FIC: Then Live One Hour of Agony (Torchwood/Regeneration)
apiphile: "Anyway, *coughnudge*, weren't you threatening to write in more depth about Jack and Billy?"
derryderrydown: "I, er, think that any in depth Jack/Billy would be best confined to the privacy of my id."
apiphile: "your Id and my inbox, please."
burntcopper: "...others would like cctv into your id, please."
Therefore, it's all their fault.
Title: Then Live One Hour of Agony
Fandom: Torchwood/Regeneration
Pairing: Jack Harkness/Billy Prior
Rating: P for Porn.
Summary: See rating.
Notes: This whole Torchwood/Regeneration thing of apiphile's and mine appears to be turning into a series... This is a direct sequel to Cosmopolitan Sympathies but, y'know, porn. You don't really need to know any more than 'Pretty, traumatised soldier boys'. Title from Ivor Gurney's Ballad of the Three Spectres: ..the third spat venomously: / "He'll stay untouched till the war's last dawning / Then live one hour of agony."
Thanks to apiphile for encouragement and beta.
Jack's rooms are a pile of crap but he won't be here long enough to make it worth looking for somewhere else. The walls are damp, paper peeling away to show cracked plaster, but the bed's big and solid enough, even if the mattress has springs sticking out at odd angles.
They're barely through the door before Prior has Jack slammed up against the wall, fists clenched in the lapels of his greatcoat. "Rivers says you're bad for me," Prior says, and Jack has to laugh, even though it hurts.
"I'm the one who ends up with bruises," he points out and he's rewarded by Prior's knee jabbed between his thighs.
"Not enough of them," Prior says. "And they never fucking last." He releases one fist to shove Jack's head to the side, poke at his neck. "I choked you two days ago. Choked you with my belt till you came. I thought you were dead." He seems to glory in the words. "And there isn't a mark."
"I heal quickly," Jack says, and Prior's hand is back round his throat, pressing his head against the wall and it isn't quite hard to breathe but it easily could be, so Jack pushes back and Prior tightens his grip and it's been so many years since Jack got to play with somebody like this.
A lightning press of Prior's mouth against his, more teeth than tongue, and Prior's gone.
While Prior lights the single oil lamp, Jack strips off his greatcoat and tunic.
"Do you have to keep it so cold?" Prior says, and starts to build up the fire. Jack watches as he carefully feeds it scraps of newspaper until it catches, then arranges the coal on top. He's profligate with the coal, with Jack's money. The same way he is when they're in a pub and Jack's buying - best single malt and make it a triple.
Prior sits down on the only chair - a hard, wooden thing that should belong to a junior clerk in an office somewhere. He lets his legs fall open and says, "Suck my cock."
"Suck mine," Jack says, and watches as Prior relaxes, joints loosening.
"You really want me to?" he says, and Jack remembers the last time, Prior threatening to bite down hard, always on the verge of actually doing it.
"Fuck, yes," he says, and Prior's laugh isn't pleasant.
"Come on, then. Get the snake out."
Jack strips quickly, uniform left corpse-like on the floor. Prior's watching him and Jack thinks that a man from this time would probably be intimidated. He deliberately turns his back on Prior and says, "Want a drink?"
"Why not?" Prior says, and Jack can hear the tension under the words. Each waiting for the other to crack and push it that necessary step farther.
Jack only has two glasses, both chipped from air raids, but the whisky's a halfway-decent Scotch, judging by the price. Jack can't really tell the difference and he suspects Prior can't, either, but there was a twitch of recognition when he saw the label.
Despite the fire, the room's still cold enough that Jack's skin's clammy and he sits on the bed to drink his whisky, pulls the blankets over his lap. "If you're not going to do anything," he says, deliberately slow, "you might as well leave."
And Prior knocks back the whisky and he's there, shoving the blankets away and dropping to his knees.
And, oh, fuck.
His mouth's blazing hot compared to the air around them, so hot it's almost painful. His tunic's rough against Jack's thighs but it just makes it better. And then the first touch of teeth and Jack's got one leg on Prior's shoulder, Prior's Sam Browne cold and slick against his skin, and he's pulling Prior down, shoving his own cock deeper into Prior's mouth, his throat, and he clenches his fists into the blankets as he comes.
A final almost-bite and Prior pulls away, stands up. He coughs, hoarse and strangled sounding, and his expression is totally blank. Without a word, he starts stripping. Unlike Jack, he folds his uniform and leaves it on the rickety table that serves as a desk and Jack's fairly sure there's a class thing he's missing. But then Prior's kneeling on the bed and his hand's round Jack's throat and there's a comfort in it, in letting Prior guide him fully on to the bed.
And Prior's hand is tightening and he leans forward to say, "You don't choke me."
Jack welcomes the touch, Prior's thumb tight under his jaw and fingers splayed down his neck. Callouses in the same place as Jack's, as every other infantry officer, but there's only so much Jack'll take without fighting back, so he twists and pulls and he's bigger than Prior, heavier with more solid muscle. It's no challenge to have Prior on his back, Jack straddling his waist and holding him down until Prior's practically spitting.
And then Prior relaxes but the fury's still in his eyes. He rests a hand on Jack's chest, runs it down his body, and then a sudden grab and Prior's got a firm grip of Jack's cock. Firm enough to hurt, and threatening more.
"Get off me," Prior says, quiet and fierce.
Moving carefully, Jack obeys. A sudden shove from Prior and he's on his belly, face buried in the mattress and one arm twisted up behind his back. His arm's pushed beyond simple restraint and he can feel the familiar grating pull of an approaching dislocation. He gasps a breath and it smells of sweat and sex, ground into the sheet.
"You think you're-" Prior says and cuts it off short, gives Jack's arm another jerk upwards.
"And you know what you are," Jack says and there's a shock of silence, lasting less than a second, and Prior's between Jack's legs, shoving them open.
"Fucking cunt," Prior hisses and he pulls at Jack's hips with one hand until Jack's got his knees under him, face still pressed into the mattress and arm still held twisted behind him.
"Vaseline's in the cupboard," Jack says and, for a moment, he thinks Prior's going to ignore him but Prior takes a deep, shuddering breath and slips off the bed. Jack rolls his shoulder but leaves his arm behind his back; stays where he was put. Next time, he thinks, he'll leave the lube under his pillow.
The mattress dips as Prior climbs back on. "Fucking cunt," he says again, resting a hand on Jack's hip.
"Shut the fuck up and get on with it," Jack says and Prior's hand tightens until Jack knows he should bruise.
The Vaseline's cold enough that Jack jerks away, arm sliding from behind his back, and it gives Prior an excuse to punch him, a vicious little jab in the side that makes Jack gasp. And then Prior's cock's shoving into his asshole, just as vicious, and Jack can't breathe.
"Fucking Yank," Prior says, rushes it out on one rapid breath, accompanies it with a sharp thrust that makes Jack bite down on his lip. "Stupid fucking Yank playing at fucking war. Stupid cunt."
Another thrust, deep and hard and Jack can't keep the noises inside. Ridiculous little grunts, and Prior leans over him, bites at his back. Not nipping, biting, and one arm shoved between Jack's throat and the bed, and Jack's not sure whether he's being pulled upright or choked.
He stays where he is as Prior's arm tightens, welcomes the struggle for breath.
But it doesn't last long enough, never lasts long enough, because Prior's biting down hard on the back of Jack's neck as he comes, final shuddering thrusts too desperate to be vicious.
Prior doesn't move for a long minute and Jack can feel his breath, hot and damp and gradually steadying. And finally, he pulls out and flops onto his back beside Jack.
"I hate you," he says, eyes shut.
"I know," Jack says, and doesn't mention that he loves Prior. Loves him for being hard and violent and full of rage.
He thinks Prior has fallen asleep but, after ten minutes or so, Prior rolls off the bed. "I'm going to wash," he says. He helps himself to a towel from the cupboard by the door and wraps it round his waist before heading down the hallway to the bathroom that Jack shares with two other officers.
Jack crawls under the blankets. He's got no intention of washing until the following morning and maybe not even then. He wants to keep the stink of sex on him for as long as possible.
He dozes off waiting for Prior to get back and when he opens his eyes, Prior's fully dressed and drinking another whisky, staring unsmilingly at him. Jack smiles sleepily and Prior looks away.
"Tomorrow?" Jack says.
Finally, Prior says, "Yes," and Jack shuts his eyes.
"Night," he says, and goes back to sleep.
derryderrydown: "I, er, think that any in depth Jack/Billy would be best confined to the privacy of my id."
apiphile: "your Id and my inbox, please."
burntcopper: "...others would like cctv into your id, please."
Therefore, it's all their fault.
Title: Then Live One Hour of Agony
Fandom: Torchwood/Regeneration
Pairing: Jack Harkness/Billy Prior
Rating: P for Porn.
Summary: See rating.
Notes: This whole Torchwood/Regeneration thing of apiphile's and mine appears to be turning into a series... This is a direct sequel to Cosmopolitan Sympathies but, y'know, porn. You don't really need to know any more than 'Pretty, traumatised soldier boys'. Title from Ivor Gurney's Ballad of the Three Spectres: ..the third spat venomously: / "He'll stay untouched till the war's last dawning / Then live one hour of agony."
Thanks to apiphile for encouragement and beta.
Jack's rooms are a pile of crap but he won't be here long enough to make it worth looking for somewhere else. The walls are damp, paper peeling away to show cracked plaster, but the bed's big and solid enough, even if the mattress has springs sticking out at odd angles.
They're barely through the door before Prior has Jack slammed up against the wall, fists clenched in the lapels of his greatcoat. "Rivers says you're bad for me," Prior says, and Jack has to laugh, even though it hurts.
"I'm the one who ends up with bruises," he points out and he's rewarded by Prior's knee jabbed between his thighs.
"Not enough of them," Prior says. "And they never fucking last." He releases one fist to shove Jack's head to the side, poke at his neck. "I choked you two days ago. Choked you with my belt till you came. I thought you were dead." He seems to glory in the words. "And there isn't a mark."
"I heal quickly," Jack says, and Prior's hand is back round his throat, pressing his head against the wall and it isn't quite hard to breathe but it easily could be, so Jack pushes back and Prior tightens his grip and it's been so many years since Jack got to play with somebody like this.
A lightning press of Prior's mouth against his, more teeth than tongue, and Prior's gone.
While Prior lights the single oil lamp, Jack strips off his greatcoat and tunic.
"Do you have to keep it so cold?" Prior says, and starts to build up the fire. Jack watches as he carefully feeds it scraps of newspaper until it catches, then arranges the coal on top. He's profligate with the coal, with Jack's money. The same way he is when they're in a pub and Jack's buying - best single malt and make it a triple.
Prior sits down on the only chair - a hard, wooden thing that should belong to a junior clerk in an office somewhere. He lets his legs fall open and says, "Suck my cock."
"Suck mine," Jack says, and watches as Prior relaxes, joints loosening.
"You really want me to?" he says, and Jack remembers the last time, Prior threatening to bite down hard, always on the verge of actually doing it.
"Fuck, yes," he says, and Prior's laugh isn't pleasant.
"Come on, then. Get the snake out."
Jack strips quickly, uniform left corpse-like on the floor. Prior's watching him and Jack thinks that a man from this time would probably be intimidated. He deliberately turns his back on Prior and says, "Want a drink?"
"Why not?" Prior says, and Jack can hear the tension under the words. Each waiting for the other to crack and push it that necessary step farther.
Jack only has two glasses, both chipped from air raids, but the whisky's a halfway-decent Scotch, judging by the price. Jack can't really tell the difference and he suspects Prior can't, either, but there was a twitch of recognition when he saw the label.
Despite the fire, the room's still cold enough that Jack's skin's clammy and he sits on the bed to drink his whisky, pulls the blankets over his lap. "If you're not going to do anything," he says, deliberately slow, "you might as well leave."
And Prior knocks back the whisky and he's there, shoving the blankets away and dropping to his knees.
And, oh, fuck.
His mouth's blazing hot compared to the air around them, so hot it's almost painful. His tunic's rough against Jack's thighs but it just makes it better. And then the first touch of teeth and Jack's got one leg on Prior's shoulder, Prior's Sam Browne cold and slick against his skin, and he's pulling Prior down, shoving his own cock deeper into Prior's mouth, his throat, and he clenches his fists into the blankets as he comes.
A final almost-bite and Prior pulls away, stands up. He coughs, hoarse and strangled sounding, and his expression is totally blank. Without a word, he starts stripping. Unlike Jack, he folds his uniform and leaves it on the rickety table that serves as a desk and Jack's fairly sure there's a class thing he's missing. But then Prior's kneeling on the bed and his hand's round Jack's throat and there's a comfort in it, in letting Prior guide him fully on to the bed.
And Prior's hand is tightening and he leans forward to say, "You don't choke me."
Jack welcomes the touch, Prior's thumb tight under his jaw and fingers splayed down his neck. Callouses in the same place as Jack's, as every other infantry officer, but there's only so much Jack'll take without fighting back, so he twists and pulls and he's bigger than Prior, heavier with more solid muscle. It's no challenge to have Prior on his back, Jack straddling his waist and holding him down until Prior's practically spitting.
And then Prior relaxes but the fury's still in his eyes. He rests a hand on Jack's chest, runs it down his body, and then a sudden grab and Prior's got a firm grip of Jack's cock. Firm enough to hurt, and threatening more.
"Get off me," Prior says, quiet and fierce.
Moving carefully, Jack obeys. A sudden shove from Prior and he's on his belly, face buried in the mattress and one arm twisted up behind his back. His arm's pushed beyond simple restraint and he can feel the familiar grating pull of an approaching dislocation. He gasps a breath and it smells of sweat and sex, ground into the sheet.
"You think you're-" Prior says and cuts it off short, gives Jack's arm another jerk upwards.
"And you know what you are," Jack says and there's a shock of silence, lasting less than a second, and Prior's between Jack's legs, shoving them open.
"Fucking cunt," Prior hisses and he pulls at Jack's hips with one hand until Jack's got his knees under him, face still pressed into the mattress and arm still held twisted behind him.
"Vaseline's in the cupboard," Jack says and, for a moment, he thinks Prior's going to ignore him but Prior takes a deep, shuddering breath and slips off the bed. Jack rolls his shoulder but leaves his arm behind his back; stays where he was put. Next time, he thinks, he'll leave the lube under his pillow.
The mattress dips as Prior climbs back on. "Fucking cunt," he says again, resting a hand on Jack's hip.
"Shut the fuck up and get on with it," Jack says and Prior's hand tightens until Jack knows he should bruise.
The Vaseline's cold enough that Jack jerks away, arm sliding from behind his back, and it gives Prior an excuse to punch him, a vicious little jab in the side that makes Jack gasp. And then Prior's cock's shoving into his asshole, just as vicious, and Jack can't breathe.
"Fucking Yank," Prior says, rushes it out on one rapid breath, accompanies it with a sharp thrust that makes Jack bite down on his lip. "Stupid fucking Yank playing at fucking war. Stupid cunt."
Another thrust, deep and hard and Jack can't keep the noises inside. Ridiculous little grunts, and Prior leans over him, bites at his back. Not nipping, biting, and one arm shoved between Jack's throat and the bed, and Jack's not sure whether he's being pulled upright or choked.
He stays where he is as Prior's arm tightens, welcomes the struggle for breath.
But it doesn't last long enough, never lasts long enough, because Prior's biting down hard on the back of Jack's neck as he comes, final shuddering thrusts too desperate to be vicious.
Prior doesn't move for a long minute and Jack can feel his breath, hot and damp and gradually steadying. And finally, he pulls out and flops onto his back beside Jack.
"I hate you," he says, eyes shut.
"I know," Jack says, and doesn't mention that he loves Prior. Loves him for being hard and violent and full of rage.
He thinks Prior has fallen asleep but, after ten minutes or so, Prior rolls off the bed. "I'm going to wash," he says. He helps himself to a towel from the cupboard by the door and wraps it round his waist before heading down the hallway to the bathroom that Jack shares with two other officers.
Jack crawls under the blankets. He's got no intention of washing until the following morning and maybe not even then. He wants to keep the stink of sex on him for as long as possible.
He dozes off waiting for Prior to get back and when he opens his eyes, Prior's fully dressed and drinking another whisky, staring unsmilingly at him. Jack smiles sleepily and Prior looks away.
"Tomorrow?" Jack says.
Finally, Prior says, "Yes," and Jack shuts his eyes.
"Night," he says, and goes back to sleep.