Writing.

Aug 06, 2007 11:18

It's been a year and a half since I wrote any kind of Fanfiction. It seems oddly appropriate that my first bit of writing in all that time happens today.

Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Not pairing specific, but includes, Suzie/Owen, Gwen/Owen
Rating: NC-17 for sexual content and language
Spoilers: For "They keep killing Suzie", vaugely.
Notes: Not really beta'd, although baffledking gave it a read through. Thanks to fandom_me for the muse and uploading all the episodes with subtitles for me. *love*



The glass from the window is cool and for once Owen feels hot. He's overheated from the alcohol burning through his system and the vision of Suzie in his mind. Dead. Bleeding. Alive. Suzie turns to Gwen and back as his thoughts tumble in his head. Suzie gave Max Retcon to have someone she could talk to, even though Owen shared her bed. Suzie got him. She knew what they were about, grappling in the dark, fucking to feel alive and connected. It was bullshit and they both knew it.

Gwen talks to him, almost too much, babbling about her feelings and thoughts and other inconsequential shit when Owen just wants her to shut up and touch him. He's tried to care, he really has. It isn't him. He can't open like that, not anymore. That's why he spurns Tosh's attempts at seduction. He likes her. He trusts her. She'd undo him and he won't allow that, so he sharpens his tongue and kept her at bay.

They've all been warm. Gwen, Suzie, Megan and all the countless others that are nothing but blurs of warmth and sex and friction and heat. Salted skin of dozens of different flavors he can remember clearly, but faces are soft focus and indistinct. The face and the body don't matter. He craves the scent, the taste, the hitched breaths and moans, the feel of hands on his skin, and slick cunts and cocks under his fingers. It's all those sensations that fill that void inside him for a few hours or a night.

He presses his palm to the window and watches in fascination as it fogs around his hand. How many palms have been pressed there for leverage, pushing back against Owen as he fucks them? Sometimes it's hard and driving; the pounding rhythm of his heart to show that it still beat and sometimes as slow and easy as breathing on the edge of sleep.

Owen doesn't really know how many and what's more, he doesn't care. They've come and gone, serving their purpose in allowing him to feel alive. For that brief period of life, he's warm again and he cares again. Most of them realize too late it's a ruse; a façade that covers not emptiness but a blank wall. Owen keeps telling himself there's nothing there. It's easier this way. He's not empty or hollow, he's blank.

Down on the street he sees Gwen's car. She'll ring up and he'll let her in. She'll talk and he'll pretend to listen until he can get her into bed. He should send her away, tell her the truth, but he won't. Even as he watches the window, the condensation fades and he feels the sharp edge of chill. Gwen's warm and that's what Owen wants.
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