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title: all this clatter between my ears
author: hyacinthian
rating: r
author's note: for the porn battle.
summary: there's a right and a wrong time. adam uncovers a fantasy. tosh/owen.
Adam finds it lying beneath childhood memories, repressed, recessed deeper than all of the others; he uproots it as skilfully as he can, hoping to keep it from crumbling in his hands. Buried deep, it's richer than anything else he's found elsewhere - dark and intense, slightly bitter.
A fantasy.
Blue cashmere, a sweater that hugs her body tightly, the top few buttons undone. And a pencil skirt. Kitten heels. Ankles crossed demurely, glasses on the bridge of her nose, and a lilting laugh. Her cheeks are a little too pink to be entirely sober, and this, Adam realizes, is because it's mixed with memory, drowning in it -
There's the strong scent of her perfume, clinging to the sweater, and the gloss of her hair, and her fingernails painted burgundy. With a matching shade of lipstick.
Owen spends too much time watching, Adam thinks, when he should be gorging himself on it - the pure sensation of it all, the thrill, the adrenaline, the rush of fear. What has he got to lose?
And oh, here, too, buried even deeper with the slight honeyed taste of shame, remorse - Owen longs to put his hands on her hips over that skirt, to press his lips against the back of her neck over her hair, to breathe against the shell of her ear. And Tosh, the flirt that she is in his head, leans her back against his chest, intentionally brushing against the front of his jeans.
I really can't stay...
But baby it's cold outside...
Strains of music, just slightly. Enough memory to keep everything tart and crisp on his tongue, and Adam readies for the next wave - oh, yes, Tosh's sweater discarded now, hanging loftily against the screen of her computer monitor, no thought to the buttons and the threat they pose for the delicate screen.
Her glass of white wine, too, precarious near the edge of the table, but her fingers keep tapping against the stem of the glass. She sits on the edge of the table and crosses her legs - less demure, this time - and there's a flash of leg, and Owen swallows hard.
"You know, Owen," she says, with a throaty laugh, "I used to have quite a thing for you." This is less clear, distinct; like too many seasonings in a dish, the flavor profile here is muddled and Adam can only make out the strong ones, brash and forward - yes, foremost, the fear, the utter panic, and he wonders if this is another aspect to human fantasy - the fear of finally getting what one wants. Such an odd species, he thinks, to restrain themselves when their range of feeling is so full.
"Used to?" Owen stammers, and Tosh's teeth clink against the glass as she drains the rest of her wine.
"Oh, yes," she breathes. "Quite silly, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Owen says. "Right."
It's almost comical, the way he's planned this out; Tosh is on her whatever number drink, still walking steadily, her gestures much more animated, smile much broader. There's a sprig of mistletoe involved here somewhere, and someone takes a picture of them - oh, no, that's separate, memory memory memory, and not the fantasy - but her hands end up bunching handfuls of his shirt and his hands wind up in her hair and there suddenly seems to be no one left in the Hub.
How convenient.
She pulls away and there's a wet sound, and there are her lips, red and perhaps just the tiniest bit swollen, and there's the fear again, the questioning - perhaps she didn't want him after all; perhaps he is relegated to be unloved; perhaps she had overstated it - until she leans in again, brushing her nose with his, and he kisses her, all tongue and teeth and want and need and Adam's surprised Owen's been able to keep a handle on this for so long, given the rush of feelings - the rush of libido - that this entire scene drags with it.
Tosh's mouth is soft, hotter than he would have imagined, and she's smart with the way she uses her teeth, tempting in all her moves. His hands work up underneath her blouse then, and the skin of her back is even warmer; she makes a quiet sound in the back of her throat when his fingers skim up her spine.
"Here?" he asks, and of course here, Adam thinks drolly, because where else have their lives been this entire time? Oh, such boring creatures, the two of them, always back-and-forth, cat-and-mouse without even a single cat. Two mice in a box, running away from their own shadows in the corner. And where else could they be, pinned as they are to this place and the shadow it has made of their lives? He thinks he likes these two the best; their memories are much stronger, fill him up much longer than all the others. It's the darkness, the fear, the dread in both of them, he imagines - the utter desire to be needed and the loathing they produce in response. Predictable, idiotic creatures, these humans.
Tosh - brash Tosh as she exists in his head - shoves a hand down the front of his jeans and wraps a hand around him. And Owen can't think anymore, lets his head fall back until Tosh is murmuring words against the hollow of his throat, unzipping his jeans and shoving everything down to his ankles, her hand still wrapped around him, still warm and soft, working up and down his length. She draws herself even closer to him, and he reaches to pull her shirt over her head. Her bra follows.
And then her hands have moved, bracing on his thighs as his mouth plants kisses along her jaw, her neck; palming her breasts in his hands, he slowly works his way down to kissing them too, taking them in his mouth, laving them with his tongue. "God, Owen," she murmurs, voice breathy, and Adam can feel the tension coiling already within his abdomen; the need finally transferred to the physical. "I want you."
"Come here," he whispers, and she leans toward him, their lips bumping awkwardly and then, nothing but this - his hands in her hair, her hands around his neck, and tongues and teeth, frantic breathing as he tries to draw her closer. She licks his upper lip as she moves to pull away and he follows her, pulling her back. The amount of time he has spent thinking about her lips, the way they feel, the way she'd kiss back.
Her fingers encircle his wrist and tug his hand down between her legs; she isn't wearing pants, of course, and already she is wet and aching. He moves to stand between her legs and he brushes his fingers across her, teasing but never entering her. Her hand on his wrist again and she pulls, his two fingers pushed into her heat; she clenches her thighs and he can feel her pulse around his fingers.
"What do you want?" he asks, and her hand directs his, pumping his fingers in and out of her.
"Right there," she says, hand moving to brace against the desk as he keeps the rhythm, watching as her hair falls past her shoulder with her movements. He leans his head down to brush a kiss against her nipple and she sucks in a breath. "Oh, Owen, yes."
He watches her grip the edge of the table as she comes, hips knocking awkwardly against the frame of the desk, mouth open.
"Come on," she says, this time, edging her hips towards the edge of the table.
She wraps a leg around his waist as he eases into her, letting himself adjust to the way she feels around him. She sinks her teeth lightly into his shoulder, her heel digging into his thigh. He grips her hips and she sighs as he starts to move; it's frenzied and messy and urgent, and he leans in to press wet kisses along her collarbone. "Faster," she says, teeth biting down on her bottom lip.
He swears as she rocks her hips then, urging him faster, harder, there and he knows she's nearly there when her fingernails dig into his back with a sharp gasp; he reaches a hand down to brush against her and she clenches around him. His thrusts speed up, growing frenzied; his fingers tighten on her hips when he comes and she runs a hand through his hair.
They stay like that for a few minutes, his cock still inside her, and she leans her forehead against his.
"God, I love you," he murmurs.
Tosh laughs, a bright, clear sound, and presses kisses to the side of his face.
"Wasn't a bad Christmas after all, was it?"
He kisses the tip of her nose, the apple of her cheek, the beauty mark on her shoulder.
And later: when Adam interjects himself into their memories, their lives, their histories - Owen will remember there being a familiarity about Tosh even if there is a coldness; the blue cashmere of her sweater, her posture, even the way she leans over artifacts to survey them.
Adam tries to stabilize them, to feed off of their energies, their memories for the rest of his life (or as long as he can manage to keep it going) and finds that it's the stability that throws them off; their relationship comes with its own set of universal laws.
author: hyacinthian
rating: r
author's note: for the porn battle.
summary: there's a right and a wrong time. adam uncovers a fantasy. tosh/owen.
Adam finds it lying beneath childhood memories, repressed, recessed deeper than all of the others; he uproots it as skilfully as he can, hoping to keep it from crumbling in his hands. Buried deep, it's richer than anything else he's found elsewhere - dark and intense, slightly bitter.
A fantasy.
Blue cashmere, a sweater that hugs her body tightly, the top few buttons undone. And a pencil skirt. Kitten heels. Ankles crossed demurely, glasses on the bridge of her nose, and a lilting laugh. Her cheeks are a little too pink to be entirely sober, and this, Adam realizes, is because it's mixed with memory, drowning in it -
There's the strong scent of her perfume, clinging to the sweater, and the gloss of her hair, and her fingernails painted burgundy. With a matching shade of lipstick.
Owen spends too much time watching, Adam thinks, when he should be gorging himself on it - the pure sensation of it all, the thrill, the adrenaline, the rush of fear. What has he got to lose?
And oh, here, too, buried even deeper with the slight honeyed taste of shame, remorse - Owen longs to put his hands on her hips over that skirt, to press his lips against the back of her neck over her hair, to breathe against the shell of her ear. And Tosh, the flirt that she is in his head, leans her back against his chest, intentionally brushing against the front of his jeans.
I really can't stay...
But baby it's cold outside...
Strains of music, just slightly. Enough memory to keep everything tart and crisp on his tongue, and Adam readies for the next wave - oh, yes, Tosh's sweater discarded now, hanging loftily against the screen of her computer monitor, no thought to the buttons and the threat they pose for the delicate screen.
Her glass of white wine, too, precarious near the edge of the table, but her fingers keep tapping against the stem of the glass. She sits on the edge of the table and crosses her legs - less demure, this time - and there's a flash of leg, and Owen swallows hard.
"You know, Owen," she says, with a throaty laugh, "I used to have quite a thing for you." This is less clear, distinct; like too many seasonings in a dish, the flavor profile here is muddled and Adam can only make out the strong ones, brash and forward - yes, foremost, the fear, the utter panic, and he wonders if this is another aspect to human fantasy - the fear of finally getting what one wants. Such an odd species, he thinks, to restrain themselves when their range of feeling is so full.
"Used to?" Owen stammers, and Tosh's teeth clink against the glass as she drains the rest of her wine.
"Oh, yes," she breathes. "Quite silly, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Owen says. "Right."
It's almost comical, the way he's planned this out; Tosh is on her whatever number drink, still walking steadily, her gestures much more animated, smile much broader. There's a sprig of mistletoe involved here somewhere, and someone takes a picture of them - oh, no, that's separate, memory memory memory, and not the fantasy - but her hands end up bunching handfuls of his shirt and his hands wind up in her hair and there suddenly seems to be no one left in the Hub.
How convenient.
She pulls away and there's a wet sound, and there are her lips, red and perhaps just the tiniest bit swollen, and there's the fear again, the questioning - perhaps she didn't want him after all; perhaps he is relegated to be unloved; perhaps she had overstated it - until she leans in again, brushing her nose with his, and he kisses her, all tongue and teeth and want and need and Adam's surprised Owen's been able to keep a handle on this for so long, given the rush of feelings - the rush of libido - that this entire scene drags with it.
Tosh's mouth is soft, hotter than he would have imagined, and she's smart with the way she uses her teeth, tempting in all her moves. His hands work up underneath her blouse then, and the skin of her back is even warmer; she makes a quiet sound in the back of her throat when his fingers skim up her spine.
"Here?" he asks, and of course here, Adam thinks drolly, because where else have their lives been this entire time? Oh, such boring creatures, the two of them, always back-and-forth, cat-and-mouse without even a single cat. Two mice in a box, running away from their own shadows in the corner. And where else could they be, pinned as they are to this place and the shadow it has made of their lives? He thinks he likes these two the best; their memories are much stronger, fill him up much longer than all the others. It's the darkness, the fear, the dread in both of them, he imagines - the utter desire to be needed and the loathing they produce in response. Predictable, idiotic creatures, these humans.
Tosh - brash Tosh as she exists in his head - shoves a hand down the front of his jeans and wraps a hand around him. And Owen can't think anymore, lets his head fall back until Tosh is murmuring words against the hollow of his throat, unzipping his jeans and shoving everything down to his ankles, her hand still wrapped around him, still warm and soft, working up and down his length. She draws herself even closer to him, and he reaches to pull her shirt over her head. Her bra follows.
And then her hands have moved, bracing on his thighs as his mouth plants kisses along her jaw, her neck; palming her breasts in his hands, he slowly works his way down to kissing them too, taking them in his mouth, laving them with his tongue. "God, Owen," she murmurs, voice breathy, and Adam can feel the tension coiling already within his abdomen; the need finally transferred to the physical. "I want you."
"Come here," he whispers, and she leans toward him, their lips bumping awkwardly and then, nothing but this - his hands in her hair, her hands around his neck, and tongues and teeth, frantic breathing as he tries to draw her closer. She licks his upper lip as she moves to pull away and he follows her, pulling her back. The amount of time he has spent thinking about her lips, the way they feel, the way she'd kiss back.
Her fingers encircle his wrist and tug his hand down between her legs; she isn't wearing pants, of course, and already she is wet and aching. He moves to stand between her legs and he brushes his fingers across her, teasing but never entering her. Her hand on his wrist again and she pulls, his two fingers pushed into her heat; she clenches her thighs and he can feel her pulse around his fingers.
"What do you want?" he asks, and her hand directs his, pumping his fingers in and out of her.
"Right there," she says, hand moving to brace against the desk as he keeps the rhythm, watching as her hair falls past her shoulder with her movements. He leans his head down to brush a kiss against her nipple and she sucks in a breath. "Oh, Owen, yes."
He watches her grip the edge of the table as she comes, hips knocking awkwardly against the frame of the desk, mouth open.
"Come on," she says, this time, edging her hips towards the edge of the table.
She wraps a leg around his waist as he eases into her, letting himself adjust to the way she feels around him. She sinks her teeth lightly into his shoulder, her heel digging into his thigh. He grips her hips and she sighs as he starts to move; it's frenzied and messy and urgent, and he leans in to press wet kisses along her collarbone. "Faster," she says, teeth biting down on her bottom lip.
He swears as she rocks her hips then, urging him faster, harder, there and he knows she's nearly there when her fingernails dig into his back with a sharp gasp; he reaches a hand down to brush against her and she clenches around him. His thrusts speed up, growing frenzied; his fingers tighten on her hips when he comes and she runs a hand through his hair.
They stay like that for a few minutes, his cock still inside her, and she leans her forehead against his.
"God, I love you," he murmurs.
Tosh laughs, a bright, clear sound, and presses kisses to the side of his face.
"Wasn't a bad Christmas after all, was it?"
He kisses the tip of her nose, the apple of her cheek, the beauty mark on her shoulder.
And later: when Adam interjects himself into their memories, their lives, their histories - Owen will remember there being a familiarity about Tosh even if there is a coldness; the blue cashmere of her sweater, her posture, even the way she leans over artifacts to survey them.
Adam tries to stabilize them, to feed off of their energies, their memories for the rest of his life (or as long as he can manage to keep it going) and finds that it's the stability that throws them off; their relationship comes with its own set of universal laws.