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goodathart, from the sexual relations meme!
Nov. 3rd, 2008 07:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecopper{{OOC: I pulled some dark stuff out of Gwen for this one, so I figured I should post a WARNING. Slight BDSM, a wee bit of consensual rape fantasy, and a lot of Gwen just being outright dark. This was heavily inspired by actual RP with goodathart, being as their repertoire has evolved to a pretty mutually exclusive hatred and fascination on Gwen's part. It's not going to be everyone's cup of tea, but it seemed real for the situation, and it's a aspect of Gwen that I may explore more in the future, if goodathart is up for the job!}}
As his hands ran up her breasts and unzipped her jacket and his mouth worked against her neck – wet, hot breath, his teeth nipping at her sensitive flesh – she listed the reasons why this was allowed.
Jack told her not to do it. Reason enough.
Rhys didn’t care enough to understand her. He didn’t want to understand her. Reason enough.
Exposure to alien hormones. That reason worked last time, too.
The jacket hit the floor with a heavy plop and his hands were up her top. He pushed her against the door of the hot house and bit her neck again. Hard. Hard enough to leave a mark, at least, and she grabbed his hair and raked it through her fingers with all her strength. He grunted, in pain she hoped, and his hot breath brushed her collarbone and she hit her head against the door.
He smirked and ripped at her top. It tore too easily beneath his fingers, and her blood warmed even more with the thought of how badly he wanted her. He slammed her shoulders against the door so hard it rattled beneath their weight, and she grimaced. He wanted her, and he hated her, as much as she wanted and hated him.
It was wrong. Wrong in the perfect, most logical way and a voice screamed in her head, because she already hurt and while the bruises and marks would be easy to explain to Rhys’ fallen and concerned face, there was nothing to tell Jack, other than the truth. And the truth was she wanted John Hart to hurt her, to fuck her, to make her feel the exact way she knew he would: like she had been used. And there was something overwhelming wanton about, for once, being hated by the person you wanted the most.
John groaned again and pulled at her trousers, and she pulled them off quickly. Trousers were generally more expensive than tops and she didn’t want to have to replace them. He took his hands off of her long enough to remove his own clothes and she thought, for a moment, about how she could get away. Her eyes must have drifted to the door handle because he was on her again, against her, the heat of his body flush against her heaving body and he whispered in her ear.
“Don’t even think about it.”
She slammed her hands on his shoulders, gripping his flesh with her fingernails. “Fuck you.”
“That’s the idea, sweetheart.”
She slapped him, open handed and not as hard as her heart wanted her to. It took him a moment to recover before he reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. He pulled her head against the door and a strange, sweet pain spread against her head. He kissed her, forced her up against the wall and thrust into her, and she moaned.
It went quickly, between bites and groans and gripping flesh and her fingers tore down his back with no regard for force as she writhed against him. She wanted him to bleed and she wanted to leave her mark upon him because she knew he could never truly be hers, that they could never share anything beyond the heat and anger that seethed between them.
She came before he did, thankfully, because she knew he wouldn’t wait for her. When he pulled away, she slumped against the door, refusing to meet his eyes and fishing for her strewn clothes as her breath panted between her lips like a worn animal.
When they were dressed, she stole a look at him. Beautiful, horrible, the red mark on his cheek thankfully darkening into a bruise. In his eyes was that darkness, and she ignored the fear gripping her heart, and she tried to steady her breath.
“You’re such a monster,” she said, but her words didn’t carry the wrath she meant for them.
“Such kind words, carer,” he replied, the smirk returning to his face. “But it’s a decent improvement, even for a mediocre shag.”
She hit him again, this time with her fist, and she was pleased to come away with a spot of blood on her knuckle and a darkening spot on his lip. He grabbed her wrist and she squirmed away from him, but she couldn’t pull away from the seductive darkness seething his eyes.
“Definitely an improvement,” he said.
He released her and she bolted out of the door, zipping up her jacket and deciding to go straight home, to a shower and bed. She hoped the phantom feel of his hands against her didn’t follow.
But she knew she couldn’t run from the part of her that finally understood him. The darkness in him was now in her. It was a small part of herself she knew she would hate forever, because it was a small part of her that had become him. The hate simmered in her, warming her blood, searing like the sweet pain of being too close to a fire.
She wanted to blow on that flame and she smiled wickedly to herself. Maybe it was a bit of improvement after all.
------------
Cut for explicit sexual situations and darkfic.
------------
Muse: Gwen Cooper, Torchwood
Prompt: Sexual Relations Meme
Verse: John/Gwen verse
Word Count: 859
goodathart, being as their repertoire has evolved to a pretty mutually exclusive hatred and fascination on Gwen's part. It's not going to be everyone's cup of tea, but it seemed real for the situation, and it's a aspect of Gwen that I may explore more in the future, if goodathart is up for the job!}}As his hands ran up her breasts and unzipped her jacket and his mouth worked against her neck – wet, hot breath, his teeth nipping at her sensitive flesh – she listed the reasons why this was allowed.
Jack told her not to do it. Reason enough.
Rhys didn’t care enough to understand her. He didn’t want to understand her. Reason enough.
Exposure to alien hormones. That reason worked last time, too.
The jacket hit the floor with a heavy plop and his hands were up her top. He pushed her against the door of the hot house and bit her neck again. Hard. Hard enough to leave a mark, at least, and she grabbed his hair and raked it through her fingers with all her strength. He grunted, in pain she hoped, and his hot breath brushed her collarbone and she hit her head against the door.
He smirked and ripped at her top. It tore too easily beneath his fingers, and her blood warmed even more with the thought of how badly he wanted her. He slammed her shoulders against the door so hard it rattled beneath their weight, and she grimaced. He wanted her, and he hated her, as much as she wanted and hated him.
It was wrong. Wrong in the perfect, most logical way and a voice screamed in her head, because she already hurt and while the bruises and marks would be easy to explain to Rhys’ fallen and concerned face, there was nothing to tell Jack, other than the truth. And the truth was she wanted John Hart to hurt her, to fuck her, to make her feel the exact way she knew he would: like she had been used. And there was something overwhelming wanton about, for once, being hated by the person you wanted the most.
John groaned again and pulled at her trousers, and she pulled them off quickly. Trousers were generally more expensive than tops and she didn’t want to have to replace them. He took his hands off of her long enough to remove his own clothes and she thought, for a moment, about how she could get away. Her eyes must have drifted to the door handle because he was on her again, against her, the heat of his body flush against her heaving body and he whispered in her ear.
“Don’t even think about it.”
She slammed her hands on his shoulders, gripping his flesh with her fingernails. “Fuck you.”
“That’s the idea, sweetheart.”
She slapped him, open handed and not as hard as her heart wanted her to. It took him a moment to recover before he reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. He pulled her head against the door and a strange, sweet pain spread against her head. He kissed her, forced her up against the wall and thrust into her, and she moaned.
It went quickly, between bites and groans and gripping flesh and her fingers tore down his back with no regard for force as she writhed against him. She wanted him to bleed and she wanted to leave her mark upon him because she knew he could never truly be hers, that they could never share anything beyond the heat and anger that seethed between them.
She came before he did, thankfully, because she knew he wouldn’t wait for her. When he pulled away, she slumped against the door, refusing to meet his eyes and fishing for her strewn clothes as her breath panted between her lips like a worn animal.
When they were dressed, she stole a look at him. Beautiful, horrible, the red mark on his cheek thankfully darkening into a bruise. In his eyes was that darkness, and she ignored the fear gripping her heart, and she tried to steady her breath.
“You’re such a monster,” she said, but her words didn’t carry the wrath she meant for them.
“Such kind words, carer,” he replied, the smirk returning to his face. “But it’s a decent improvement, even for a mediocre shag.”
She hit him again, this time with her fist, and she was pleased to come away with a spot of blood on her knuckle and a darkening spot on his lip. He grabbed her wrist and she squirmed away from him, but she couldn’t pull away from the seductive darkness seething his eyes.
“Definitely an improvement,” he said.
He released her and she bolted out of the door, zipping up her jacket and deciding to go straight home, to a shower and bed. She hoped the phantom feel of his hands against her didn’t follow.
But she knew she couldn’t run from the part of her that finally understood him. The darkness in him was now in her. It was a small part of herself she knew she would hate forever, because it was a small part of her that had become him. The hate simmered in her, warming her blood, searing like the sweet pain of being too close to a fire.
She wanted to blow on that flame and she smiled wickedly to herself. Maybe it was a bit of improvement after all.
------------
Cut for explicit sexual situations and darkfic.
------------
Muse: Gwen Cooper, Torchwood
Prompt: Sexual Relations Meme
Verse: John/Gwen verse
Word Count: 859
