Damaged Goods - Un_love_you/Prompt 11
Title: Damaged goods
Author: ladydeadlock
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Suzie Costello, mention of Owen Harper - Suzie/Owen
Prompt: Prompt 11 of un_love_you : Thought I needed this.
Word count: 802
Rating: R
Author's notes: Thanks to mistojen for the thorough beta-read.
I can hardly feel anything anymore. I’m damaged, it seems. I can’t even cry, and I thought I needed to, and I really, physically made an effort to. Nothing came out.
It’s raining, and I used to love the rain, you know? I used to stand by the window at night and watch it fall against the glass; lose myself in thoughts, peaceful thoughts. Now, it is just this annoying, repetitive and never-ending sound that breaks my concentration even if I’m not exactly focusing on any particular task.
I don’t feel alive, despite my heart beat, but I’ve gone to great lengths in order to experience some kind of emotion lately; good or bad, I’d just like to feel something.
I’ve taken a knife and bled; I’ve burnt myself with the car lighter; I’ve walked on broken glass. No pain, no pleasure, nothing.
The only other thing I can think of that is supposed to make people feel something - otherwise, it wouldn’t be so bloody important in this world - is sex. That, I haven’t tried in a long time. Too long, I’d say.
It’s that same issue again, though; in my line of work, you don’t meet many people. You spend most of your time with the people you work with.
Who in the whole of The Hub would I be willing to fuck as an experiment?
It doesn’t take me long to realize my only safe option is Owen; he’d probably be up for it. He flirts with me enough, anyway.
I don’t want to look desperate or even remotely insane, so I have to play by everyone else’s rules. I call him up on his mobile and ask if he fancies a drink.
We meet up at some pub; have a few beers and then a few shots of whisky. I hate whisky.
By this point, he knows very well where this will end. I’ve been making my advances quite noticeable.
I invite him to mine, because I do not intend to leave in the middle of the night as if I’m some whore - let him do that.
We don’t speak. He comes for me as soon as I turn the key to lock the door, in fact, he pushes me to the door, kisses me whole, very eager. Something tells me he’s been planning this for some time.
He’s taking my coat off, my shirt, my bra. He’s touching my breasts, but he never breaks the kiss.
I should be panting. I should be moaning, slightly. I should like this, I used to like this.
He forces my legs around his waist, carrying me through the living room and to the sofa, dropping me down on it. He throws himself onto me right away.
I used to have shivers running down my spine when I felt the weight of a man on me, his heartbeat so close to mine.
There is nothing here.
I’m trying, seriously trying. I remove his shirt, kiss him again, then go for his belt buckle.
This isn’t making any sense.
He has a condom in his back pocket. They all do. I grab it and rip the package with my teeth, while he kicks off his jeans. It’s like I can’t wait.
He doesn’t waste any time sinking into me.
Where’s the rush to the head?
He’s thrusting into me, his lips on my neck and my collarbone, teeth gently dragging in the wake of his kisses. He wants me on top; rolls us over without pulling out, and I ride him - what else can I do?
Owen knows how to do this, he’s good, that much I can tell.
But do I feel anything? When he grabs my hips and guides me faster - deeper - do I gasp and writhe?
Take a guess…
We have what can be, by the laws of today’s society, defined as a great night of sex. He’s good, and I’m astounding. We both come at the same time.
I fake it so perfectly. He’s happy.
In the end, he is the one getting dressed halfway out the door, - “See you tomorrow, Suze” - while I lay down in my sofa, its cover wrapped dramatically around me with my hair all entangled and knowing I should be smiling, or at least relaxed, but I can only feel emptiness.
I really thought this was the one thing that was not like the others. Turns out it’s all the same to me, now. I feel emptier than I did before, because I was wholesomely expecting this to break the pattern. I expected this to be what I needed to regain my status as a person.
I cannot decide if it’s a good thing that I can still be disappointed.
My head is heavy with all this emptiness. Funny, isn’t it?
Author: ladydeadlock
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Suzie Costello, mention of Owen Harper - Suzie/Owen
Prompt: Prompt 11 of un_love_you : Thought I needed this.
Word count: 802
Rating: R
Author's notes: Thanks to mistojen for the thorough beta-read.
I can hardly feel anything anymore. I’m damaged, it seems. I can’t even cry, and I thought I needed to, and I really, physically made an effort to. Nothing came out.
It’s raining, and I used to love the rain, you know? I used to stand by the window at night and watch it fall against the glass; lose myself in thoughts, peaceful thoughts. Now, it is just this annoying, repetitive and never-ending sound that breaks my concentration even if I’m not exactly focusing on any particular task.
I don’t feel alive, despite my heart beat, but I’ve gone to great lengths in order to experience some kind of emotion lately; good or bad, I’d just like to feel something.
I’ve taken a knife and bled; I’ve burnt myself with the car lighter; I’ve walked on broken glass. No pain, no pleasure, nothing.
The only other thing I can think of that is supposed to make people feel something - otherwise, it wouldn’t be so bloody important in this world - is sex. That, I haven’t tried in a long time. Too long, I’d say.
It’s that same issue again, though; in my line of work, you don’t meet many people. You spend most of your time with the people you work with.
Who in the whole of The Hub would I be willing to fuck as an experiment?
It doesn’t take me long to realize my only safe option is Owen; he’d probably be up for it. He flirts with me enough, anyway.
I don’t want to look desperate or even remotely insane, so I have to play by everyone else’s rules. I call him up on his mobile and ask if he fancies a drink.
We meet up at some pub; have a few beers and then a few shots of whisky. I hate whisky.
By this point, he knows very well where this will end. I’ve been making my advances quite noticeable.
I invite him to mine, because I do not intend to leave in the middle of the night as if I’m some whore - let him do that.
We don’t speak. He comes for me as soon as I turn the key to lock the door, in fact, he pushes me to the door, kisses me whole, very eager. Something tells me he’s been planning this for some time.
He’s taking my coat off, my shirt, my bra. He’s touching my breasts, but he never breaks the kiss.
I should be panting. I should be moaning, slightly. I should like this, I used to like this.
He forces my legs around his waist, carrying me through the living room and to the sofa, dropping me down on it. He throws himself onto me right away.
I used to have shivers running down my spine when I felt the weight of a man on me, his heartbeat so close to mine.
There is nothing here.
I’m trying, seriously trying. I remove his shirt, kiss him again, then go for his belt buckle.
This isn’t making any sense.
He has a condom in his back pocket. They all do. I grab it and rip the package with my teeth, while he kicks off his jeans. It’s like I can’t wait.
He doesn’t waste any time sinking into me.
Where’s the rush to the head?
He’s thrusting into me, his lips on my neck and my collarbone, teeth gently dragging in the wake of his kisses. He wants me on top; rolls us over without pulling out, and I ride him - what else can I do?
Owen knows how to do this, he’s good, that much I can tell.
But do I feel anything? When he grabs my hips and guides me faster - deeper - do I gasp and writhe?
Take a guess…
We have what can be, by the laws of today’s society, defined as a great night of sex. He’s good, and I’m astounding. We both come at the same time.
I fake it so perfectly. He’s happy.
In the end, he is the one getting dressed halfway out the door, - “See you tomorrow, Suze” - while I lay down in my sofa, its cover wrapped dramatically around me with my hair all entangled and knowing I should be smiling, or at least relaxed, but I can only feel emptiness.
I really thought this was the one thing that was not like the others. Turns out it’s all the same to me, now. I feel emptier than I did before, because I was wholesomely expecting this to break the pattern. I expected this to be what I needed to regain my status as a person.
I cannot decide if it’s a good thing that I can still be disappointed.
My head is heavy with all this emptiness. Funny, isn’t it?