"Kind Of Tragic," Torchwood, Jack/Gwen
Title: Kind Of Tragic
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Gwen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Genre: Het
Summary: Jack wants to do her in her wedding dress.
Author’s Notes: Written for karaokegal’s Fanfic Halloween Party, because, let’s face it, Jack/Gwen makes me positively angry. But it is about time I wrote some (even if it’s only a teeny snippet at the moment). Spoilers for 2x09 & bonus points for people who can tell me what the significance of the title is :)
Jack wants to do her in her wedding dress, alien blood stains et al, all flushed and happy on another man’s love.
He doesn’t confess to it, but her eyes flicker over him and he thinks everyone else at the wedding has figured it out; only no one mentions it and Rhys’ fingers curl tight against his new wife’s arm. Jack manages a lack-lustre smile, and Ianto pulls away from him in the middle of their second dance with something similar to disgust in his eyes, though he’ll come back because his options have skimmed thin; it’s Jack, or it’s Owen, who is incapable of managing a hard-on right now, or it’s Tosh, who has a little too much dignity for all this.
Gwen’s smile doesn’t portray smugness so much as coquetry; but Jack has played the good guy for so long he just about manages to curl fingers into his hands and not pull her from the dancefloor, back her into one of those badly-decorated rooms upstairs, push that damaged white skirt up her thighs and damn well give her something to scream about.
He’s on his very best behaviour.
(“I’m nearly proud of you, Harkness,” Owen observes, damaged hand slapping a little too hard against Jack’s shoulder. “I was convinced you’d be shagging Mrs Williams in the hayloft by now.”
Jack ignores him, and decides to dock his pay for the comment. After all, there’s no sense in being the boss unless you can abuse it. Owen just laughs, and goes off to ply Ianto and Tosh with vicarious drinks.)
Retcon keeps him occupied; he could probably convince the two bridesmaids that they’re up for something quick and filthy in a bathroom somewhere, but Jack’s unwritten rule regarding weddings is: get the bride and/or groom, or no one. He’s always liked a challenge.
“Mrs Williams,” he says calmly, catching Gwen in the darkening garden. Even in the poor lighting, he sees her flush. “I just wanted to offer my congratulations,” he adds.
Gwen’s eyes flicker towards the room full of music and light and retcon-saturated alcohol, and back to him again. She’s shivering, arms wrapped around herself, the dress comically too big and smeared black with blood. Probably not the way she pictured the wedding going, back before Torchwood.
Jack? Jack doesn’t care.
“Congratulations,” he murmurs, tipping her chin up with two fingers and leaning in to catch her mouth.
It’s almost a surprise when her lips open immediately; at least, it would probably be a surprise to anyone but Jack. He’s used to things like this happening, after all. His tongue sweeps hers, teeth stroking across her lip. Thorough and quick and he pulls away, leaving her mouth a little open, shining and wet in the poor lighting.
“Enjoy the honeymoon,” he offers, turning away.
“Bastard.” Gwen’s tone is flat, hard.
Jack permits himself a flickering smirk as he walks away, though he doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to.
This is not in any way the end.
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Gwen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Genre: Het
Summary: Jack wants to do her in her wedding dress.
Author’s Notes: Written for karaokegal’s Fanfic Halloween Party, because, let’s face it, Jack/Gwen makes me positively angry. But it is about time I wrote some (even if it’s only a teeny snippet at the moment). Spoilers for 2x09 & bonus points for people who can tell me what the significance of the title is :)
Jack wants to do her in her wedding dress, alien blood stains et al, all flushed and happy on another man’s love.
He doesn’t confess to it, but her eyes flicker over him and he thinks everyone else at the wedding has figured it out; only no one mentions it and Rhys’ fingers curl tight against his new wife’s arm. Jack manages a lack-lustre smile, and Ianto pulls away from him in the middle of their second dance with something similar to disgust in his eyes, though he’ll come back because his options have skimmed thin; it’s Jack, or it’s Owen, who is incapable of managing a hard-on right now, or it’s Tosh, who has a little too much dignity for all this.
Gwen’s smile doesn’t portray smugness so much as coquetry; but Jack has played the good guy for so long he just about manages to curl fingers into his hands and not pull her from the dancefloor, back her into one of those badly-decorated rooms upstairs, push that damaged white skirt up her thighs and damn well give her something to scream about.
He’s on his very best behaviour.
(“I’m nearly proud of you, Harkness,” Owen observes, damaged hand slapping a little too hard against Jack’s shoulder. “I was convinced you’d be shagging Mrs Williams in the hayloft by now.”
Jack ignores him, and decides to dock his pay for the comment. After all, there’s no sense in being the boss unless you can abuse it. Owen just laughs, and goes off to ply Ianto and Tosh with vicarious drinks.)
Retcon keeps him occupied; he could probably convince the two bridesmaids that they’re up for something quick and filthy in a bathroom somewhere, but Jack’s unwritten rule regarding weddings is: get the bride and/or groom, or no one. He’s always liked a challenge.
“Mrs Williams,” he says calmly, catching Gwen in the darkening garden. Even in the poor lighting, he sees her flush. “I just wanted to offer my congratulations,” he adds.
Gwen’s eyes flicker towards the room full of music and light and retcon-saturated alcohol, and back to him again. She’s shivering, arms wrapped around herself, the dress comically too big and smeared black with blood. Probably not the way she pictured the wedding going, back before Torchwood.
Jack? Jack doesn’t care.
“Congratulations,” he murmurs, tipping her chin up with two fingers and leaning in to catch her mouth.
It’s almost a surprise when her lips open immediately; at least, it would probably be a surprise to anyone but Jack. He’s used to things like this happening, after all. His tongue sweeps hers, teeth stroking across her lip. Thorough and quick and he pulls away, leaving her mouth a little open, shining and wet in the poor lighting.
“Enjoy the honeymoon,” he offers, turning away.
“Bastard.” Gwen’s tone is flat, hard.
Jack permits himself a flickering smirk as he walks away, though he doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to.
This is not in any way the end.