop a bomb and then walk out on me again?”

Connor glances at Oliver then, but he’s more interested in the floor. “I need you to punish me,” Connor says, almost more of a mumble than a statement.

“What?” Oliver says.

Connor shrugs. “I just--” He swallows visibly, eyes fixed on one particular corner of Oliver’s coffee table. “It’s just something that-- I think would help right now.”

“Connor--” Oliver says with a sigh, because this isn’t something he wants to get mixed up in.

“I know,” Connor says. “I know I don’t have the right, but I’m just-- I can’t focus at school-- I can’t sleep at night-- and you’re the only one I can trust with this. Oliver, please.”

There’s a right thing to do here. If Oliver were a stronger person, he’d send Connor on his way, to find someone else, anyone else to do this for him. But it’s still Connor, and no matter how much Oliver would like to be over him, Oliver is not. That sub’s really got you by his end of the leash, one of Oliver’s co-workers would say. Stop playing his games, dude.

But Connor isn’t playing right now. Oliver’s seen what he looks like when he’s trying to manipulate people into doing what he wants. This isn’t it. “Okay,” Oliver says.

The relief that passes over Connor’s face is more than a little heartbreaking. He strips off his suit jacket and places it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

“What do you need me to punish you for?” Oliver asks. He goes into the closet for the supplies they’ll need. Handcuffs, a flogger, some ointment for later. Oliver learned about how to administer punishments in his dominance classes in high school, but he’s never had to do one since then, and he’s a little nervous about it.

“Anything. Everything,” Connor mumbles. He’s unbuttoning his shirt carefully. This is the most subdued Oliver has ever seen Connor before a scene. Connor is usually all reckless energy, overwhelming, difficult to handle.

“That’s not an answer.” Oliver wonders how much punishment Connor pulled as a child, whether or not it’s turned him into an adult who doesn’t know how to ask for help. The punishment needs to fit the crime. If Oliver doesn’t know what the crime is, then he doesn’t know how to calibrate the punishment.

Connor pauses, his hands stilling on the last button of his shirt. “I can’t tell you.” His face is a riot of conflicting emotions, and that’s as good as a confession that he was lying to Oliver last time.

Oliver says, “You’re not really a drug addict, are you?”

Connor closes his eyes. “No, but I still can’t tell you the truth, either.” He slides his dress shirt off his shoulders, leaving him in just his tank top.

“Fine,” Oliver says. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing this my way. Agreed?”

Connor nods. He pulls that last shirt off over his head and starts working on his pants and belt.

“Color system,” Oliver says. “Like usual.”

“Sure,” Connor says. Shoes, socks. Pants that fall in a puddle around his ankles. There’s a new urgency to his movements, some of the other version of himself bleeding through.

“Don’t lie to me,” Oliver says. “I don’t care how much you think you can take.” He gestures Connor towards the set of punishment bars that were installed in the apartment by the previous occupant, set at about forehead height. Oliver didn’t think he’d ever get a chance to use them.

Connor walks to it and waits, watching Oliver with serious eyes. “Yes, sir,” Connor says.

“Good,” Oliver says. He manhandles Connor into position, wrists out, facing the wall. Connor lets him.

He threads the handcuffs through the bars and locks Connor’s wrists in place. In most situations like this, Connor would squirm, eager to get what he wants, but here he’s placid and calm. Oliver wonders how far down he is already.

“Test those out for me,” Oliver says.

Connor obliges tugging on the handcuffs. Oliver listens as the chains clank against the bar, but neither of them give. “Good,” he says again, because Connor is facing the wall and can’t see him.

It should be erotic, the sight of Connor’s untouched naked back, pale and smooth, ready and waiting for Oliver to mark it up. It has been in the past. But tonight, this isn’t about what Oliver wants. This isn’t about Oliver wanting anything at all.

It’s not ideal, but Connor will have to be the one to set the punishment. “How many?’ Oliver asks. He can already guess based on what they’ve done in the past.

“Twenty,” Connor says. It’s a little bit more than usual, but not outside what Oliver knows of Connor’s pain tolerance.

“I’ll keep count,” Oliver says.

The first swing of the flogger is harder than Oliver intended it to be. The tails make a sharp snapping noise as they connect with Connor’s back, and Connor’s whole body jerks under the force of it. He makes a low noise, almost a moan.

“Color?” Oliver asks.

“Green,” Connor gasps out.

Two more in quick succession, lighter this time. Connor’s starting to relax into it, his shoulders settling, not quite so tight.

Four in a row after that, a little harder, but with more of a gap in between swings. Connor’s breathing is harder, his head bent and pressed against his arms. He grunts when the leather connects, air forced out of his lungs all at once.

The next three, Oliver puts a little bit more of his arm into it, making an even more satisfying smack as they land. Connor cries out at the last one, louder than any of the other noises he’s made tonight, and Oliver pauses to give him a chance to collect himself. “Color?” he asks again. Connor’s back is covered in cris-crossing red lines, though it looks like none of the blows has broken the skin yet.

“Still green,” Connor says. He turns his head so that Oliver can see his face. There are twin tear tracks running down his cheeks, and his eyes look a little glassy. “Can I-- can I have a gag?”

“Connor,” Oliver says, slowly, “this is not about what you want.”

Connor blinks for a moment before nodding. His breathing is rough but even. Oliver thinks, absently, about kissing him.

“Last ten,” Oliver says. “I want you to count these out loud.”

“Yes, sir,” Connor says. He turns to face the wall again, his shoulders square, waiting.

Oliver brings the flogger down again, light, so he can work Connor back up to the harder stuff.

“Eleven,” Connor spits out.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Oliver ramps things up, and Connor’s voice gets a little hazy, but it never fades. He calls out each number as they land.

“I’m not going to hold back for these last five,” Oliver warns. He’s been goaded into going full strength on Connor before, and he knows Connor can take it.

“Yes,” Connor breathes.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Connor sobs the last one out, and he doesn’t stop sobbing even as Oliver drops the flogger onto the floor.

Oliver’s arm is exhausted. He knows he’s going to be aching tomorrow, but it’s probably worth it. He unbuckles the cuffs, checking to make sure that Connor’s wrists are okay. Connor decides to take that moment to collapse into Oliver’s arms.

Oliver almost goes down with him, but he manages to catch himself. Connor clings to Oliver’s neck, his wet nose and cheek pressed against Oliver’s jaw.

“Come on,” Oliver says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He drags Connor over to the couch and lets Connor sprawl face down over his lap. He grabs the little container of ointment and unscrews the top.

He hasn’t let himself think about this in a while, Connor lying still and letting Oliver put his hands all over him. The skin of his back is warm, overheated, bright red. There are welts that will last for days. Connor makes a contented humming noise as Oliver works the ointment into the marks.

“Okay?” Oliver asks.

“Hm, yes,” Connor mumbles. He rolls his shoulders and settles in deeper. The expression on his face is so smooth, so peaceful, that Oliver can tell that the punishment did the trick. Maybe Connor will still carry whatever-this-is with him a while longer, but at least Oliver could take off some of the load.

When Oliver is done with the ointment, he gently nudges Connor off his lap so he can stand up and put everything away.

“Don’t go,” Connor says. He sits up, careful not to lean against the back of the couch. He looks better. His eyes are still a little red, a little watery, and his face is still a little splotchy from the crying.

“Okay,” Oliver says. He stays where he is and watches the play of emotion on Connor’s face.

Connor says, “Thank you.” He stretches his arms up over his head, and Oliver is caught watching the pull and twist of his muscles.

“I could tell that you needed it,” Oliver says. He still wishes he knew why. He still wishes Connor would tell him these sorts of things. No matter how close he can get to Connor, no matter how much Connor will let him see, he knows that Connor will still keep him here, at arm’s length, where Oliver won’t ever really be able to touch him.

“I can suck you off,” Connor continues, “let you fuck my mouth.”

For some reason, that’s what sets Oliver off. “No,” he says, standing up. “What the-- I’m-- fuck. I didn’t do this because I expected something in return. What the hell do you think of me?” He would stomp out of the room, but he knows that no matter what kind of front Connor is putting up now, he’s still vulnerable from the punishment, and Oliver would be the shittiest person in the world for walking out on him now.

Connor cocks his head to the side. “Sometimes,” he says. “I don’t understand you at all.”

Oliver snorts. “That would be two of us.”

Connor cracks a smile at that. It’s a thin thing, fragile, but bright and toothy all the same. “I love you,” he says, and then he freezes in place and blinks.

Oliver wants to laugh. Fuck his luck, right? Connor Walsh thinks he’s in love. “Connor, don’t do this,” Oliver warns. He can’t do this. He isn’t going to do this.

“Shit,” Connor says. He’s rubbing his face with his hands. “Shit, shit, shit. I didn’t mean to-- Look, just-- I know it sounds crazy because I’m kind of terrible at being owned by anyone, and I managed to fuck this up completely in five different ways, but I’m not-- I’m not lying to you right now.”

“Gee,” Oliver says, “I can’t imagine why I would be touchy about you lying to me.” He believes Connor, which is the horrible thing. He believes Connor is in love with him, and he believes that Connor will still manage to break his heart again all the same.

“Oliver,” Connor pleads. His eyes are so open. Connor usually keeps himself shut up, hidden under his charm and his smile and his confidence, but right now, Oliver can see right through him.

Oliver takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Connor flinches, like he’s been physically slapped. “What?” he asks.

“That’s what you say when you’re trying to apologize to someone, Connor,” Oliver says. “Now you try.”

Recognition dawns on Connor’s face. “Oliver--” he says. “I’m sorry that I keep asking you for favors, and I’m sorry that I subbed for Paxton, and I’m sorry that I lied to you, and I’m sorry that I got messed up in some heavy shit, and I’m sorry that even after stalking your Facebook profile for weeks, I didn’t realize that guy was your cousin.”

“Wait, James?’ Oliver asks. He has no idea how James even ended up in this conversation.

“And I’m sorry that I told you that I loved you when you didn’t want to hear it.” Connor’s voice doesn’t even waver in the slightest as he says it, and he looks Oliver straight in the eye.

Oliver closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how to deal with any of this. He’s so tired of being angry at Connor, and he’s flirting so closely with disaster, but he knows-- he wants-- “Okay,” Oliver says. “I forgive you.”

“I want to kiss you,” Connor says. “Can I?”

This is almost definitely a terrible idea, but Oliver has been full of terrible ideas since the first night he brought Connor home with him. “Yes,” Oliver says.

He feels the heat of Connor’s body before he feels the press of Connor’s lips. It’s a tender thing, barely there. Oliver tilts his head, opens his mouth so he can kiss back harder, deeper. Connor melts into it, letting Oliver control the kiss. It feels like the first time he managed to get his code to compile, a joyous, terrifying, huge new world opening up right in front of him. If Oliver is doing this, he’s going all in. No point in doing this halfway.

When Oliver pulls back just far enough to separate their lips, they’re both breathing hard. “Just so you know,” Oliver says, “I love you, too.”

He can feel Connor’s answering smile against his mouth. “Good,” Connor says.