For Reasons Unknown
Title: For Reasons Unknown
Fandom: Torchwood RPF
Pairing(s): John Barrowman/Eve Myles
Word Count: 396
Rating: R
Summary: There are a thousand reasons why they shouldn't be doing this, and every one of them makes her want to laugh.
Notes: Written for the tw_cast RPF challenge.
This is - was - playing around; his hands are familiar on her waist, edging up her shirt to rest on bare skin, and she doesn't protest when he throws her backwards onto the bed.
(He's heavy on top of her, and she squirms, a little. Her mouth is already open, laughing.)
When he kisses her, it's another story - not familiar, this, but not far off; Jack and Gwen, and it's not like he's never kissed her before, but there are no cameras, now.
(The part that she won't ever admit is that she doesn't hesitate before kissing him back, arching up a little - embarrassing, really, but his body doesn't seem to mind.)
And this is the part when she should stop, look up, say what the hell was that? but it doesn't occur to her.
(That's a lie, maybe, but she doesn't want to stop.)
His hands, already flat against her ribs, slide up, brush the edge of her bra; she almost shivers, bites down on his bottom lip, and there's this laughter, almost, at the back of his throat. This is funny, really, truly funny; there are a thousand reasons why they shouldn't be doing this, and every one of them makes her want to laugh. She's waiting for him to stop, tension coiled in the back of her spine, ready to sit up, brush her hair back from her face, nothing happened.
(He doesn't stop, and eventually she stops wanting to laugh. One hand moves lower, tugs her knees apart, and he presses his body down between her legs. Two fingers trace up her thigh; she's already wet.)
He's pinning one arm above her head, loosely enough that she could slip out of it. If she wanted to. His other hand keeps trailing up.
(He's gay, echoes in the back of her mind, and maybe this is some bizarre expression of friendship, a really thorough rehearsal. It doesn't feel friendly.)
Her free hand is on the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He releases her wrist long enough to fumble at the waist of his pants, and when he enters her, he kind of grunts, and she takes the opportunity to breathe.
Her hand twists in the collar of his shirt as she comes; later, his hand will be on her knee, lunch and line readings and weekend plans, and this won't have happened.
Fandom: Torchwood RPF
Pairing(s): John Barrowman/Eve Myles
Word Count: 396
Rating: R
Summary: There are a thousand reasons why they shouldn't be doing this, and every one of them makes her want to laugh.
Notes: Written for the tw_cast RPF challenge.
This is - was - playing around; his hands are familiar on her waist, edging up her shirt to rest on bare skin, and she doesn't protest when he throws her backwards onto the bed.
(He's heavy on top of her, and she squirms, a little. Her mouth is already open, laughing.)
When he kisses her, it's another story - not familiar, this, but not far off; Jack and Gwen, and it's not like he's never kissed her before, but there are no cameras, now.
(The part that she won't ever admit is that she doesn't hesitate before kissing him back, arching up a little - embarrassing, really, but his body doesn't seem to mind.)
And this is the part when she should stop, look up, say what the hell was that? but it doesn't occur to her.
(That's a lie, maybe, but she doesn't want to stop.)
His hands, already flat against her ribs, slide up, brush the edge of her bra; she almost shivers, bites down on his bottom lip, and there's this laughter, almost, at the back of his throat. This is funny, really, truly funny; there are a thousand reasons why they shouldn't be doing this, and every one of them makes her want to laugh. She's waiting for him to stop, tension coiled in the back of her spine, ready to sit up, brush her hair back from her face, nothing happened.
(He doesn't stop, and eventually she stops wanting to laugh. One hand moves lower, tugs her knees apart, and he presses his body down between her legs. Two fingers trace up her thigh; she's already wet.)
He's pinning one arm above her head, loosely enough that she could slip out of it. If she wanted to. His other hand keeps trailing up.
(He's gay, echoes in the back of her mind, and maybe this is some bizarre expression of friendship, a really thorough rehearsal. It doesn't feel friendly.)
Her free hand is on the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He releases her wrist long enough to fumble at the waist of his pants, and when he enters her, he kind of grunts, and she takes the opportunity to breathe.
Her hand twists in the collar of his shirt as she comes; later, his hand will be on her knee, lunch and line readings and weekend plans, and this won't have happened.