ELECTRIC STORM
I know, I'm starting to sound like a stuck record – but there was SO much potential right at the end of the movie for these two. I just can't stop playing with it.
They get on the last boat out in the end, hours after the boys, with only a few other straggling Jurassic World staff members.
Everyone sits in silence, the groaning of the old boat the only sound between them.
He notices her hands shaking clasped in her lap, and water building in her eyes, almost ready to spill over. It's when he sees her swallow and grit her teeth, her shoulders quivering slightly, he reaches out and takes her hand.
It's cold and lifeless in his, but she doesn't pull away.
He supposes that's something.
Something like zombies, they follow the small crowd of suddenly residence-less employees to a motel type place just on the outskirts of the town, where Masrani Global had promised temporary lodgings for their staff.
She's stood in front of him, still saying nothing, when she turns to him, just before they reach the front of the queue to the reception desk.
She asks him in a tiny voice to stay with her, and although for a moment he's unsure – she's broken or something, he's never seen her like this, she doesn't know what she wants – he smiles and answers with of course.
She still doesn't show an ounce of emotion, as she takes the key and they climb up four flights of stairs, all their joints creaking.
He nods towards the bare, third-rate bathroom for her to take the first shower, and when she graces him with a thank you her voice doesn't sound quite like he remembers.
He hears the water running and feels a sudden stab of impatience, the grime, sweat and blood soaking into his skin suddenly becoming apparent.
He doesn't have any energy left in him, but for a brief moment the thought of a completely naked Claire Dearing just a thin wall away burns something deep inside him, and he finds his eyes wandering lazily to the double bed in the middle of the room.
There's a small, threadbare couch just under the window. He supposes he won't sleep too well tonight, regardless.
He hears the water cease, and within minutes, she's stepping out onto the patchy carpet floor, in nothing but a starchy, slightly off-colour hotel issue towel.
She gives him something of a tiny smile as he slips past her, averting his eyes, and enters the bathroom.
The hot water's hardly had a chance to start running down his skin when he hears the bathroom door open, and feather light footsteps across the floor. Through the gap between the edge of the shower base and the stained, old shower curtain, he sees that hotel issue towel curl on the floor.
His body reacts – he's only human, and Claire Dearing is completely naked, feet away from him, when he's completely naked…
He realises he's been holding his breath when fingers snake around the shower curtain and she pulls it back.
He's not sure he's ever seen anything like it. She's beautiful, better than he'd imagined, but she's littered with purplish bruises, and with the slight tear stained hue of her face, he's never seen a woman look so vulnerable.
She steps under the water, close to him, and as he goes to say something, to offer her the out she'll probably realise she needs in a few hours, she pushes her finger against his lips, lowering her own eyes.
She picks up the sponge on the side and starts, ever so gently, running it across his shoulder, along his collarbone, up his neck.
He watches the water running off him turn darker with the hue of those hours, those lives, those moments.
She bites her lip as she washes him clean.
The water's starting to go cold when she loses the sponge and instead slides her hand down his chest, down his stomach, reaching the effect she's been having on him for the last minutes and taking him in her hands.
When he goes to protest – because he's sure one of them's going to regret this, even if the other has been dreaming about it since they first met – she pushes her lips against his, and in that moment seems to press every last inch of her body to his.
Her fingers still taunting him where he most needs them, her tongue slides between his lips, dancing against his. He finds his own hands on her hips, pulling her closer.
She bucks her hips half-heartedly, impatiently, against him, and all of a sudden one of his hands snakes up to take her breast between his fingers.
He's sure she gasps against his mouth, and he slides the other hand between her legs. There'll be time to worry about her regretting this later.
It doesn't take long for her reaction to his fingers, particularly those between her legs, to intensify, and she slides her hands around to his lower back.
Realisation, acceptance and hunger seem to hit him in the same moment, and he pins her against the shower wall, taking his hands from her and lifting her, his eyes dark.
She cries out as he slides within her, both with every muscle in her body seeming to ache and finally feeling something again and realising she's not rid herself of all humanity.
His hips rock against hers with a rapidly building sense of urgency, and it's fast and messy and nothing like your first time with a person should be, but she brings her hands to cup his face, forcing him to look at her.
His eyes are darker than she's ever seen them, and as he braces himself against the wall behind her and thrusts, rapidly, in and out of her, she comes crashing around him embarrassingly quickly.
He swears against the skin of her shoulder as he comes himself, seconds later, and she wraps her legs tighter around his waist.
Like she can't let him go.
He carries her into the bedroom, pressing her into the pillows, still not saying a word. He matches her lips with his again, and she can't help musing how nice he tastes to herself – of coffee and whiskey and with maybe a hint of papaya.
She feels him pull the coverlet over both their beaten, half broken bodies, and she can feel his readiness to start all this again against her left thigh. She rocks her hips gently toward him, signalling that she's not finished, either.
That sweet tasting mouth trails down her throat, between her breasts (one set of fingers curl around her right nipple as he passes), and in a straight and painstakingly slow path down her stomach.
When he reaches his desired location, he holds back for a minute and she can feel his breath against her.
The one hand she's not keeping curled around a bedsheet pushes his head towards her, and she begs him to continue.
When his tongue finds its target, the moans turn into something close to screams.
When she wakes, she finds her fingers still twisting within his, and she considers the improbability of the whole thing as she rolls closer into him.
Last night, after everything, she slept with Owen fucking Grady, and now her body aches deliciously in places she can't remember the last time they hurt.
As she twists her legs around his, and presses her lips against his skin, she considers how much the events of the past 48 hours or so must have changed her, to not have her trying to escape before he wakes and insist they both pretend nothing ever happened.
She smiles slightly as she feels his palm against the small of her back, and she kisses him lightly as he wakes up, pulling her closer before even opening his eyes.
When she feels the beginnings of his reaction to her in his bed in the morning, she presses her hips towards his, somewhat lazily. There'll be plenty of time for that, later.
She kisses his skin as she settles her head in the crook of his shoulder, and feels him breathe a sigh of relief.
She's not going anywhere.
She whispers her morning greeting almost lovingly against his skin.
That's a wrap! Hope this worked out alright, I was trying something different with the writing style and a complete lack of dialogue in an attempt to make it a very different take on immediately after the movie. Hope you enjoyed, and as always, I'd love to hear what you think!
Leave me a little review, let me know if it worked for you or not!