consolation
Feb. 5th, 2024 02:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jupiter2932Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Tosh/Owen
Rating: Teen, probably
Word Count: 1081
Content notes: kinky, but with no actual smut; written for Febuwhump 2024: Day 4, obedience
Summary: Owen and Tosh have plans. Good plans. Fun sorts of plans. The very best-laid plans, you might call them.
And you know what they say about those.
"I want the leather shining," Tosh says, roughly tossing him a microfiber cloth but leaving the jar of polish on the desk beside her hip. Bless her; she's diving into this scene wholeheartedly for him, but she still can't throw for shit.
"Not one spot on them," she says with unexpected vehemence, and Owen realizes he's let the fondness show on his face.
"Yes, Ms. Sato," he murmurs, dropping his gaze back down to the carpet.
Tosh nods. She's moving to stand when she visibly remembers the rest of the dialogue they'd negotiated and plops back down on the edge of the desk. The stiff, starched collar of her Victorian jacket pokes her in the neck, but she ignores it resolutely, back in character without missing another beat.
"I want to see my face reflected back in them," she snaps. She reaches out, feeling across the desk until her hand closes on the item she wants and she lifts it: the split-tailed leather tawse they picked up for Valentine's. "One spot and you'll find out what happens to naughty boys who slack off in this office."
Oh, god, he thinks, and has to fight not to lick his lips.
A shiver of anticipation zaps up his spine nonetheless, and he sits up straighter, squaring his shoulders to—
"Oh," he moans. "Motherfucker."
It's his hip again. The one Aaron Copley shot him in. The nerve pain isn't daily, and usually he has full, unimpeded mobility, but sometimes, sometimes when he moves just the wrong way—
"Shit. Sodding hell."
"Owen?" Tosh is still perched on the edge of the desk, but she's doing that skeptical eyebrow thing she does when Jack asks her to hack a UNIT network. "Are you all right? Or is this ad-libbing?"
He shouldn't have tried to do this kneeling. Stupid not to see this one ahead of time. Still. He'll be fine. He just needs a minute or two. Different position and a little stretch and he'll be good to go.
Absolutely.
"I'm fine," he says. He smiles, but when he tries to straighten his leg it turns into a grimace. "Goddamn it."
He leans down to massage the area, twists at the waist to reach, and white-hot fire unspools across his hip like a dozen rivers of molten lead. The movement triggers multiple muscle spasms from above his hip to his mid-thigh, and all the pain receptors in that quadrant of his body light up like fireflies.
He falls back, head smacking into the plush rug by Tosh's sofa, hand clapped over his mouth, eyes tearing up without his permission. He breathes through it, focuses on taking deep and steady breaths through his nose and heaving them back out through his mouth like they teach in all the classes. It does fuck all for the pain, but it does give him something to focus on.
It's fine. He's fine. This will pass in just a few minutes, and he'll be perfectly fine. He just has to wait it out. Everything is fine.
"Tell me if this makes it worse," Tosh says suddenly from somewhere at his side. Then her hands are on him, coaxing him to stretch his left leg straight, easing him into a more comfortable position on his back, then—tentatively at first but gradually more firmly—massaging the tension out of the muscles around his hip.
It hurts like a bitch at first, and he bites his knuckles until Tosh tells him to stop, but slowly, eventually, bit by bit, the blinding pain recedes.
"We could have planned this better," Tosh says, digging her fingers into a particularly stubborn knot.
"Yeah," Owen says; squeaks, rather, for his voice cracks halfway through. "Yeah, that's—Christ. Jesus. Fuck."
His free hand slaps the floor, right leg jerking straight out as far as it can go, and Tosh pushes down with her thumb and does something magical with her thumb, and the pen spikes for a milisecond, then drops suddenly by a factor of ten.
He breaks out in a cold sweat, the relief's so acute.
"Better?" Tosh asks.
His head squashes into the rug in a rough approximation. He could kiss her. Marry her. He never wants to move again.
"Good."
She's smiling when he opens his eyes and looks up at her, lips curled up soft. He can't help but feel guilty, though; she looks delectable in her outfit, a burgundy satin creation with lace and ribbons in unexpected places, complete with a set of period style gartered stockings and a corset underneath.
Sod it all. He had plans involving that corset once they finished their scene as negotiated. Good plans. The sort of plans that would leave her writhing, too incoherent to call out his name when she came.
"Sorry this fucked things up," he mutters, face hot. He pushes himself up to his elbows and casts a rueful glance over at the desk, where the tawse still sits in easy reach, next to the cock ring, the lube, the feather duster, and Tosh's favorite brand of flavored condoms.
Tosh, though, sets a warm hand on his chest and stops him sort. She leans in close, just shy of close enough to kiss. "We can pick it up again next weekend. But now—" And at this she looks down, down at his lap, eyelashes fluttering so they feather against his cheek. "Now I can show you what happens to boys who do exactly as they're told, in this office."
Her lips brush against his in the lightest of grazes, and lift. This close, he can feel her breath warm on his chin, can smell the amber-scented hair conditioner she uses every other day and even the cherry of her sparkly lip gloss.
He bites his lips, lets himself savor it, then takes a deep, calming breath.
"Does it involve a couch, a heating pad, and multiple episodes of Say Yes to the Dress?"
She grins, and she's so close he feels the corner of her lip curl up against the tip of his nose.
And then she's gone.
"Top marks," she says, rocking back. "Keep it up and I'll tell Jack you're developing psychic powers."
Sod it all.
Oh, well.
"Anything but that, love. Can you imagine the tests Ianto will come up with to test my skills?"
She makes no promises on that score. But she does keep the corset on for the first two episodes, as consolation.
He takes it.
Characters: Tosh/Owen
Rating: Teen, probably
Word Count: 1081
Content notes: kinky, but with no actual smut; written for Febuwhump 2024: Day 4, obedience
Summary: Owen and Tosh have plans. Good plans. Fun sorts of plans. The very best-laid plans, you might call them.
And you know what they say about those.
"I want the leather shining," Tosh says, roughly tossing him a microfiber cloth but leaving the jar of polish on the desk beside her hip. Bless her; she's diving into this scene wholeheartedly for him, but she still can't throw for shit.
"Not one spot on them," she says with unexpected vehemence, and Owen realizes he's let the fondness show on his face.
"Yes, Ms. Sato," he murmurs, dropping his gaze back down to the carpet.
Tosh nods. She's moving to stand when she visibly remembers the rest of the dialogue they'd negotiated and plops back down on the edge of the desk. The stiff, starched collar of her Victorian jacket pokes her in the neck, but she ignores it resolutely, back in character without missing another beat.
"I want to see my face reflected back in them," she snaps. She reaches out, feeling across the desk until her hand closes on the item she wants and she lifts it: the split-tailed leather tawse they picked up for Valentine's. "One spot and you'll find out what happens to naughty boys who slack off in this office."
Oh, god, he thinks, and has to fight not to lick his lips.
A shiver of anticipation zaps up his spine nonetheless, and he sits up straighter, squaring his shoulders to—
"Oh," he moans. "Motherfucker."
It's his hip again. The one Aaron Copley shot him in. The nerve pain isn't daily, and usually he has full, unimpeded mobility, but sometimes, sometimes when he moves just the wrong way—
"Shit. Sodding hell."
"Owen?" Tosh is still perched on the edge of the desk, but she's doing that skeptical eyebrow thing she does when Jack asks her to hack a UNIT network. "Are you all right? Or is this ad-libbing?"
He shouldn't have tried to do this kneeling. Stupid not to see this one ahead of time. Still. He'll be fine. He just needs a minute or two. Different position and a little stretch and he'll be good to go.
Absolutely.
"I'm fine," he says. He smiles, but when he tries to straighten his leg it turns into a grimace. "Goddamn it."
He leans down to massage the area, twists at the waist to reach, and white-hot fire unspools across his hip like a dozen rivers of molten lead. The movement triggers multiple muscle spasms from above his hip to his mid-thigh, and all the pain receptors in that quadrant of his body light up like fireflies.
He falls back, head smacking into the plush rug by Tosh's sofa, hand clapped over his mouth, eyes tearing up without his permission. He breathes through it, focuses on taking deep and steady breaths through his nose and heaving them back out through his mouth like they teach in all the classes. It does fuck all for the pain, but it does give him something to focus on.
It's fine. He's fine. This will pass in just a few minutes, and he'll be perfectly fine. He just has to wait it out. Everything is fine.
"Tell me if this makes it worse," Tosh says suddenly from somewhere at his side. Then her hands are on him, coaxing him to stretch his left leg straight, easing him into a more comfortable position on his back, then—tentatively at first but gradually more firmly—massaging the tension out of the muscles around his hip.
It hurts like a bitch at first, and he bites his knuckles until Tosh tells him to stop, but slowly, eventually, bit by bit, the blinding pain recedes.
"We could have planned this better," Tosh says, digging her fingers into a particularly stubborn knot.
"Yeah," Owen says; squeaks, rather, for his voice cracks halfway through. "Yeah, that's—Christ. Jesus. Fuck."
His free hand slaps the floor, right leg jerking straight out as far as it can go, and Tosh pushes down with her thumb and does something magical with her thumb, and the pen spikes for a milisecond, then drops suddenly by a factor of ten.
He breaks out in a cold sweat, the relief's so acute.
"Better?" Tosh asks.
His head squashes into the rug in a rough approximation. He could kiss her. Marry her. He never wants to move again.
"Good."
She's smiling when he opens his eyes and looks up at her, lips curled up soft. He can't help but feel guilty, though; she looks delectable in her outfit, a burgundy satin creation with lace and ribbons in unexpected places, complete with a set of period style gartered stockings and a corset underneath.
Sod it all. He had plans involving that corset once they finished their scene as negotiated. Good plans. The sort of plans that would leave her writhing, too incoherent to call out his name when she came.
"Sorry this fucked things up," he mutters, face hot. He pushes himself up to his elbows and casts a rueful glance over at the desk, where the tawse still sits in easy reach, next to the cock ring, the lube, the feather duster, and Tosh's favorite brand of flavored condoms.
Tosh, though, sets a warm hand on his chest and stops him sort. She leans in close, just shy of close enough to kiss. "We can pick it up again next weekend. But now—" And at this she looks down, down at his lap, eyelashes fluttering so they feather against his cheek. "Now I can show you what happens to boys who do exactly as they're told, in this office."
Her lips brush against his in the lightest of grazes, and lift. This close, he can feel her breath warm on his chin, can smell the amber-scented hair conditioner she uses every other day and even the cherry of her sparkly lip gloss.
He bites his lips, lets himself savor it, then takes a deep, calming breath.
"Does it involve a couch, a heating pad, and multiple episodes of Say Yes to the Dress?"
She grins, and she's so close he feels the corner of her lip curl up against the tip of his nose.
And then she's gone.
"Top marks," she says, rocking back. "Keep it up and I'll tell Jack you're developing psychic powers."
Sod it all.
Oh, well.
"Anything but that, love. Can you imagine the tests Ianto will come up with to test my skills?"
She makes no promises on that score. But she does keep the corset on for the first two episodes, as consolation.
He takes it.
no subject
Date: 2024-02-07 09:15 pm (UTC)I love that you have Owen still getting shot but not in a fatal way. Always seemed unlikely Copley would be such a good shot. Or maybe killing Owen was accidental on his part and wounding him was how it should have gone. Still, the kind of injury that causes problems at unexpected moments can't be fun.
no subject
Date: 2024-02-09 02:18 am (UTC)And, yep, chronic pain can kick up at the most inconvenient of times.
no subject
Date: 2024-02-09 11:32 am (UTC)