MMOM-Day 30 "The One Where K-Gal Loses It" Multi-fandom, meta-crack!fic.
Title: The One Where K-Gal Loses It
Fandoms: Torchwood/Life On Mars/House MD/Dynasty/Bones and just a smidge of RPS
Characters: Too numerous to mention.
Rating: Confused
Wordcount: 1260
Notes/Warnings/Apologies: It's meta, it's crack!, it's self-referential and it's a shameless rip-off heartfelt homage of Interference by daasgrrl, but it's day 30 and I AM LOSING IT.
Thanks to hllangel for the beta and everybody who gave me a prompt whether I used it or not.
Summary-It's day 30 and someone's getting desperate.
He’d come back, only to find the team had moved on, each in their own way, some incremental, some massive. Gwen with an engagement ring and Ianto with the chutzpah not to hit the floor the minute Jack said something suggestive.
Maybe he should have stayed with the Doctor and ignored the residual hurt of seeing how much the Master had meant to him and how little the rest of them did, including specifically Jack. Someday he’d be able to forgive. Apparently he had plenty of days and years to work on it, but not now. Now was for anger, remorse, and not surprisingly for Jack, lust.
Is this another wank?
Yeah.
Not in the mood.
You? Jack Harkness? Not in the mood?
Not for that. What happened to all that hard-core stuff you used to write?
As soon as the month is over, I promise.
I don’t have to jerk off. I’ve got the whole team to choose from, or I can just go out and snap my fingers.
Egotistical, much?
Hey, it’s me.
Please, Jack. I’m almost done with the month and you’re my go-to guy.
And look what you’ve been doing to me? Emily and Alice? Cole? You think I like going through that.
I’m planning a great birthday crossover fic for kohl-rimmed-eye.
Do I actually get to fuck someone for a change?
Trust me.
Ianto sat on his bed, a stolen bottle of non-retconned champagne in his hand and the image of Jack dancing with Gwen refusing to leave his mind. He’d never thought it would be possible to hate Jack more than he had after Lisa’s death, but he also hadn’t believed that Jack would wear his heart on his sleeve at the wedding, knowing he was tearing Ianto’s out.
At least he’d had one part of Jack that Gwen never would. The only thing that could blot out the sight of Jack’s smile at Gwen was the image of Jack’s face as they were fucking.
He undid his trousers and…
Oh no you don’t.
What?
You don’t even like me. You have an agenda.
Finishing this month.
Not on my time.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Bye-bye. No wanking here. Just a bowl of popcorn and a good movie.
Fine. That threesome’s too good for you anyway. Wait’ll you see what I’m going to let Captain John do to you when I get around to it.
I’m terribly frightened. Do let me know when that “novel” of yours is done. I’m so looking forward to the signing party.
Captain John and a Weevil.
Kutner sat on the floor in his living room, watching the video of Amber and Wilson….
WTF? SRSLY?
Oh, you so would.
No! EWWWWWW. Gross.
How about a picture of House that you took with your cell-phone? You’re in love with him right?
No! I’m straight.
Yeah. Like Chase is straight.
Chase is totally straight.
And you’re totally an idiot. I don’t want to see you jerk-off. Go away.
You could try 13. She’s bisexual. That’s pretty hot.
Not giving Shore the satisfaction.
Wait till you see who gets the big romance in the next season.
House and Wilson? We’re gonna get the canon-slash? Finally? Please. Come on Kutner, tell me that and I write you the best damn sex scene with anyone you want. Thirteen, Cuddy, Brenda?
Who?
Never mind. Before your time. See ya later.
Sam couldn’t sleep. The girl in the television was telling him to do things that little girls shouldn't see or know about.
“Touch yourself. You know you want to.”
And he did, even though he’d been holding back, not wanting to be the gibbering madman wanking in the corner of the asylum or being caught with the old fellow in his hand the next time DCI Hunt decided to make one of his typical unannounced and unwelcome entrances.
What’s going on here?
Trying to write one more wank!fic?
With me in it?
Yeah.
And what kind of wank is it, exactly.
You. Thinking about Gene.
Are you daft?
Everybody does it.
And if everybody jumped off a bloomin’ cliff? A little creativity,please.
But what about when he said that thing about the “world-famous sexual prowess?”
Nearly put me off my lunch for a week.
Annie left in a hurry.
Stay away from her.
Or what?
I’m not the one you want to mess with missy.
Sounding a bit like Gene there, you know.
So go write him.
I can’t.
Then leave me the fuck alone until you know what you’re doing.
Alexis stubbed out her Nat Sherman cigarillo in the Baccarat crystal ashtray the sultan had given as one of the many tokens of his esteem. The beginning of a tear was forming in a corner of her eye but Alexis fought it back. She was far past crying over any man, even as much of a man as Dex.
There was solace in brandy and relief from frustration in her favorite dildo, imported from Amsterdam, cast in titanium and molded to her specifications. This way she could get satisfaction without breaking a nail.
What sort of pathetic creature are you?
I promised David I’d do an Alexis/Dex story before the month was out.
And what on earth are you wearing?
Jeans and a hoodie?
You cannot write Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter while wearing jeans and a hoodie.
They’re Gloria Vanderbilt’s.
Out!
Gordon Wyatt reconsidered the ramifications of his relationship with Agent Booth, now that Booth could no longer be considered his patient, but had in fact moved on to the status of friend. Did that make his abiding, surreptitious lust more, or less acceptable?
Well now you’re just repeating yourself, aren’t you.
You try doing this for thirty-one days and see where it gets you.
Deflecting, I see. You undertook the challenge for the second year in a row. What exactly were you trying to achieve?
More comments, I guess.
Which you call “crack,” do you not?
Sometimes.
So this is an addiction for you.
You just noticed?
And a sexual turn-on as well?
Well it is about masturbation.
You’ve been up how many nights with your friend, hllangel, working on these little works of art until you’re both exhausted. Flushed. Exhilirated.
No wonder they replaced you with Sweets.
Have you considered long-term therapy?
Jack!
You again?
I’m begging.
I like the sound of that.
Please don't flirt, Jack. Just wank.
What’s in it for me?
What usually happens at the end of that sort of thing?
When you write it? Usually a week of depression.
Okay. You want fluff? I’ll write fluff. Ianto-fluff even. Ianto-fluff with hockey-sticks and UNIT Caps and whatever the hell goes on in the greenhouse.
You can do better.
Threesomes. Foursomes. Mass orgy. Weevils, Triffids, gratuitous RPF mentions….
Getting warmer.
Real people. Which ones?
The only one I can’t have.
Do you know how many barstools I’ve got lined up in hell as it is?
Do you really want to admit you couldn’t write a whole month’s worth?
Sometimes I really, really hate you.
No you don't.
The bedroom was quiet in the early morning hours. Later on there’d be the sounds of London traffic, but now there were only the sighs of two sleeping men, one of whom reached out instinctively for his partner and murmured something that might have been a name or just a syllable.
He didn’t see the figure in the shadows, opening a long, grey coat and undoing his trousers.
Fandoms: Torchwood/Life On Mars/House MD/Dynasty/Bones and just a smidge of RPS
Characters: Too numerous to mention.
Rating: Confused
Wordcount: 1260
Notes/Warnings/Apologies: It's meta, it's crack!, it's self-referential and it's a shameless rip-off heartfelt homage of Interference by daasgrrl, but it's day 30 and I AM LOSING IT.
Thanks to hllangel for the beta and everybody who gave me a prompt whether I used it or not.
Summary-It's day 30 and someone's getting desperate.
He’d come back, only to find the team had moved on, each in their own way, some incremental, some massive. Gwen with an engagement ring and Ianto with the chutzpah not to hit the floor the minute Jack said something suggestive.
Maybe he should have stayed with the Doctor and ignored the residual hurt of seeing how much the Master had meant to him and how little the rest of them did, including specifically Jack. Someday he’d be able to forgive. Apparently he had plenty of days and years to work on it, but not now. Now was for anger, remorse, and not surprisingly for Jack, lust.
Is this another wank?
Yeah.
Not in the mood.
You? Jack Harkness? Not in the mood?
Not for that. What happened to all that hard-core stuff you used to write?
As soon as the month is over, I promise.
I don’t have to jerk off. I’ve got the whole team to choose from, or I can just go out and snap my fingers.
Egotistical, much?
Hey, it’s me.
Please, Jack. I’m almost done with the month and you’re my go-to guy.
And look what you’ve been doing to me? Emily and Alice? Cole? You think I like going through that.
I’m planning a great birthday crossover fic for kohl-rimmed-eye.
Do I actually get to fuck someone for a change?
Trust me.
Ianto sat on his bed, a stolen bottle of non-retconned champagne in his hand and the image of Jack dancing with Gwen refusing to leave his mind. He’d never thought it would be possible to hate Jack more than he had after Lisa’s death, but he also hadn’t believed that Jack would wear his heart on his sleeve at the wedding, knowing he was tearing Ianto’s out.
At least he’d had one part of Jack that Gwen never would. The only thing that could blot out the sight of Jack’s smile at Gwen was the image of Jack’s face as they were fucking.
He undid his trousers and…
Oh no you don’t.
What?
You don’t even like me. You have an agenda.
Finishing this month.
Not on my time.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Bye-bye. No wanking here. Just a bowl of popcorn and a good movie.
Fine. That threesome’s too good for you anyway. Wait’ll you see what I’m going to let Captain John do to you when I get around to it.
I’m terribly frightened. Do let me know when that “novel” of yours is done. I’m so looking forward to the signing party.
Captain John and a Weevil.
Kutner sat on the floor in his living room, watching the video of Amber and Wilson….
WTF? SRSLY?
Oh, you so would.
No! EWWWWWW. Gross.
How about a picture of House that you took with your cell-phone? You’re in love with him right?
No! I’m straight.
Yeah. Like Chase is straight.
Chase is totally straight.
And you’re totally an idiot. I don’t want to see you jerk-off. Go away.
You could try 13. She’s bisexual. That’s pretty hot.
Not giving Shore the satisfaction.
Wait till you see who gets the big romance in the next season.
House and Wilson? We’re gonna get the canon-slash? Finally? Please. Come on Kutner, tell me that and I write you the best damn sex scene with anyone you want. Thirteen, Cuddy, Brenda?
Who?
Never mind. Before your time. See ya later.
Sam couldn’t sleep. The girl in the television was telling him to do things that little girls shouldn't see or know about.
“Touch yourself. You know you want to.”
And he did, even though he’d been holding back, not wanting to be the gibbering madman wanking in the corner of the asylum or being caught with the old fellow in his hand the next time DCI Hunt decided to make one of his typical unannounced and unwelcome entrances.
What’s going on here?
Trying to write one more wank!fic?
With me in it?
Yeah.
And what kind of wank is it, exactly.
You. Thinking about Gene.
Are you daft?
Everybody does it.
And if everybody jumped off a bloomin’ cliff? A little creativity,please.
But what about when he said that thing about the “world-famous sexual prowess?”
Nearly put me off my lunch for a week.
Annie left in a hurry.
Stay away from her.
Or what?
I’m not the one you want to mess with missy.
Sounding a bit like Gene there, you know.
So go write him.
I can’t.
Then leave me the fuck alone until you know what you’re doing.
Alexis stubbed out her Nat Sherman cigarillo in the Baccarat crystal ashtray the sultan had given as one of the many tokens of his esteem. The beginning of a tear was forming in a corner of her eye but Alexis fought it back. She was far past crying over any man, even as much of a man as Dex.
There was solace in brandy and relief from frustration in her favorite dildo, imported from Amsterdam, cast in titanium and molded to her specifications. This way she could get satisfaction without breaking a nail.
What sort of pathetic creature are you?
I promised David I’d do an Alexis/Dex story before the month was out.
And what on earth are you wearing?
Jeans and a hoodie?
You cannot write Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter while wearing jeans and a hoodie.
They’re Gloria Vanderbilt’s.
Out!
Gordon Wyatt reconsidered the ramifications of his relationship with Agent Booth, now that Booth could no longer be considered his patient, but had in fact moved on to the status of friend. Did that make his abiding, surreptitious lust more, or less acceptable?
Well now you’re just repeating yourself, aren’t you.
You try doing this for thirty-one days and see where it gets you.
Deflecting, I see. You undertook the challenge for the second year in a row. What exactly were you trying to achieve?
More comments, I guess.
Which you call “crack,” do you not?
Sometimes.
So this is an addiction for you.
You just noticed?
And a sexual turn-on as well?
Well it is about masturbation.
You’ve been up how many nights with your friend, hllangel, working on these little works of art until you’re both exhausted. Flushed. Exhilirated.
No wonder they replaced you with Sweets.
Have you considered long-term therapy?
Jack!
You again?
I’m begging.
I like the sound of that.
Please don't flirt, Jack. Just wank.
What’s in it for me?
What usually happens at the end of that sort of thing?
When you write it? Usually a week of depression.
Okay. You want fluff? I’ll write fluff. Ianto-fluff even. Ianto-fluff with hockey-sticks and UNIT Caps and whatever the hell goes on in the greenhouse.
You can do better.
Threesomes. Foursomes. Mass orgy. Weevils, Triffids, gratuitous RPF mentions….
Getting warmer.
Real people. Which ones?
The only one I can’t have.
Do you know how many barstools I’ve got lined up in hell as it is?
Do you really want to admit you couldn’t write a whole month’s worth?
Sometimes I really, really hate you.
No you don't.
The bedroom was quiet in the early morning hours. Later on there’d be the sounds of London traffic, but now there were only the sighs of two sleeping men, one of whom reached out instinctively for his partner and murmured something that might have been a name or just a syllable.
He didn’t see the figure in the shadows, opening a long, grey coat and undoing his trousers.