Forget Her

[wailing_owl]

Fandom: Torchwood
Characters/Pairings: Tosh/Mary
Length: 1,242
Spoilers/Setting: After S01E07, Greeks Bearing Gifts
Warnings: Masturbation, semi-public setting

Forget Her

 

They didn’t trust her, none of them did.  It was obvious in the way conversations died as she approached, the way they looked at her, the way they left her here today, alone, while they all went out to do the real work.  But that was okay.  She’d been inside their heads too recently, seen their thought too clearly.  She didn’t trust them, either.

But routine admin and the echo of dripping water wasn’t enough to distract her.  She found her mouse cursor hovering over the well-disguised icon without her even realising it, her finger tapping the button just too lightly to trigger temptation.  She shouldn’t.  It was just torturing herself.

But God, she missed it.  Missed her.  It had been horrible and confusing and false – and heart-poundingly real and exhilarating and tangible.  And in the middle of it, sometimes, even Owen hadn’t mattered.

She clicked.

And there she was, the image a little grainy but the curve of her hip perfect.  The cocky strut, emphasised by her boots, the wicked smile, the way her blonde hair cupped her cheek and always made Tosh want to do the same with a hand.  Tosh froze the image – there, with Mary’s skirt flared out, halfway through a spin.  A terrible moment, right before all the illusions had come crashing down, but the only pictures she had.

It ached.  Mary had touched her constantly, teasing touches that left Tosh uncomfortable, unused to such blatant affection.  But it had given her skin a craving for it.  Furtively, now, not quite admitting to what she was doing, Tosh skimmed a hand over her own breast.  She could feel the bump of her nipple under her palm and returned to it with a finger.  A light touch, the faint scrape of a fingernail across cotton weave as she teased her nipple through her blouse.  Pleasure zinged across her belly and she gasped.  She switched hands, her left hand rubbing circles across her skin to free her right hand for the mouse.  Back to the beginning of the tape and play – Mary, as always, looked best in motion.

Tosh gave up any pretence as to what she was doing, now.  Restless movements rocked her in her seat, almost-but-not-quite friction where she wanted it most, and her hand cupped her breast brazenly and rolled her nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Mary spun, arms out, her whole face brilliantly alight with pleasure and lust.  And who cared that it was lust for power, not for Tosh, which made her glow like that?  It was closer than Tosh had got from anyone else.  Imagination filled in the gaps, provided the sound of Mary’s voice reciting poetry with lush passion.  Tosh walked a hand up her thigh, under her skirt.

Sex with Mary had awakened Tosh to the sensuality of a woman’s body, and that new awareness made touching herself a double pleasure now.  She trailed fingers down the side of her neck, slipped a finger beneath the satin edge of her knickers.  The humid closeness of her vulva seemed obscenely pleasurable.  She spread her legs and moaned, shockingly loud in the silence of the Hub.  It reminded her where she was – at work, what was she thinking? – and she froze.

But then the whole situation, sitting at her work station with a hand between her thighs, felt delicious, exciting, daring.  Something Mary would have talked her into doing.  She slid her fingers up inside the slick heat of her body and arched into the touch.  A few more strokes, flesh clenching around her fingers and hips jerking into a rhythm that made her chair creak, and she backed off.  She circled her clitoris with her middle finger, resisting the urge to rub frantically against it, enjoying the slow build of pressure and urgency.  Her left hand rubbed and tugged at her nipples, but her blouse was suddenly just a frustrating obstacle.  She fumbled at the buttons until the shirt gaped open to her stomach, then tugged down the cups of her bra until her breasts spilled out over the top, no longer confined.  Her breath came in quick, short gasps now, her eyes flickered shut despite her efforts to keep watching the beautiful woman (alien) on the computer screen.

She slid her finger down the moist crevice between her outer and inner labia, then back up the other side.  More, God, she wanted more.  She wanted it all, right now.  Finesse disappeared.  The tape had looped, she’d missed the moment Mary had disappeared and that made it easy to pretend that she hadn’t, that she wouldn’t, that it was her hand pumping deep into Tosh’s body, building desperate need into pulses of hot pleasure.

Tosh abandoned her breasts to paw her skirt up, trying not to lose the rhythm of her other hand.  She shoved her knickers down until her fingers found damp curls, then delved into them to press against her clitoris, so swollen it verged on painful.  She was close, so close to the edge now.  She yearned towards it but wanted to hold it off forever, to stay in this place of trembling ecstasy where grief couldn’t touch her.

Almost without her volition, though, her hands fell into a fast-paced tempo.  One stroking inside, one rubbing over her clitoris, each movement pushing her closer to orgasm.  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her neck strained backwards, a keening whine built in the back of her throat.  A thousand pictures of Mary flashed behind her squeezed-shut eyelids: blue eyes challenging her through smoky lashes, spine arched in blatant invitation while water ran over breasts, swollen lips parted in a gasp of sudden pleasure, hands running over the curve of a calf as she turned rubbing on lotion into something dirty, a tongue curling around the olive of a martini.  Had she really collected that many mental snapshots?  It had been such a short period of time to build so many memories.

She arced up against her hands.  The damp air blew cool over her exposed breasts.  Heat blossomed outward from her abdomen, shaking her.  With a rush, white intensity blotted out her thoughts entirely.  She gave a hoarse shout and froze, other than the involuntary jerking of her body.

A moment later it was gone.  Reaction pinged over her skin, but she was aware now of being twisted into an uncomfortable, undignified knot, her hands shoved awkwardly into her knickers and her breasts flopping ridiculously over the top of her bra.  On the screen Mary held a knife to her throat.  She straightened her clothes as best she could and shut off the CCTV footage before Jack could send Mary to her death, again.  Tears she didn’t remember shedding dried sticky on her cheeks and she raised a hand to wipe them off, grimacing at the strong smell of musk that clung to her fingers.

God, she was a mess.  She was going to have to do something with the footage from this afternoon, loop some more innocuous footage over the top of it or something.  And she should probably delete the tape she’d saved of the night she’d brought Mary into the Hub.  Dwelling on it (on something that had never been what she thought it was, anyway) couldn’t be healthy.  She smoothed a wrinkle on her skirt and promised herself again that this was the last time, then got up to fix her makeup.

-Finis-