{Fic} My Body (when it is with your body)

[superiorspectre]

justprompts: Ten sexual encounters.(Started ages ago, never finished.)


one

"Your mother's gone, Susan. It's just the two of us. Got to make it on our own."

She was never good enough for him. But when she was thirteen, he decided to make do. These are the facts: one small bed, her father, and his hands lifting her nightgown, working her knickers off while he told her about the importance of family. She bled and she cried and she screamed until he shoved a hand over her mouth, and when he was done he said he was disappointed in her.

She'd have to do better next time.


two

He was stronger than she was, frightening, and the way he moved was too familiar, but she knew what he wanted, knew his type. She was still clumsy at seduction, barely fourteen, but he didn't take much convincing.

It hurt her, like it always did, but she pretended to enjoy it, just like she'd been taught.

She never learned his name.

That night, when it was just her and her father, she closed her eyes and smiled to herself. She wasn't his property. He thought he owned her, and she'd stolen that from him, given it away to the first boy who came along.

It was a small sort of revenge, but it would do for now.


three

She was sixteen. His name was Stuart, and he touched her like she was made of glass, slow and hesitant like he was afraid of breaking her. She wanted to scream at him for it. Didn't he know? Couldn't he see what she was, what she'd done?

He was just a means to an end, and she was disgusted with him for the pretense, and disgusted with herself for enjoying it. There shouldn't be pleasure in it, she thought, and how dare he. How dare he make her feel that way?

When he finally got around to the act itself, and collapsed over her after just a few minutes of terrified fumbling, she told him, in cool, precise tones, how very disappointed she was.

He'd have to do better next time.

The look on his face almost made up for the taste of bile in the back of her throat.


four

Tyler was different. Not weak like Stuart, not a brute like her father, and when he touched her, it was... bearable. Almost good.

He was self-destructive in the most interesting ways, too busy tearing himself down for her to do it for him. He made self-deprecation seem charming.

She let herself listen to all his promises of a new life in London, let herself believe all the things he whispered when he slid her bra off her shoulders, let herself feel him, the hardness and the length of him, the flex of muscle under skin. When she closed her eyes as he slid inside her, it wasn't her father's face she saw, and when she clutched at his shoulders, there was almost real passion there.

She let herself love him.

Two weeks later, he'd vanished, along with most of the money she'd been saving up, and she swore to herself never again.


five

She'd like to think, looking back, that her discovery of that tiny, dusty book of Baudelaire's poems buried in her mother's things led directly to certain other discoveries. It was a pretty conceit, at least, that her mother's legacy was a better one than her father's.

All she could be certain of was that when her hands found their way under her clothes that night, skimming over the curve of a breast, gliding ever downwards, slow and steady, there was poetry in her head, and when her fingers encountered unexpected moisture between her legs, the sound she made was nothing more than a pause between lines.

Every stroke of her fingertips fell into the metre of a long-dead poet, every caress an extension of softly flowing French, carrying her higher and farther until rhythm and language broke against each other and fell away, leaving only shuddering silence. When it was done, she stared at her hand, glistening wetly in the moonlight filtering through her window.

It was a trick of the light, of course, but for a moment, her slick fingers seemed to shine like opals, and she wondered at the contents of a poet's heart.

(read the poem)


six

Of course, Owen was a bad idea. She was used to bad ideas by then, though, and the consequences didn't seem as dire as they might have, not when every look between them was full of promises. Connection without examination, just a nice, casual fuck, and how long had it been since she'd had one of those?

So it seemed only natural when she ended up in his flat one night. She thought of Dickinson, thought of success being counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeeded, thought of the patterns of words marching along in perfect, regimented order, punctuating her moans, the taste of his sweat, the way her nails raked along his back.

When they were done, and she stretched out in Owen's bed, putting off leaving for a few more minutes, Owen turned to her with a grin.

"That," he said, "was an 8.5, I'd say."

Curious, that. "And just what are you basing it on?"

Owen's grin got about a thousand times more smug, and he leaned over to wrap an arm around her waist. "Oh, the usual. Inventiveness, stamina, extra points for interesting noises, as long as they're not, you know, barnyard sounds or anything -- that's a pretty heavy deduction right there, if it comes up..."

"I didn't," she'd said, laughing, with just a hint of a warning glare. If she'd had her tools handy, she might well have hit him with something.

"No, you didn't," he said, with the air of one pressing a vital point, "but you could have. So that's got to factor into the scoring system somehow."

She rolled her eyes. "In your case, I'd say a good solid 7.0."

"I think I'm insulted." He propped himself up on one elbow. "Seven? Really?"

"Oh, that's still good. It's not your fault my standards are impossibly high. Could've done with a bit more stamina on your part... It was just getting interesting, really." Suzie smirked at him, teasing.

"That," Owen said, "or you're frigid. And in that case, I really can't be held responsible for the fact that it takes you forever to get off."

"Frigid?" She slid a bit closer, running careful fingers down his side, while her lips grazed the purpling marks on his neck she'd put there not half an hour before. "Care to rethink that assessment?"

"Well..." He pretended to consider that. "We'll just have to do better next time, won't we?"

"I suppose we will." It was an agreement of sorts, and Suzie would never be sure later if it was a good sign or a bad one.

Perhaps it was that one word -- we -- that made all the difference.

But then, perhaps not.


seven

It had been cold, raining for days, and of course, the SUV would get shut down by an alien computer virus in the middle of nowhere, while Suzie wondered what idiot had decided on computerised locks, and Tosh typed furiously on her laptop, muttering under her breath about adaptive technology and how for all she knew, it'd be getting out and eating the internet the moment she got anything running.

And of course, again, the other three members of Torchwood were quite literally hip-deep in alien secretions, so it wasn't as though they could expect a rescue for several hours, at least. And it went without saying that the battery in Tosh's laptop would choose to die an hour and a half in.

The whole situation was faintly ridiculous.

Still, ridiculous was an improvement on "life-threatening", so Suzie kept the resentful muttering to a bare minimum and settled in to wait with a torch and a book of Tennyson's poetry. And all it took was a casual remark from Tosh to start her reading bits aloud.... "Midnight" seemed appropriate for the evening, anyway. Then "The Lady of Shalott", one of her favourites. At She hath no loyal knight and true, something flickered over Tosh's face, something like pain, glimpsed out of the corner of Suzie's eye, and she responded almost without thinking... "Oh, get over here, would you? If you're not freezing, I am." There was an understanding in Suzie's eyes that had nothing to do with the cold, but both of them knew that certain things were best unsaid. It was enough that Tosh shifted and leaned in, resting her head on Suzie's shoulder.

"I don't suppose he wrote anything more cheerful?" Tosh asked, glancing out at the rain falling in sheets against the windows.

"We've been working together for how long, and you think my tastes run to the cheerful?" Suzie retorted. She grinned, but obediently flipped through to find something a bit better suited.

She found "Eleänore". Given that poem, she should have expected what was coming, but she still tensed a bit when Tosh kissed her. And of course Tosh would mistake astonishment for rejection, and of course Suzie would have to sit through horrified apologies until finally she lost patience with the whole thing and gave Tosh a proper snog.

Things got noticeably less awkward after that -- Toshiko Sato was beautiful and brilliant, and, had she considered such a thing possible, Suzie might have admitted to a distinct... fondness. She had her reasons to avoid acting on it -- Owen among them -- but in that moment, with Tosh's lips against hers, it ceased to matter.

She explored the contours of Tosh's body with the same care she reserved for select pieces of alien technology, a slow, cautious discovery, delicately probing, stroking her skin and measuring reactions with a sense of joyous discovery. Each soft gasp was a new revelation, each shudder led the way to new mysteries, all while Tennyson's words echoed in her head.

It was good, even with the awkward positioning and the cold and the knowledge that the rest of the team could show up at any time... None of that mattered, not when afterwards the taste of Toshiko lingered on her lips, not when Tosh curled against her in the cramped confines of the SUV and Suzie, for the first time, allowed herself to doze contentedly in someone else's arms.

Later, she'd question it, later she'd dissect it with her usual cynicism, but not even cynicism could make her stop. Not where Tosh was involved.

It would take her the better part of a year to admit she was in love.

(Midnight, The Lady of Shalott, and Eleänore)


eight

She doesn't remember much of what happened.

Perhaps she said things, things she didn't quite intend. Things about Torchwood, about the Hub, about Jack. She'd been talking to Max for some time; she was used to confession, needed it. But if she did, those things are lost to her.

This is what she knows: it was good. She remembers almost unbearable pleasure, remembers how she screamed, hands clenching around fistfuls of sheets, her body moving against his in a way less like a passionate lover and more like a woman in convulsions. Somewhere along the line, she knows, she'd lost control completely, and she hadn't the sense to be frightened.

And it hurt. That's not in her memories, not really, but the next morning when she crawled out of an empty bed, every movement was torture, and when she stumbled to the mirror, she found herself covered in bruises. She was remarkably undisturbed by it at the time. Long training, of course.

She took a few personal days while she waited for the bruises to heal, and no one questioned it. Maybe Jack suspected something was off; she'd never requested time off before, and it was wholly unlike her to ask for a couple of days with no reason. But he'd never been one to pry into their lives, and for that, she was grateful. He couldn't be allowed to see her for what she was. No matter how much me might banter, or how good their working relationship might be, he was still one of them, after all. (Here Captain! dear father!)

During those few days, she showered compulsively, was sick more often than not, and cried. Cried over the stupidest things... A certain inflection, the cut of a suit, one particular rhythm on the radio. The word Saxon in a historical drama drove her to near-hysterics. She wasn't sure why.

And then it passed. By the time she went back to work, she was collected as ever. She went back to her duties with her usual efficiency, and if she lost a few hours late one night, working on one of the Hub computers when no one else was around, she didn't give it too much thought.

Nothing touched her, after all. Not really. Not anymore.


nine

She remembers Thane in the way one remembers wild, fevered dreams that slip gradually and imperceptibly into nightmares. Sweat and skin and animal instinct, and both of them stripped down, save for two things: her necklace, his wrist strap. Those were the things inseparable from flesh, even then, for all the good it did either of them.

Conscious thought obliterated at the hands of a master, and there was neither pain nor poetry to carry her through, just sensation and shared breath, hearts beating in sync -- they were one body, one that moved and gasped and felt in ways she hadn't thought possible. She'd loathed herself just enough to want him, and he gave her more than she'd expected, things hoped for and feared. Thane, with all his torturer's skill, undoing decades of pain, only to craft a brand new layer of damage.

Yes, she enjoyed it. And that, she won't forgive herself for. At the time, all she could think was It should've been anyone but him.

It wasn't until much later that she realised what she meant was It should've been Jack.

By then, it was too late.


ten

Sark was different. Not in quite the way Tosh was; no, this couldn't be mistaken for love in any romantic sense. Not like Thane, with his forced separation of body and mind. But the two of them understood each other. And neither of them, loath as they might be to admit it, was immune to the need for comfort.

Both traitors, both dangerous, and there was a sense of wariness in their opening movements, a soft, feline grace that could turn sharp-edged at any moment. They discussed positions of advantage and vulnerability even as her hands found his shoulders, and he took her waist. Words were a defense for each of them, and if one didn't need them, then the other might -- just one of the countless subtle and unspoken courtesies that sprang up between them.

Distances were gauged, boundaries were set, while they talked about power and poetry. Defenses were lowered, and then silence was an option; one heralded by two simple words.

"I know."

She can't remember now who said them. The sentiment was mutual, and there were more important things to worry about at the time; things like silence and skin, and his mouth against hers. She could have given up completely then, or she could have taken the time to learn him just as thoroughly as she did Tosh. She did neither. All she did was hold on, to try to be there...

And when thought started to fade, he noticed. And when he buried a hand in her hair and asked, with breathless curiosity, if she was planning on going somewhere, it was enough that she could shake her head, curls catching on his fingers.

It was enough that they had each other to hold on to, enough to make her discard the illusion of one being, moving without thought. Still two, always two, broken mirrors reflecting each other, edges sharp and dangerous, yet never quite catching and cutting. It was understanding. It was solace.

It might not repair either of them, but it was enough.