FIC: The Ice Queen (Jurassic World, Claire Dearing/Owen Grady, R)
Tumblr prompt: you slipped on a patch of ice and i happened to be walking behind you and you fell into my arms wow you’re really attractive au
Claire hated the cold. She had grown up in Connecticut, so she should have gotten used to the snow and the ice and the bone ache feeling of a winter’s night, but she only seemed to be more sensitive to it every year. The skies got grey, the nights got shorter, and Claire Dearing became more and more cross.
Claire was walking to the parking garage from work, her arms crossed around her chest, gloved fingers pulling at her overcoat, like that would make things better. The wind bit at her face; Claire swore she could feel ice crystals forming on her cheeks. She was so consumed with trying to get to her car before she froze to death that she didn’t notice the black ice on the sidewalk before her. Her stilettos failed to make purchase on the slick surface, and before she knew it, she was falling backwards. Claire’s eyes squeezed shut as she prepared for impact.
But it never came. There was a gentle pressure on her back, and suddenly she was on her feet again. Claire squinted one eye open, and found herself in a strange man’s arms.
Claire felt giddy, though that may have been because she and the man were engaged in some sort of mid-dance dip on the street. But there was no denying that her savior was handsome: his eyes were ridiculously blue, and the way he was smiling at her made her stomach jump.
“Maybe you shouldn’t wear heels in this kind of weather,” he said.
Claire was momentarily speechless. “Well, maybe you should-maybe you should put me down.”
The man set Claire on her feet.
“Sorry,” he said. Then, “You’re welcome.”
“What?”
“For catching you. You’re welcome.”
Claire blushed. “Thank you. Mr.-”
“Grady. Owen.”
“Mr. Grady,” she said crisply, brushing her fingers over her cheeks in the hope that he wouldn’t see the color in her cheeks.
He smiled some more. “Owen.”
“I, um-” Claire was speechless, which never happened. “I should go.”
“Sure,” Owen said. “Except that it’s just, you know, you’re really attractive. And, seeing as I just saved you from a bruised coccyx-”
Claire’s blush darkened. “A what?”
He grinned. “A bruised coccyx. You know, your tailbone.”
“Oh.” Then: “Maybe you should spend less time thinking about my tailbone, and more time-”
“Catching you when you fall?”
Claire couldn’t find a retort. She said, “Goodnight, Mr. Grady,” and then took a step away from him, back on the ice; she fell right into his arms again.
“We should stop meeting like this,” he said. Then: “How about a drink?”
Claire leaned against his chest, the ground slipping from under her feet. He was so warm.
“Okay,” she said.
***
Owen fixed her a hot toddy in his apartment, which was closer, actually, then the parking garage. She took a sip and flinched. “What is in this?”
“Tea.”
“And a bottle of alcohol?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you accusing me of trying to get you drunk?”
“Should I?”
“Miss Dearing, I do not need to resort to dirty tricks to make you fall for me.”
Now Claire’s eyebrows went up. “I am not going to fall for you.”
“Sure,” Owen said. “That’s what all the girls say. And then they end up in my arms.”
“I’ve already been in your arms,” she said. “Twice.”
“And how was it?”
Claire felt herself blushing again. Nice. It had been nice.
Claire downed the rest of her drink in the hopes he wouldn’t notice her avoiding his question. He didn’t; his eyes got a little wide when he saw she’d bolted the whole thing that quickly, but he didn’t insist on an answer.
***
“You definitely should not be driving home,” Owen said as Claire fumbled in her purse for her keys.
She glared at him. “I am not drunk.”
“Because beautiful girls like you don’t get drunk?”
She nodded sternly. “That’s right, girls like me don’t-” She blinked. “Did you just call me beautiful?”
He took a step toward her. “I did. You are.”
She kissed him, falling into his arms again. Owen lifted her up, her legs wrapping around him as he took her through the apartment to the bedroom. He laid her down beneath him, his hands warm beneath her clothing, his mouth hot on her neck. Claire’s nails scraped over his back and chest as she wrestled his shirt off; somehow it was so hard to get him undressed, and he’d stripped her to her underwear without her even noticing. She fumbled with his belt and the zipper of his fly; he gently intervened, moving her hands away and finishing the job himself.
They tumbled across the mattress together, skin on skin, mouth to mouth. Claire looked at him looking at her, and all she could think was, I want you so much, something that surprised her; she was normally calm, composed, not given to violent emotion. But now she could feel emotion riding her like a voodoo god, its reins in her mouth and its spurs in her side.
Claire pushed Owen to his back, her fingers grasping at his flesh, urging him inside her.
“Claire,” he said quietly, and he was looking at her in a dreamy way she couldn’t comprehend, because her blood was burning and she needed so badly she could scream. She moved atop him, straddling him, her hands resting on his chest. His pulse beat up into her palms; she could feel it getting faster and faster, and she grasped at him, her fingernails drawing red scratches across his chest.
She was so, so hot; she was so, so close, and she just closed her eyes and rode it until she came-fireworks, everything going hot and glittery behind her eyelids. She heard Owen cry out, and she opened her eyes to see his face, his eyes still on her, and she could feel her heart throbbing in her chest, and his underneath her palm, and everything tied together, a perfect circle. Reciprocity. Claire laid herself down atop Owen, soaking up his warmth. He put an arm around her, and she thought of how lucky she was that it was winter and she had slipped on that ice.
Claire hated the cold. She had grown up in Connecticut, so she should have gotten used to the snow and the ice and the bone ache feeling of a winter’s night, but she only seemed to be more sensitive to it every year. The skies got grey, the nights got shorter, and Claire Dearing became more and more cross.
Claire was walking to the parking garage from work, her arms crossed around her chest, gloved fingers pulling at her overcoat, like that would make things better. The wind bit at her face; Claire swore she could feel ice crystals forming on her cheeks. She was so consumed with trying to get to her car before she froze to death that she didn’t notice the black ice on the sidewalk before her. Her stilettos failed to make purchase on the slick surface, and before she knew it, she was falling backwards. Claire’s eyes squeezed shut as she prepared for impact.
But it never came. There was a gentle pressure on her back, and suddenly she was on her feet again. Claire squinted one eye open, and found herself in a strange man’s arms.
Claire felt giddy, though that may have been because she and the man were engaged in some sort of mid-dance dip on the street. But there was no denying that her savior was handsome: his eyes were ridiculously blue, and the way he was smiling at her made her stomach jump.
“Maybe you shouldn’t wear heels in this kind of weather,” he said.
Claire was momentarily speechless. “Well, maybe you should-maybe you should put me down.”
The man set Claire on her feet.
“Sorry,” he said. Then, “You’re welcome.”
“What?”
“For catching you. You’re welcome.”
Claire blushed. “Thank you. Mr.-”
“Grady. Owen.”
“Mr. Grady,” she said crisply, brushing her fingers over her cheeks in the hope that he wouldn’t see the color in her cheeks.
He smiled some more. “Owen.”
“I, um-” Claire was speechless, which never happened. “I should go.”
“Sure,” Owen said. “Except that it’s just, you know, you’re really attractive. And, seeing as I just saved you from a bruised coccyx-”
Claire’s blush darkened. “A what?”
He grinned. “A bruised coccyx. You know, your tailbone.”
“Oh.” Then: “Maybe you should spend less time thinking about my tailbone, and more time-”
“Catching you when you fall?”
Claire couldn’t find a retort. She said, “Goodnight, Mr. Grady,” and then took a step away from him, back on the ice; she fell right into his arms again.
“We should stop meeting like this,” he said. Then: “How about a drink?”
Claire leaned against his chest, the ground slipping from under her feet. He was so warm.
“Okay,” she said.
***
Owen fixed her a hot toddy in his apartment, which was closer, actually, then the parking garage. She took a sip and flinched. “What is in this?”
“Tea.”
“And a bottle of alcohol?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you accusing me of trying to get you drunk?”
“Should I?”
“Miss Dearing, I do not need to resort to dirty tricks to make you fall for me.”
Now Claire’s eyebrows went up. “I am not going to fall for you.”
“Sure,” Owen said. “That’s what all the girls say. And then they end up in my arms.”
“I’ve already been in your arms,” she said. “Twice.”
“And how was it?”
Claire felt herself blushing again. Nice. It had been nice.
Claire downed the rest of her drink in the hopes he wouldn’t notice her avoiding his question. He didn’t; his eyes got a little wide when he saw she’d bolted the whole thing that quickly, but he didn’t insist on an answer.
***
“You definitely should not be driving home,” Owen said as Claire fumbled in her purse for her keys.
She glared at him. “I am not drunk.”
“Because beautiful girls like you don’t get drunk?”
She nodded sternly. “That’s right, girls like me don’t-” She blinked. “Did you just call me beautiful?”
He took a step toward her. “I did. You are.”
She kissed him, falling into his arms again. Owen lifted her up, her legs wrapping around him as he took her through the apartment to the bedroom. He laid her down beneath him, his hands warm beneath her clothing, his mouth hot on her neck. Claire’s nails scraped over his back and chest as she wrestled his shirt off; somehow it was so hard to get him undressed, and he’d stripped her to her underwear without her even noticing. She fumbled with his belt and the zipper of his fly; he gently intervened, moving her hands away and finishing the job himself.
They tumbled across the mattress together, skin on skin, mouth to mouth. Claire looked at him looking at her, and all she could think was, I want you so much, something that surprised her; she was normally calm, composed, not given to violent emotion. But now she could feel emotion riding her like a voodoo god, its reins in her mouth and its spurs in her side.
Claire pushed Owen to his back, her fingers grasping at his flesh, urging him inside her.
“Claire,” he said quietly, and he was looking at her in a dreamy way she couldn’t comprehend, because her blood was burning and she needed so badly she could scream. She moved atop him, straddling him, her hands resting on his chest. His pulse beat up into her palms; she could feel it getting faster and faster, and she grasped at him, her fingernails drawing red scratches across his chest.
She was so, so hot; she was so, so close, and she just closed her eyes and rode it until she came-fireworks, everything going hot and glittery behind her eyelids. She heard Owen cry out, and she opened her eyes to see his face, his eyes still on her, and she could feel her heart throbbing in her chest, and his underneath her palm, and everything tied together, a perfect circle. Reciprocity. Claire laid herself down atop Owen, soaking up his warmth. He put an arm around her, and she thought of how lucky she was that it was winter and she had slipped on that ice.