Jurassic Park fic: Follow Me (Claire/Owen)
I wanted to write a story about Claire (and Owen, at least in how he relates to her) in the immediate aftermath of Jurassic World, when the weight of all those people, all that terror and adrenaline, all that responsibility settles over her, but before she can actually do anything about it. And I wanted to write this story for thecarlysutra, who was having a bad time of things, and loves this movie and this character and this pairing so much.
Title: Follow Me
Author: escritoireazul
Characters/Pairings: Claire Dearing/Owen Grady
Author's Note: This is a transformative work of fiction set after Jurassic World.
Written for: thecarlysutra as a Yuletide 2015 treat
Word count: 1,700
Rating: 16+
Read at AO3
Summary: In the aftermath of the disaster at Jurassic World, Claire is left both reeling and grounded.
Claire’s eyes were gritty and sore. Her throat hurt. Dried blood flaked off her hands and feet, elbows and knees and chin. Death by a thousand cuts, or one very big genetically engineered monster. Not even a dinosaur, not really, not what they had created from science and greed and ego.
Every inch of her body felt like she had been beaten by an industrial press.
Owen came up behind her, and put his hands on her waist, gentle as anything. Too gentle, really. She wasn’t fragile, nor was she a creature of ice that would shatter if struck just so or melt when exposed to heat.
She turned, slow enough she could stay in the shelter of his arms, his hands sliding along her skirt. She could feel the fabric catch on his calluses, and for a moment, was distracted by how his hands would feel against her bare skin. She had a careful lotion routine, used rich, luxurious products with expensive ingredients in scents she enjoyed, and the smoothness of her skin was testament to that care.
Owen would feel rough, and wonderful. She placed her hand on his chest, and could feel the thump of his heart beneath her hand. His shirt was a mess, dirt and sweat and blood. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, his thumb pressed directly over her pulse point. His hands were wide, fingers thick and blunt. She looked delicate in his grip, slender wrist, long, narrow fingers.
When she looked up, caught his gaze, and smiled a little, a grin broke across his face, bright as the sun.
*
Claire half expected to be arrested the moment they left the ferry, but the only law enforcement appeared to be there for crowd control. People swarmed the docks, locals, friends and family of people who had been on the island, and, by far the most dangerous, reporters.
Her name had been on all sorts of marketing materials, and her face used far too often. They recognized her, at least some of them. She’d given a handful of them long interviews, some when the park first opened, others over the past decade. She was not the rock star billionaire Masrani was - had been, and she would mourn his exuberance - charismatic and smart, a dangerous combination, but she was young to run an entire park, and Jurassic World unique. Her story had intrigued many people.
Now, they knew who she was, and they were vultures, circling.
Owen put his arm across her shoulder, and she ducked her head. Her hair was cut so it wouldn’t easily cover her face - she had found, too often, that powerful men took that as a sign of great weakness, even when it was an accidental and brief fall of hair across the eyes and especially when the woman was in charge - and she wished, for the first time, that it would.
“Claire!” One voice rang out, then another. “Claire Dearing!”
But the reporters couldn’t get close, and there were throngs of survivors. Claire nudged Owen until they stepped sideways, into a knot of people. She ignored the reporters, and focused instead on the reunions happening around here. The people who had been forced to wait until the last ferry - who had chosen to wait, as she and Owen had done, and her sister and nephews - were the least injured, but that didn’t mean everyone waiting for them at the docks hadn’t spent hours worried and afraid.
People cried and clung to each other. Here there was a bark of laughter. There a ragged sob, an older woman cupping the face of a teenage girl who looked to be her granddaughter. Owen squeezed Claire’s shoulder, leaned into her. He watched the reunions, too, and smiled.
He was sweet.
She rested her hand on the back of his neck, pressed her nails into his skin, and he leaned closer to her still.
*
“Come to Madison,” Karen told Claire after they had all checked into the hotel. “Come home.”
Madison was not Claire’s home. She wasn’t certain wherever -- any wherever -- her sister was would be home, either, but she was willing to try. “For awhile,” she said, and Karen flung her arms around her, held her tight. She was crying, a little, face pressed against Claire’s shoulder even though her blouse was a mess and she knew she smelled terrible.
Claire brought her hands up, hesitant, and pressed her palms flat against Karen’s back. Her sister had always been thin, but she could feel the bumps of her spine, the sharp points of her shoulder blades. Guilt wormed through Claire. She hadn’t known how bad things had gotten for Karen at home, but then, she hadn’t asked, either. Hadn’t ever called. Karen's worry over her sons was just additional stress.
All the park visitors, all the staff, all their families and friends - Claire felt the weight of them settle onto her shoulders, of their worry and mourning, of all the ways she let them down.
She sighed into her sister’s hair and made no more promises.
*
Claire showered first, and took the time to scrub herself raw, still working washcloth and soap over her skin long after the blood and dirt had been washed away. She watched it swirl down the drain. Her guilt did not so easily disappear.
Once, right before the park first opened, Claire had been at the same television studio as Lex Hammond for a panel discussion about the pros and cons of Jurassic World. She had balked at participating, but Masrani wanted it to happen, and if he got his way - which he always did - then she wanted to be right there so she could try to do damage control.
He wanted to win Lex over. That was Claire’s theory, at least, and nothing he said or did disproved it. Masrani was a true believer, and that was a dangerous thing to be. He sold the world a fairy tale story about dinosaurs, but he seemed to buy into it completely. Jurassic World would fulfill John Hammond’s dying wish, make his dreams come true, and its creation was a gift to the world.
Lex Hammond disagreed, loudly and often.
The panel discussion went as badly as Claire had expected, but not as terrible as she was prepared to handle. Lex repudiated every claim Masrani made about the park’s potential and what John Hammond wanted, but it didn’t matter. The moderator, the live audience, people the world over - they loved dinosaurs, and Masrani held them in the palm of his hand, his charisma and honest goodwill shining through.
After, Lex stormed off, disgusted, without speaking to Masrani, but there was a moment when she stopped and looked at Claire. Her eyes were bright, though Claire couldn’t tell whether it was from unshed tears or impotent rage.
“People will die,” she said, her voice low and hard. “Their blood will be on your hands.”
She had meant it metaphorically, surely, but Claire stared down at her palms, her wrinkled fingertips, now washed clean, but there had been literal blood on her hands, and she half expected the stain to last. Wanted it, perhaps. She should be marked for what she had done. All of them, Masrani and InGen and Claire.
“You drown in there?” Owen’s voice broke over her, and she turned. She could just make him out through the textured glass door, fogged from the hot water - cooler now than when she first got into the shower - but after a moment, he pushed it open and slipped inside. He was cleaner than she expected; he must have done what he could to clean up at the sink. “Claire?” His voice gentled. “You okay?”
She shook her head, and he reached for her, slow, his movements clearly projected. She put her hands in his and drew him closer. Warm water pounded against her back, and drops spattered into his face, but he didn’t turn away.
There were many things she wanted to say, and even more she didn’t. Instead of trying to sort one from the other, Claire rose up on her toes and kissed him. Owen’s mouth opened against hers, and his tongue slipped between her lips. Their kiss was unhurried and warm, and absolutely wonderful. He brought his hands up to cup her face, his fingers pressed light against her jaw, and sank into him, let their bodies settle together.
Owen laddered kisses down the side of her throat, pressed his teeth into her shoulder, and slid his hands into her hair, tilting her head to one side so he could better access a spot on her neck that made her shudder.
His penis pressed against her stomach, slowly hardening; it came erect fast when she ghosted her fingers along the underside, then wrapped her hand around it and stroked, once, twice, again, slow and steady, her thumb working the head at the top of each stroke. He groaned, mouth pressed against her skin, and the vibration of it made her body feel tight and hot, and right on edge.
“Claire,” he said, voice rough, “please.” She liked how her name sounded on his tongue.
He dropped his hands to her waist, and his fingers pressed deep, hard enough to bruise, as she continued to stroke him, long and slow. His hips jerked, but she kept to her pace; her arm started to burn, her hand to cramp, but she kept to her pace, dragging it out. Owen whimpered, sometimes gave a moan that was only half audible, but otherwise was quiet. She had expected him to be a talker. The silence was strange, but good.
Finally he came, spilled himself across her hand, onto her stomach. She turned a little, let the cool water wash it away.
“God, Claire,” he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched, then slowly became a smile. “That was great. Amazing. You’re amazing.” He sounded drunk, and a laugh bubbled up. She kissed him, and found herself grinning against his mouth.
*
She sat on the bed between his legs, naked, discarded towel draped across one thigh. Owen ran a comb through her hair, each pass deliberately slow. He had long since worked out all the tangles, but the gentle scrape of the comb across her scalp sent pleasant shivers down her spine, and the repetitive movement soothed them both.
Finally, he stopped, and kissed the back of her shoulder. “You have a freckle there,” he said, and then kissed another spot. “One here, too.”
Part of Claire wanted to roll her eyes. Part of her wanted to dreamily sigh and lean back into him. “Will you catalog them all?” she asked instead, and was pleased when he laughed.
“Maybe.” Another kiss, and another, as he gently moved her hair out of his way and pressed his mouth, open and warm, to the back of her neck. “We’d both enjoy the hell out of that.”
Yes, but before she could say that, he put his arms around her, and his hands settled, oh so light, on her breasts. Her nipples were hard, and there was an ache between her legs; her desire warred with her comfort. He eased her back so she leaned against his chest, surrounded by the feel of his warm bare skin. She sighed, rested her head on his shoulder, tipped so that she could see his face.
He pressed a kiss to her temple, and then his fingers began to move. One hand stayed with her breasts, thumb easing across a nipple, while the other ghosted down her stomach, teased a circle around her belly button, then slipped between her legs. She was already wet, and when he ran one finger across her clit, pleasure rolled through her, and her body undulated in response.
His mouth and teeth at her shoulder, his hands so clever and strong; Claire’s mouth fell open and profanity spilled over her lips, so quiet she lost most of the words, steady until she started to come, and then she stuttered as her hips jerked.
Owen laughed again, kissed her temple again, and she sank against him, boneless, sated.
*
“Come with me,” she asked in the morning, as sunlight streamed through a crack between the curtains.
“Woman, I’ll follow you anywhere,” he said.
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/426450.html with
comments. Reply here or there.
Title: Follow Me
Author: escritoireazul
Characters/Pairings: Claire Dearing/Owen Grady
Author's Note: This is a transformative work of fiction set after Jurassic World.
Written for: thecarlysutra as a Yuletide 2015 treat
Word count: 1,700
Rating: 16+
Read at AO3
Summary: In the aftermath of the disaster at Jurassic World, Claire is left both reeling and grounded.
Claire’s eyes were gritty and sore. Her throat hurt. Dried blood flaked off her hands and feet, elbows and knees and chin. Death by a thousand cuts, or one very big genetically engineered monster. Not even a dinosaur, not really, not what they had created from science and greed and ego.
Every inch of her body felt like she had been beaten by an industrial press.
Owen came up behind her, and put his hands on her waist, gentle as anything. Too gentle, really. She wasn’t fragile, nor was she a creature of ice that would shatter if struck just so or melt when exposed to heat.
She turned, slow enough she could stay in the shelter of his arms, his hands sliding along her skirt. She could feel the fabric catch on his calluses, and for a moment, was distracted by how his hands would feel against her bare skin. She had a careful lotion routine, used rich, luxurious products with expensive ingredients in scents she enjoyed, and the smoothness of her skin was testament to that care.
Owen would feel rough, and wonderful. She placed her hand on his chest, and could feel the thump of his heart beneath her hand. His shirt was a mess, dirt and sweat and blood. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, his thumb pressed directly over her pulse point. His hands were wide, fingers thick and blunt. She looked delicate in his grip, slender wrist, long, narrow fingers.
When she looked up, caught his gaze, and smiled a little, a grin broke across his face, bright as the sun.
*
Claire half expected to be arrested the moment they left the ferry, but the only law enforcement appeared to be there for crowd control. People swarmed the docks, locals, friends and family of people who had been on the island, and, by far the most dangerous, reporters.
Her name had been on all sorts of marketing materials, and her face used far too often. They recognized her, at least some of them. She’d given a handful of them long interviews, some when the park first opened, others over the past decade. She was not the rock star billionaire Masrani was - had been, and she would mourn his exuberance - charismatic and smart, a dangerous combination, but she was young to run an entire park, and Jurassic World unique. Her story had intrigued many people.
Now, they knew who she was, and they were vultures, circling.
Owen put his arm across her shoulder, and she ducked her head. Her hair was cut so it wouldn’t easily cover her face - she had found, too often, that powerful men took that as a sign of great weakness, even when it was an accidental and brief fall of hair across the eyes and especially when the woman was in charge - and she wished, for the first time, that it would.
“Claire!” One voice rang out, then another. “Claire Dearing!”
But the reporters couldn’t get close, and there were throngs of survivors. Claire nudged Owen until they stepped sideways, into a knot of people. She ignored the reporters, and focused instead on the reunions happening around here. The people who had been forced to wait until the last ferry - who had chosen to wait, as she and Owen had done, and her sister and nephews - were the least injured, but that didn’t mean everyone waiting for them at the docks hadn’t spent hours worried and afraid.
People cried and clung to each other. Here there was a bark of laughter. There a ragged sob, an older woman cupping the face of a teenage girl who looked to be her granddaughter. Owen squeezed Claire’s shoulder, leaned into her. He watched the reunions, too, and smiled.
He was sweet.
She rested her hand on the back of his neck, pressed her nails into his skin, and he leaned closer to her still.
*
“Come to Madison,” Karen told Claire after they had all checked into the hotel. “Come home.”
Madison was not Claire’s home. She wasn’t certain wherever -- any wherever -- her sister was would be home, either, but she was willing to try. “For awhile,” she said, and Karen flung her arms around her, held her tight. She was crying, a little, face pressed against Claire’s shoulder even though her blouse was a mess and she knew she smelled terrible.
Claire brought her hands up, hesitant, and pressed her palms flat against Karen’s back. Her sister had always been thin, but she could feel the bumps of her spine, the sharp points of her shoulder blades. Guilt wormed through Claire. She hadn’t known how bad things had gotten for Karen at home, but then, she hadn’t asked, either. Hadn’t ever called. Karen's worry over her sons was just additional stress.
All the park visitors, all the staff, all their families and friends - Claire felt the weight of them settle onto her shoulders, of their worry and mourning, of all the ways she let them down.
She sighed into her sister’s hair and made no more promises.
*
Claire showered first, and took the time to scrub herself raw, still working washcloth and soap over her skin long after the blood and dirt had been washed away. She watched it swirl down the drain. Her guilt did not so easily disappear.
Once, right before the park first opened, Claire had been at the same television studio as Lex Hammond for a panel discussion about the pros and cons of Jurassic World. She had balked at participating, but Masrani wanted it to happen, and if he got his way - which he always did - then she wanted to be right there so she could try to do damage control.
He wanted to win Lex over. That was Claire’s theory, at least, and nothing he said or did disproved it. Masrani was a true believer, and that was a dangerous thing to be. He sold the world a fairy tale story about dinosaurs, but he seemed to buy into it completely. Jurassic World would fulfill John Hammond’s dying wish, make his dreams come true, and its creation was a gift to the world.
Lex Hammond disagreed, loudly and often.
The panel discussion went as badly as Claire had expected, but not as terrible as she was prepared to handle. Lex repudiated every claim Masrani made about the park’s potential and what John Hammond wanted, but it didn’t matter. The moderator, the live audience, people the world over - they loved dinosaurs, and Masrani held them in the palm of his hand, his charisma and honest goodwill shining through.
After, Lex stormed off, disgusted, without speaking to Masrani, but there was a moment when she stopped and looked at Claire. Her eyes were bright, though Claire couldn’t tell whether it was from unshed tears or impotent rage.
“People will die,” she said, her voice low and hard. “Their blood will be on your hands.”
She had meant it metaphorically, surely, but Claire stared down at her palms, her wrinkled fingertips, now washed clean, but there had been literal blood on her hands, and she half expected the stain to last. Wanted it, perhaps. She should be marked for what she had done. All of them, Masrani and InGen and Claire.
“You drown in there?” Owen’s voice broke over her, and she turned. She could just make him out through the textured glass door, fogged from the hot water - cooler now than when she first got into the shower - but after a moment, he pushed it open and slipped inside. He was cleaner than she expected; he must have done what he could to clean up at the sink. “Claire?” His voice gentled. “You okay?”
She shook her head, and he reached for her, slow, his movements clearly projected. She put her hands in his and drew him closer. Warm water pounded against her back, and drops spattered into his face, but he didn’t turn away.
There were many things she wanted to say, and even more she didn’t. Instead of trying to sort one from the other, Claire rose up on her toes and kissed him. Owen’s mouth opened against hers, and his tongue slipped between her lips. Their kiss was unhurried and warm, and absolutely wonderful. He brought his hands up to cup her face, his fingers pressed light against her jaw, and sank into him, let their bodies settle together.
Owen laddered kisses down the side of her throat, pressed his teeth into her shoulder, and slid his hands into her hair, tilting her head to one side so he could better access a spot on her neck that made her shudder.
His penis pressed against her stomach, slowly hardening; it came erect fast when she ghosted her fingers along the underside, then wrapped her hand around it and stroked, once, twice, again, slow and steady, her thumb working the head at the top of each stroke. He groaned, mouth pressed against her skin, and the vibration of it made her body feel tight and hot, and right on edge.
“Claire,” he said, voice rough, “please.” She liked how her name sounded on his tongue.
He dropped his hands to her waist, and his fingers pressed deep, hard enough to bruise, as she continued to stroke him, long and slow. His hips jerked, but she kept to her pace; her arm started to burn, her hand to cramp, but she kept to her pace, dragging it out. Owen whimpered, sometimes gave a moan that was only half audible, but otherwise was quiet. She had expected him to be a talker. The silence was strange, but good.
Finally he came, spilled himself across her hand, onto her stomach. She turned a little, let the cool water wash it away.
“God, Claire,” he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched, then slowly became a smile. “That was great. Amazing. You’re amazing.” He sounded drunk, and a laugh bubbled up. She kissed him, and found herself grinning against his mouth.
*
She sat on the bed between his legs, naked, discarded towel draped across one thigh. Owen ran a comb through her hair, each pass deliberately slow. He had long since worked out all the tangles, but the gentle scrape of the comb across her scalp sent pleasant shivers down her spine, and the repetitive movement soothed them both.
Finally, he stopped, and kissed the back of her shoulder. “You have a freckle there,” he said, and then kissed another spot. “One here, too.”
Part of Claire wanted to roll her eyes. Part of her wanted to dreamily sigh and lean back into him. “Will you catalog them all?” she asked instead, and was pleased when he laughed.
“Maybe.” Another kiss, and another, as he gently moved her hair out of his way and pressed his mouth, open and warm, to the back of her neck. “We’d both enjoy the hell out of that.”
Yes, but before she could say that, he put his arms around her, and his hands settled, oh so light, on her breasts. Her nipples were hard, and there was an ache between her legs; her desire warred with her comfort. He eased her back so she leaned against his chest, surrounded by the feel of his warm bare skin. She sighed, rested her head on his shoulder, tipped so that she could see his face.
He pressed a kiss to her temple, and then his fingers began to move. One hand stayed with her breasts, thumb easing across a nipple, while the other ghosted down her stomach, teased a circle around her belly button, then slipped between her legs. She was already wet, and when he ran one finger across her clit, pleasure rolled through her, and her body undulated in response.
His mouth and teeth at her shoulder, his hands so clever and strong; Claire’s mouth fell open and profanity spilled over her lips, so quiet she lost most of the words, steady until she started to come, and then she stuttered as her hips jerked.
Owen laughed again, kissed her temple again, and she sank against him, boneless, sated.
*
“Come with me,” she asked in the morning, as sunlight streamed through a crack between the curtains.
“Woman, I’ll follow you anywhere,” he said.
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/426450.html with
comments. Reply here or there.