![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Torchwood fic: Found
Rating: NC-17. Graphic language and sexual content.
Characters: Gwen, Owen.
Spoilers: Set post Countrycide (1.06) with spoilers to match.
Other Notes: Sister fic to Lost. Comments and constructive criticism welcomed!
Thanks for the beta go to the lovely
![[info]](https://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
katharynne. Any remaining mistakes are my fault, not hers.Summary: Gwen pays Owen a visit after returning from the country. Owen has been expecting her.
* * *
After her knock the door to his flat opens immediately, and she knows (with a sinking feeling in her stomach, a dull pain in her chest) that he has been waiting, that he always knew she would come to him. The familiar cockiness sharpens his smile, narrows his eyes, tightens his grip on her shoulder. For a moment, she wishes she had not come.
“So you are in the mood for a professional hand, eh?”
“Shut up, Owen,” she bites back – but she does not stop him pulling her into the flat, does not object to him closing the door after her. The two bolts rattle as they slide. She tightens her hands into fists in the pockets of her jacket, pressing until her fingernails mark painful semicircles into the flesh of her palm.
“Huh,” Owen responds, his voice close behind her, breath warm on the shell of her ear. “So you just came to talk about stuff, then? Didn’t decide you wanted to get away from being cosy?”
She steps quickly forward and away from his demanding hands; picks up a bottle of wine from a side table (the knowledge that he has prepared for this makes her simultaneously sickened and aroused, shivers slithering down her back) and pretends to be interested in it: red. Lebanese. Two glasses. “As a matter of fact, yes. I did just want to talk. That illegal?” Forcing a smile, she puts the wine down (her grip shaky, nearly dropping the bottle to the carpeted floor) and turns to him, watches him flop down onto the couch, crossing her own arms over her stomach defensively.
“No. But it is boring.” Lip curled with distaste, Owen settles back: legs spread cockily (not that she looks, not that she allows herself to), arms braced wide over the backrest. “Look, Gwen…”
His eyes on her body make her uncomfortable; she raises a hand quickly, shakes her head. “Owen, no. Rhys. Rhys. Remember Rhys? It’s just – I just need someone to talk to.”
His stare is as infuriatingly knowing as always. Gwen would like to turn away, but she can’t quite make herself – she feels sick and nervous, but it would be lying to say that the pounding of her heart is only fear. It would be lying to say that she doesn’t hate herself for that, too.
“Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart. You wanted someone to fuck. Specifically, you want to fuck me.”
“Owen, shut up, okay? Just shut up.”
She is aware of the wall, first: the wall hitting her back, hard, and forcing the air out of her; and only a moment later is she conscious of Owen pressing her hard against it, pinning her wrists above her head, lips millimeters from hers.
“You know you want it, Gwen. What’s to lose? It’ll be so –” he grinds his hips against hers, erection hard against her thigh, breath hot on her face, lips almost touching hers – “good. So good –” his lips on her ear, and suddenly somehow she is not kicking him hard in the balls but instead spreading her legs, gasping as he grinds his thigh against the crotch of her jeans – “so unbelievably good, Gwen, to come –” he nips, sharp and brief, at her earlobe, presses closer, fingers tugging at her shirt, -- “like you haven’t come in years. I want you to scream, Gwen, I want you to –”
She has not been a policewoman for nothing. She is not a helpless flower. She has a will under there, somewhere; she has a mature, civilized, rational mind under her painfully aroused, quivering body. She knows that. And she is strong enough, finally, to tug her hands from Owen’s and to plant them firmly against his chest with a shove, sending him reeling back across the room with his lips curved into a surprised ‘oh’.
It seems to work, but for the fact that as his arms flail he catches hold of her elbows and tugs her down on top of him, landing in an awkward, ungainly, slightly painful tangle of limbs on the floor. Despite her sudden steely resolution to leave, to get out of here, to go back to Rhys and apologise and offer comfort and promises, she cries out: the not entirely healed wounds from the shotgun pellets rub against his belt, and pain digs into her belly.
Something in him changes, at that: the cry raises the medic in him. “Just relax, okay?” he murmurs against her ear, suddenly gentle as he rolls her away and onto her back, shifting to kneel above her. His fingertips are cool and soft against her skin as they push up her jacket slightly so he can look at her bandages.
He has this way of frowning, when he concentrates, that melts her – just as much now as it did on the table in the village. Despite his erection still straining against the denim of his jeans he is utterly transfixed by nothing more than healing: his world has closed into his fingers and her wound, his medical knowledge and her need – though despite the tremors of afterpain she can identify the tingling low in her belly, the hitch in her breathing, as a different kind of want.
His frown lessens, slightly, and he looks to her with a little smile, letting her coat slide down again. “It’ll be fine. Just shouldn’t knock it around too much. I would say no banging, but that wouldn’t be good for either of us.”
“No,” she whispers back with a tiny smile, and it feels like a surrender. “It wouldn’t.”
He looks at her for a long time before kissing her, just looks with his eyes dark and pupils dilated, his breathing heavy, and when he finally does kiss her – leaning over her with his hands braced to either side of her shoulders, resting close against her body – his lips are warm and taste faintly of wine. Whatever gentleness there is at first is gone in a moment, however: this is not a question, not even seduction. It is a demand. It is possession, and she can’t – doesn’t want to – won’t say ‘no’. Not when it’s easier to have this, to want this: his teeth tugging at her lower lip, his tongue slick against hers, his groans vibrating through her.
She gasps, arches up her hips against his body as he slides a hand down to grip between her thighs, deft fingers rubbing hard against the seam of her jeans.
And she does want it. She wants it as she shoves him over and rolls heavy on top of him; wants it as she moans and slides a hand down to grip his erection through his jeans, wants him as he hisses a “fuck”, presses up against her, pulls her crushingly close.
They rip clothes off each other as they scramble to their feet and stumble to the bed – Owen’s fingers deftly pulling down the zipper of her jeans, sliding hungrily inside; Gwen pulling off his shirt with an impatient tug, scraping her fingertips over the smooth skin of his back; pulling apart to fumble at shoelaces and socks before pressing together again to taste and bite and lick, pressed crushingly close together, burning up with need.
Gwen lands back on the mattress, propped into a sitting position with her arms behind her, and looks up at him – breathless, wet-lipped, goosebumps running over her skin. The room is cold.
“Owen…”
He smiles that infuriatingly cocky smile and puts a hand to her sternum, pushing her back firmly. “No need to fret, sweetheart. There’s enough of me to keep you happy.”
Gwen rolls her eyes, begins a scathing reply – but is interrupted by his mouth suddenly at her neck, his tongue sliding into the dip of the collarbone, trailing a hot wet line down between her breasts, and oh, that’s so good, and she arches her body into him, fingers grasping at his skin, voice catching: “oh, God, Owen, good…”
He looks up, briefly, smiles; his fingers ever so slowly tug down the straps of her bra from her shoulders to hang loose over her arms. “I know.”
And he is good, she has to admit, arching and gasping as he reaches behind her, undoes the clips of her bra and pushes it away, cupping her breasts in his hands. He is very good as he trails his tongue down to her right nipple, licking and sucking gently. And as his fingers slide under the cotton of her knickers, tugging at the fabric –
“Oh, fuck!”
Owen laughs against her skin, sliding slowly backwards till he’s kneeling between her legs on the floor beside the bed, his breath warm on her skin, his fingernails scratching ever-so-lightly at her inner thighs.
“Remember what I said about coming so hard and so long you forget where you are, sweetheart?”
*
Gwen wakes just before dawn, barely rested, and stares at Owen’s back. His skin is unhealthily pale, perfectly smooth; she watches, breathless, the rise and fall of his ribs with each inhalation, exhalation. The morning of the apartment is soundless: even the traffic below seems only half-real, a barely tangible thrum in her chest.
The sheets rustle as she pushes them away, and she winces as she swings her legs out of the bed. She aches with weariness, her throat feels red raw, and the skin of her hips, revealed to the cool air as she throws the sheets over Owen’s motionless form, are bruised with the mark of his fingers.
“Shit,” Gwen breathes; rubs the marks gingerly as she stands; avoids looking in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door. It’s all a blur, last night – after the sex, and the wine, and the sex, and the wine, and the sex, and all the rest of the sex. The pleasure is a lasting echo, a tingling aftershock. She is in pain, now – they were energetic, Owen was rough, and her back is itchy with burns from the carpet –; her thoughts wander uncomfortably back to Rhys, and home: his loneliness. The half-un-slept-in bed.
What hurts more, though, is the memory of choosing it. No way to say, now, that Owen tempted her, that he seduced her beyond her will; no way to explain the lure of his smile and his words. She’s a big girl now, she knows. She has to deal with who she is.
She showers, hesitating before using his soap and shampoo, and chooses to drip dry on the mat (shivering in the morning chill, rubbing her arms energetically) rather than use one of his towels. She does not look in any of the bathroom cupboards.
In the small flat, the kitchen is easy enough to find. Gwen makes tea almost without thinking: pouring the water into the kettle, searching the cupboards for mugs (unmatched: one related to the Welsh rugby team, another with a comical Christmas-related picture and several chips around the rim) and teabags. As the kettle finishes boiling, she moves to stand in front of the sink, and watches the world through the window. The sun is rising, but the tiles under her bare feet are still cold, and last night’s clothes aren’t thick enough to keep her warm. Outside, as dawn awakens the sky’s pinks and oranges, as the sun casts light onto the dark water of the bay, life is beginning again: the traffic is already noticeably louder than before. She rests her hands against the rim of the sink and watches, breath misting the glass.
She does not hear him enter the kitchen, and starts with surprise as his arms wrap around her from behind, and his warm, naked body presses against her back.
“Found you,” he whisper-smirks into her ear, but, in the glass of the window before them, her expression is lost.
no subject
I've enjoyed this, a lot. I've one or two nits which may not even make an impression on other people. But I find that the repetition of something said on the show, such as the word "cosy" and forgetting where she was, they rather jar the scene. It doesn't seem to flow right to me.
Other than that, very well done.
no subject
I agree with the jarring nature of the specific references to lines in the show -- I was very close to not including them: couldn't decide whether they were an added tie with canon or just an awkward link. It's great to get a definite answer on that: I'll avoid them next time!
Thanks again for the review and suggestions. Glad you enjoyed it!
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
no subject
(And nasty Owen is the only way to go. Or at least, the way that gives me tingles.)
no subject
(That was me falling off my chair.)
I really shouldn't sneak onto LJ at work. This sorta stuff could ruin a person's concentration. In an undeniably lovely way, mind you...
Dammit, this is the sort of thing I *wish* I could write. But my language skills seem to flee the building whenever my libido strolls in, so I salute your multi-tasking skills! :-D
no subject
Thank you for taking the time to review! I'm glad you liked it.
no subject
no subject
no subject
thank you... I need the Hot!Owen sex...
no subject
And it's my pleasure. Thank you for reviewing!
no subject
no subject
no subject
You wrote is so good that I actually was able to see it in my mind ^^
Hot Gwen/Owen smut from the best ;) I like how Gwen feels still somewhat guilty afterwards as well as the last sentences.
Brilliant work!
no subject
(no subject)
no subject
*lol* Sounds too distracting, to me! One of my writer friends swears by her rabbit-type vibrator for those sort of writing sessions...
no subject
no subject
(As for Owen/Gwen smut, what's not to love? Hopefully there'll be more now they're canon!)
no subject
Is it bad that my absolute favourite bit of this wasn't the sex, it was that "Found you." at the end? That was just so sweet - perfectly in character, yet with so many layers of meaning.
*runs off to rec it to everyone she knows*
no subject
And no, it's not bad at all :P
no subject
no subject
no subject
um.
-Archie
no subject
Thanks again.
- notevery
no subject
like Gwen, figure thats probably how she's feeling.
Great fic - god speed the second part!
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
Jazz
no subject
(And I can't understand /not/ liking Owen's naughty side. Yum.)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
no subject
Thanks for the review!
no subject
no subject
(Also, what can I say? I like my Owen a little bit nasty. Provided he doesn't start flaying kittens alive or anything.)
no subject
no subject
Wow!
Also, hot, hot, hot!
Re: Wow!
(And Owen's bad boy is very, very good. Or at least, I think he is. Mmm.)
no subject
xxx
no subject
Thank you for the lovely review.
(no subject)
(Anonymous) - 2006-11-29 16:54 (UTC) - Expand(no subject)
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
I don't even like Gwen/Owen, but you've done it well. And it's hawt! o:!
You're a very, very skilled talented writer. *is jealous*
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject