Random One Shots

Random one shots with actors, musicians/bands and characters.


190. Owen Grady 14

~You hate meetings.
There’s many reasons to hate them. Someone from admin drags all the keepers into a boardroom once a week (sometimes twice or three times a week), and spend a few hours telling you all how to do your jobs. Never mind these admin assholes have barely touched a dino outside of PR. You’d love to see one of them shovelling T-Rex shit someday.
However, all that is only 25% of the reason why you hate meetings. The other 75% is sitting opposite you, wearing a khaki vest.
There’s always a little competition going amongst the keepers. You’re all keeping dinosaurs, for fucks sake. Clarissa over there makes an eight ton Mososaurus do tricks for fish. And by fish you mean full grown sharks. There’s a constant low-key pissing contest going on, which seems only natural – the combined weight of the brass balls/ovaries at the table could sink an aircraft carrier.
However, the relationship you have with the raptor trainer is a special one.
You’re in charge of Jurassic World’s two T-Rex – and you’re expecting a third by the end of the year. Your work has set up and sustained one of the park’s biggest attractions. He’s in charge of the park’s four-strong raptor pack – the alpha of the pack, actually. His work is groundbreaking, and paving the way for the park’s future.
Needless to say, as the keepers in charge of the park’s two top predators, the pissing contest between you two has ventured into a no man’s land of actual competition and probably hostility. But only that. Clarissa is full of shit about the “sexual tension”.
So what if he’s 6’2” of ruggedly handsome ex-Navy man? All muscled and tanned from working outdoors? With bright honest eyes and soft hair? He’s a dickhead. A pretty dickhead, but a dickhead. He tried to suggest pack-training techniques to you, to use on your T-Rexes. Pack-training techniques. For the solitary predators. Incredible.
He’s looking at you.
Your eyes reflexively flick over to his and after a moment he looks away, back at the white-blazered admin crony. You stare at raptor boy for a long moment, just daring him to look back. He was definitely looking at you.
After a moment he looks back at you, locking eyes. This time he doesn’t glance away. You don’t either, so you just glare at each other over the table.
He folds his arms and leans back in his chair, staring you down. You shove your hands in your pockets and do much the same, daring him to blink. He raises an eyebrow and stretches languidly, exaggeratedly, the chair creaking as he tilts back.
“Am I boring you, Mr. Grady?” says the admin crony.
Owen jumps like a schoolboy being caught slacking off. “No,” he mutters, returning to a better sitting position. “Continue.”
You smirk. Small victories.
Later in the day, you’re out at the pens, supervising feeding.
Something you discovered pretty quickly was that T-Rexes are a bit like parrots – if they’re not entertained, they destroy things. You started out feeding them carcasses, but in the meantime they were amusing themselves by tearing up all the vegetation in the pen. You had to change that real quick before they moved onto the doors.
So while tethered goats make for snacks and photo ops, their meals are released live into the pen. Today’s menu is bacon. Specifically, a wild boar – it took you a while to convince admin to get them in, but you find that wild boar are just that bit more interesting for them than a domestic pig.
Lucy, the T-Rex that’s normally in the public pen, loves interesting.
Right now she’s having a great time stalking this poor boar. She likes to play with her food. Hopefully she’ll actually go in for the kill before much longer – they’ve only had one of these boars drop dead from fright so far, but still.
Noo-Noo, on the other hand, is much more straightforward. She’s the younger T-Rex – the “back up” – and she prefers to just eat things. Noo-Noo loves puzzles, though, especially puzzles that involve food. Unfortunately, “puzzles” also include the containment door and observation windows, so you’ve had to devise some entertaining toys to keep her away from those. Some of your earlier months on the job involved trawling through pet owner forums, trying to get ideas and wondering if you could upscale those ideas to something that a T-Rex would like.
Lucy finally catches the boar, which briefly squeals in terror. You work this job long enough, eventually you get emotionally attached to the sound of three tonnes of dinosaur crunching a pig to bits.
Why the fuck is Owen Grady standing in the second observation bay?
He’s down behind the bulletproof plexiglass, arms folded, watching Lucy have lunch with a look on his face that’s somewhere between awe and pride. Maybe a bit of wonder. God, his whole face is just lit up. Does he know what he looks like? Fuck him.
It has occurred to you on some unconscious level that one of the reasons you want to punch him square in his perfectly chiselled jaw is because you like him. You refuse to think about this on a conscious level.
You stride down off the walltop walkway and into the corridor that stretches around inside the concrete pen walls, making your way to observation bay two. You catch him while he’s still doing that fascinated joyful wonder thing, before he closes his face to give you an even, slightly standoffish look.
“Can I help you?” you ask, hoping you sound equally standoffish.
“I’m all right,” he says, looking back to Lucy. “I heard about your boars – I hadn’t had the chance to see the plan in action.”
“Yeah, it’s working pretty well,” you say, feeling a glow of pride. “My girls need stimulation – they’re pretty smart, and they hate being bored. Hence the boars – they’re just a bit more interesting to hunt.”
He nods knowingly. Why the fuck are you nodding knowingly? Your job is raptors.
“There’s no chance of training them, is there?” he asks softly.
“Not with the tricks you’re using, no,” you say. “They’re top predators – they’re loners. There’s no pack structure to work with. They’re their own alphas.”
He nods thoughtfully, stroking his chin. He has really nice hands – all calloused and rough.
“Mind you,” you add. “It’s not all toys – they know I’m responsible for the food.”
As if on cue – you seriously couldn’t have timed it better if you tried – Lucy looks up from her pig, through the plexiglass. She likes to know who’s around her, and her vision is movement-based, so you bob a bit and give her a wave.
In return, she gives a deep, basey rumble that you don’t so much hear as feel in your chest, and gets back to lunch. It’s not much, but you know from experience that it’s her happy sound.
Owen just grins hugely, fingers over his mouth.
“Not fucking bad, eh?” you smile.
He shakes his head. “No – considering all the trouble there’s been with these girls, not bad at all.”
The pair of you wind up talking for most of the day. Your desire to punch him slowly subsides, and he gets a lot less standoffish.
He invites you to the raptor pen to watch as he puts them through their paces – you haven’t actually seen him do this in about six months. He’s made a lot of progress since then – the following with the clicker is new. And the raptors are pretty cute.
(You’re not going to admit that him striding around, calling and being the alpha is surprisingly hot. Like, he’s just ruggedly handsome to begin with, but it’s that confident posture and hard edge… and that swing of his hips when he walks, you didn’t notice that before. Very limber in the pelvic region, is Owen Grady…)
Your shifts end (you mutually agree to put down the last four hours as “collaboration” – admin will love that) and you’re not really done talking. Owen suggests you go back to his place and get stuck into his collection of craft beers. Of course he has craft beers. Not that you’re complaining.
So the two of you speed back to his place, low-key racing each other all the way. You decline the offer of a lift on Owen’s quadbike, although you do toy with the nice idea of having an excuse to grab him around the waist.
His house is nice pretty nice – practical, rugged, but nice to look at, just like it’s owner. All open plan and stuff. You’re not sure about the caravan that’s been incorporated in, but whatever. The whole place has that not-unpleasant musk of bachelor pad whose occupant only does the bare minimum of cleaning and maybe hangs out shirtless on the couch a fair bit.
He cracks open the fridge, rummaging around inside. You do your best not to… well, too obviously admire the lines of his body. He’s a hefty dude, but he’s uncommonly fluid – he carries himself tall, but very easily.
He slides a beer across the counter towards you. “Okay, so I know I’ve said this like eight times now, but considering the animals you’re working with, the amount of respect they have for you is amazing.”
You crack the lid off the bottle. “Are you kidding? Those raptors adore you, dude – the kind of imprinting you’re doing is amazing. I wish I could do the same but Lucy was big enough to take a guy’s hand off at two months old.”
He winces. “Yeah, I heard about that.”
You shake your head. “Not good. But I’d love to try and train Lucy and Noo-Noo with your clicker system – we’re still trying to devise a way to do checkups without having to break out the tranquilisers. Little clicky things could be an idea.”
“No chances of putting heads in crushes or anything like that?”
“My girls can destroy a car. Not too sure if we can build one strong enough.”
He takes a sip of his beer. “That’s a point.”
“Mmm.” Your eyes have just been slowly wandering from his face down his body. You’re wondering how much of the broad chest is his khaki vest thing and how much of it is muscle. And what he looks like when he’s not wearing it.
You realise what you’re doing and snap your eyes back to his face – just in time to see him tear his eyes away from your chest. You look at each other for a moment and then look away, smiling into your respective beers.
“Sorry,” he says, pointedly looking out the window.
“Dude,” you shrug. “Listen, I have female friends who aren’t interested in anyone that catch themselves staring. They are majestic and beautiful, like my dinosaurs. You’re excused.” Because you are pretty damn hot yourself and I’ve been checking you out for hours, possibly months, you don’t add.
He smiles, takes another sneaky peek, then looks away again and takes another sip of his beer. You both snicker.
“Majestic and beautiful, eh?” he mutters.
“Yeah, like your dinosaurs,” you say, and immediately want to punch yourself in the face. Holy shit, THINK before you innuendo. What did you even just say?
He pulls his head back and gives you a weird look, but catches onto the spirit of the thing. “Yeah?”
“Little do you know, the reason why your raptors haven’t eaten you actually hasn’t got anything to do with all the alpha training stuff, and everything to do with the fact that you’re just too damn pretty to eat.”
He smiles. “What does that say about the woman who’s in charge of both the T-Rex, then?”
Your beer almost goes the wrong way down your throat. Shit, son, that’s smooth. And now he’s giving you a soft smile (sultry, even) and looking up at you from under his eyelashes. Help.
He reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Listen, uh… this might be a bit forward, but… you maybe wanna spend the night here?”
Part of you freezes. The other part of you dissolves into a swirling abyss of raw, hot want. You hadn’t realised how much you wanted to rip that khaki vest off his broad shoulders until he offered.
Keep it together. Be smooth. “Are you offering?”
You smile around your beer, crossing your legs. “Don’t mind if I do.”
There’s about twenty minutes of being smooth and flirting gently – circling, testing the waters. Owen actually has a spare bedroom, which he shows you, then excuses himself, heading for the shower. You spend about ten minutes scrubbing your arms in the kitchen sink, looking for any sign of T-Rex shit on your clothes, listening out for when the water shuts off.
Owen pads back into the kitchen, in nothing but a towel wrapped low around his hips. And just… shit. Goddamn. He’s beautiful. You’re pretty sure that he just shook himself off and walked straight in here, so you could admire his glistening abs. And pecs. And just sculpted chest in general, holy shit. He’s got a long, ragged, pinkish scar running from one shoulder, down his chest, finishing up on his abs.
He follows your gaze. “Oh, that. That was Blue.”
Your eyes have already strayed south to the deep V. “Does it hurt?”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “A little. At night, usually.”
You spot an opening, and slide along the bench. “Only at night?”
He smiles, running a warm hand up your arm.
His lips are chapped but soft, and his kisses are gentle. He tastes nice. His neck tastes even better. You find a spot just above his collarbone that makes him shudder in your arms and you try not to growl into his skin.
Both of you are pushing the other towards the bedroom, an elaborate dance of hungry kisses, a few gentle bites, and trying to get your clothes off as fast as possible without ripping them. Owen lost his towel somewhere in the living room – you didn’t notice until you felt a bare thigh against your own.
You both attempt to throw each other on the bed at the same time, and wind up thudding down on the mattress side by side. He immediately rolls to loom over you, putting a strong arm either side of you.
You smirk up at him. “Whatcha gonna do, raptor boy?”
He kisses gently under your collarbone, trailing down your chest. “I’ve got a plan or two…”
By the time he gets to that little sensitive patch just under your navel, you’ve got a pretty good idea what the plan is. You reach to run a hand through his soft, brown curls.
He glances up at you, pupils blown and eyes hungry. “Eyes on me,” he murmurs.
Owen Grady might not be an eloquent man, but there’s nothing wrong with his mouth. And goddamn, for you it’s been a while. You grab fistfuls of his hair and he runs calloused hands slowly down the soft skin of your sides, taking his time.
After half an hour or so, he’s complaining of tongue cramps, which is fine, because frankly you’re mostly a puddle – but not completely gone. You’re made of uncommonly stern stuff, in all areas. There’s a reason why you got hired here.
You grab his shoulders, flipping him on the bed. He falls back into the mattress, looking up at you in surprise.
“I want to see you go to pieces,” you explain, finding that sensitive spot on his neck again.
He shivers, rough hands sliding across your back. You go on a little adventure down his chest and discover the scar is particularly sensitive – there’s a stretch under his pectoral that makes him whimper, body tensing as he buries his fingers in your hair.
He’s got a sweet, breathy voice – shaky as he whispers your name. You roll your hips and hear his breath hitch as he bucks into you. Every line of his body tenses, knotted muscle standing out on his arms as he clings to you, shouting your name.
But you’re not done yet. You’re not done for another few hours, to be specific.
You wake up with morning sun streaming into your eyes, utterly spent. For a dozy minute you can’t quite remember where you are. Or why you’re about twenty kilos heavier than usual.
Then you look down at Owen’s arm wrapped gently around your waist and it all comes back to you. You grin sleepily to yourself.
Owen sleeps soundly, nestled up behind you, legs tangled in yours. You can feel warm breath in your hair. He looks very peaceful. And he’s got hickey’s littered all up his neck – you hope he’s got a few high-collared work shirts.
He makes a soft noise and opens his eyes, blinking sleepily, and then smiles at you. “Morning.”
“Good morning – sleep well?”
He shifts behind you, pulling you a little closer and nestling into your hair. “Very well, actually.”
“I hate to spring this on you this early in the morning, but I think we’ve both got shifts today.”
“Oh, do we? Shit.”
“Probably got time for breakfast.”
“Do we have time for a lie-in?”
You glance around at him. “Do you just want to lie in?”
He smiles.

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