Fic: Just to lift these worried blues
Title: Just to lift these worried blues
Rating: R
Words: 462
Characters: Jack/John
Warnings: Nasty sex (because that is all I seem capable of with these two). No beta.
Summary: For bohemiabythesea, who asked for Jack/John and an after-fight power-balance-restoration sort of thing with the prompts ‘blue, hoarse, flicker’. (Although I didn’t quite manage to restore the balance.)
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Russell T Davies and the BBC.
They always seem to trash bars. John’s sitting at a table against the wall, looking around at the wreck of the place. Next to his feet, an electrical bug zapper buzzes. The Exocutor’s blue light falters as a fly is electrocuted, important enough, however momentarily, to create a sound and a flicker. He watches the insect fall to the grimy floor, twitching a little.
Jack’s heavy boot lands on the fly, squashing it into the dirt. His hand carelessly pushes John’s hair back from his forehead, turning his face to the light to examine the gash at his temple. ‘That looks nasty. Poor baby.’ There’s no derision in his tone. Just the merest hint of mock-affection, if anything.
John bats his arm away, pulling himself to his feet and shoving Jack backwards in the same movement. ‘You fucking arse, you almost got me killed.’
He’s only allowed to catch a glimpse of Jack’s humourless, dazzling grin before he’s spun around and shoved up against the wall, his cheek against bare brick. Jack presses his stun gun to John’s throat. ‘I think we’ll dispense with the preliminaries tonight.’
John’s cock hardens instantly at the feel of the cold metal against his skin. ‘You really want to do this on 1950s Earth?’ John asks uselessly, already helpless with lust.
‘Oh, we’ve a while before the cops show up, I guarantee that.’ Cloth tears and John’s trousers and pants are shoved down to his thighs. He hears Jack spit into his hand and an instant later he’s pushing back shamelessly against Jack’s fingers, panting.
That damned coat swirls against his legs as Jack fucks him into the wall, hands strong as vices on John’s hips, voice hoarse and filthy in John’s ear. In between thrusts, he indulges John with brief, crackling bursts of electricity from the taser: on his throat, his stomach, his thigh, the base of his cock.
‘Getting brutal, are we?’ John taunts between gasps. ‘Getting to be less than human. You wouldn’t have had the balls to do this with your precious-’
‘No more from you,’ Jack snarls, upping the setting and sending a jolt of electricity through the nape of John’s neck. John comes all over the wall, screaming, only dimly aware of sirens sounding in the distance.
Rating: R
Words: 462
Characters: Jack/John
Warnings: Nasty sex (because that is all I seem capable of with these two). No beta.
Summary: For bohemiabythesea, who asked for Jack/John and an after-fight power-balance-restoration sort of thing with the prompts ‘blue, hoarse, flicker’. (Although I didn’t quite manage to restore the balance.)
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Russell T Davies and the BBC.
They always seem to trash bars. John’s sitting at a table against the wall, looking around at the wreck of the place. Next to his feet, an electrical bug zapper buzzes. The Exocutor’s blue light falters as a fly is electrocuted, important enough, however momentarily, to create a sound and a flicker. He watches the insect fall to the grimy floor, twitching a little.
Jack’s heavy boot lands on the fly, squashing it into the dirt. His hand carelessly pushes John’s hair back from his forehead, turning his face to the light to examine the gash at his temple. ‘That looks nasty. Poor baby.’ There’s no derision in his tone. Just the merest hint of mock-affection, if anything.
John bats his arm away, pulling himself to his feet and shoving Jack backwards in the same movement. ‘You fucking arse, you almost got me killed.’
He’s only allowed to catch a glimpse of Jack’s humourless, dazzling grin before he’s spun around and shoved up against the wall, his cheek against bare brick. Jack presses his stun gun to John’s throat. ‘I think we’ll dispense with the preliminaries tonight.’
John’s cock hardens instantly at the feel of the cold metal against his skin. ‘You really want to do this on 1950s Earth?’ John asks uselessly, already helpless with lust.
‘Oh, we’ve a while before the cops show up, I guarantee that.’ Cloth tears and John’s trousers and pants are shoved down to his thighs. He hears Jack spit into his hand and an instant later he’s pushing back shamelessly against Jack’s fingers, panting.
That damned coat swirls against his legs as Jack fucks him into the wall, hands strong as vices on John’s hips, voice hoarse and filthy in John’s ear. In between thrusts, he indulges John with brief, crackling bursts of electricity from the taser: on his throat, his stomach, his thigh, the base of his cock.
‘Getting brutal, are we?’ John taunts between gasps. ‘Getting to be less than human. You wouldn’t have had the balls to do this with your precious-’
‘No more from you,’ Jack snarls, upping the setting and sending a jolt of electricity through the nape of John’s neck. John comes all over the wall, screaming, only dimly aware of sirens sounding in the distance.