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They're crammed together into a one-man emergency atmosphere tent with four hours of air and eight hours until the rescue ship arrives, and the Doctor is probably going to die and Jack probably isn't. The tent has no heating, only retaining their own heat, and they have no choice but to cling to each other for warmth.
'At last I've got you where I always wanted you,' laughs Jack, a little breathlessly, but he knows he's not keeping the grief off his face.
'Listen!' says the Doctor. 'I can put us both into a state of suspended animation. Make the most of the oxygen supply.'
'How much more time would that give us?'
The Doctor scrunches up his face, doing the math. 'Not enough,' he admits.
'I can't believe you're gonna die before I get to give you one.'
They both burst out laughing, although they have to get it under control quickly. There's not enough available oxygen for a proper fit of the giggles, let alone lovemaking.
When he catches his breath, Jack says, 'At least let me kiss you goodbye.'
The Doctor gives a goofy little smile and says, 'Oh, all right.'
Jack brushes his lips against the Doctor's cheek. 'You're supposed to close your eyes,' he whispers. 'It's not a science experiment.'
The Doctor obliges. Jack kisses him properly, slowly and lingeringly, moving down to his long and beautiful throat and the top of his collarbones, and when the good Captain opens his eyes again the Doctor's face is transformed, eyes closed, mouth a little open, all the tension of the last hours gone.
Jack strokes the Doctor's hair. 'Shh...' he soothes, 'Shh...' His hands guide the Doctor gently, rolling him over, so that his skinny body rests against Jack's more muscular one. Jack kisses the back of the Doctor's neck, pushing that crazy hair of his gently up and out of the way, and loops an arm over the Doctor's hip, stroking his belly, searching for the top of his zipper.
He's terrified that at any moment he's going to push this too far and he'll feel the Doctor's body tense and hear his own name spoken like an irritated syllable to a naughty pet.
Instead he feels the Doctor relaxing into him. He's not sure he's ever actually seen the Doctor relax. He slides his arm under the Doctor's head, making a pillow from the crook of his elbow. His other hand's done its work almost without his noticing. The Doctor makes a little noise, a sort of happy grumble, as Jack gently curls his fingers around his shaft, exploring up and down, curiously. The illusion is complete: this could be a human man's cock he's stroking, not the sex of an extinct species of god.
Neither of them speaks. The Doctor's body grows limper as his shaft grows harder. Jack works him with long expertise, can't help pushing his own hips against the Time Lord's backside, as though it's his own sex he's urging on towards climax. He works his thumb around the tip, spreading wetness down, and falls into the rhythm he himself prefers: ten fast, hungry strokes, count 'em, ten agonisingly slow ones. The Doctor's eyes are closed and his mouth is open and his cheeks are flushed.
Jack's half-expecting something cosmic to happen, something telepathic or temporal, but when the moment comes the Doctor just sighs, his dark eyes flying open. Jack milks him insistently, then finally cups the Doctor's slackening cock warmly for a moment before quickly zipping him back up. They can't afford to lose any more body heat.
Jack holds the Doctor for several minutes, resting his own cheek against the Time Lord's. The Doctor's eyes have closed again, and he's breathing slowly and regularly. Gone to sleep, thinks Jack, that's probably the best thing that could happen.
The Doctor's breath keeps slowing until Jack realises that the Doctor has put himself into that suspended animation he was talking about. Either that, or orgasms are lethal to Time Lords, which seems a bit unlikely.
'Hey,' he says in the Doctor's ear. 'It's supposed to be my turn!'
They're crammed together into a one-man emergency atmosphere tent with four hours of air and eight hours until the rescue ship arrives, and the Doctor is probably going to die and Jack probably isn't. The tent has no heating, only retaining their own heat, and they have no choice but to cling to each other for warmth.
'At last I've got you where I always wanted you,' laughs Jack, a little breathlessly, but he knows he's not keeping the grief off his face.
'Listen!' says the Doctor. 'I can put us both into a state of suspended animation. Make the most of the oxygen supply.'
'How much more time would that give us?'
The Doctor scrunches up his face, doing the math. 'Not enough,' he admits.
'I can't believe you're gonna die before I get to give you one.'
They both burst out laughing, although they have to get it under control quickly. There's not enough available oxygen for a proper fit of the giggles, let alone lovemaking.
When he catches his breath, Jack says, 'At least let me kiss you goodbye.'
The Doctor gives a goofy little smile and says, 'Oh, all right.'
Jack brushes his lips against the Doctor's cheek. 'You're supposed to close your eyes,' he whispers. 'It's not a science experiment.'
The Doctor obliges. Jack kisses him properly, slowly and lingeringly, moving down to his long and beautiful throat and the top of his collarbones, and when the good Captain opens his eyes again the Doctor's face is transformed, eyes closed, mouth a little open, all the tension of the last hours gone.
Jack strokes the Doctor's hair. 'Shh...' he soothes, 'Shh...' His hands guide the Doctor gently, rolling him over, so that his skinny body rests against Jack's more muscular one. Jack kisses the back of the Doctor's neck, pushing that crazy hair of his gently up and out of the way, and loops an arm over the Doctor's hip, stroking his belly, searching for the top of his zipper.
He's terrified that at any moment he's going to push this too far and he'll feel the Doctor's body tense and hear his own name spoken like an irritated syllable to a naughty pet.
Instead he feels the Doctor relaxing into him. He's not sure he's ever actually seen the Doctor relax. He slides his arm under the Doctor's head, making a pillow from the crook of his elbow. His other hand's done its work almost without his noticing. The Doctor makes a little noise, a sort of happy grumble, as Jack gently curls his fingers around his shaft, exploring up and down, curiously. The illusion is complete: this could be a human man's cock he's stroking, not the sex of an extinct species of god.
Neither of them speaks. The Doctor's body grows limper as his shaft grows harder. Jack works him with long expertise, can't help pushing his own hips against the Time Lord's backside, as though it's his own sex he's urging on towards climax. He works his thumb around the tip, spreading wetness down, and falls into the rhythm he himself prefers: ten fast, hungry strokes, count 'em, ten agonisingly slow ones. The Doctor's eyes are closed and his mouth is open and his cheeks are flushed.
Jack's half-expecting something cosmic to happen, something telepathic or temporal, but when the moment comes the Doctor just sighs, his dark eyes flying open. Jack milks him insistently, then finally cups the Doctor's slackening cock warmly for a moment before quickly zipping him back up. They can't afford to lose any more body heat.
Jack holds the Doctor for several minutes, resting his own cheek against the Time Lord's. The Doctor's eyes have closed again, and he's breathing slowly and regularly. Gone to sleep, thinks Jack, that's probably the best thing that could happen.
The Doctor's breath keeps slowing until Jack realises that the Doctor has put himself into that suspended animation he was talking about. Either that, or orgasms are lethal to Time Lords, which seems a bit unlikely.
'Hey,' he says in the Doctor's ear. 'It's supposed to be my turn!'