Sublimation. R/nc17. Jack/Owen.
Title: Sublimation.
Pairing: Jack/Owen (set pre-series one)
Rating: NC17/adult
Word Count: 3512
Prompts: Collars. Kneeling. Floggers. Breaking somebody to tears, Jack/Owen.
Warnings: BDSM (all totally consensual)
Authors note: This was originally written for round 9 of rounds_of_kink but has since had parts added/rewritten. Original version can be found here
Its been brewing for a while now, the tension, the anger and the impotent rage at situations beyond his control. All the lives he couldn’t save eating him up inside.
Jack can see it in Owen’s stiff posture as he works. Leant over the autopsy table his scalpel slicing into the weevil’s chest with a ferocity that even a corpse doesn’t deserve. He hears it in the way Owen’s teasing is harsher than normal, more biting and hurtful in how it’s directed, until even Suzie has felt the need to call him on it.
He knows that if he lets it go on much longer there will be trouble. Whether it will be an ill chosen word at the wrong moment, Owen arriving at the Hub still drunk from the previous night’s bender or if it will simply be that one day Owen doesn’t arrive at all and he has to go collect a body from the city morgue, Jack doesn’t know.
What he does know is that it has to stop, and it has to stop right now.
After watching Suzie and Tosh leave for the night, Jack checks that Owen is still down in the autopsy bay before ducking back in to his office. Closing the door, he gives the systems one last check before switching Hub’s computers and messenger system to auto. Then, satisfied that they won’t be disturbed unless it is a real emergency, he climbs down the hatchway behind his desk.
Pulling a trunk out from under his bed, Jack spends a few minutes sorting through the contents. He knows that most people would, were they to see what the trunk contains, think that he has far more sex toys and fetish equipment than is reasonable for one person to own. The simple fact is that its been collected over a number of years, and Jack hates not having the right piece of kit on hand should he, or the person he’s with, want it.
Taking three floggers from the trunk, Jack runs the strands through his fingers, feeling the different weights and textures of them. A light weight one with wide, soft tails, a medium weight on that feels so familiar in his hand, its grip worn smooth with use, and a heavier one, rarely used, its narrow tails made of plaited leather cord.
These are exactly what he needs. Its been a couple of months since the last time he and Owen did this, and he knows that every time they do this there’s a very real chance that it will be the last. Either because Owen will say no more or he will go the way of every other Torchwood operative that Jack has ever known.
For now though Owen is his responsibility, or at least that’s how Jack sees it. It was him who’d brought Owen into Torchwood, him who’d forced Owen to go on living when he’d thought he’d got nothing left to give, and him who’d first introduced Owen to this somewhat unorthodox method of stress relief.
Pushing the trunk back to under his bed, Jack returns to his office. Placing the floggers on his desk, he opens one of the drawers and removes a collar. It’s narrow, the black leather soft and pliable when he turns it slowly in his hands. The silver buckle glints slightly in the low lamp light of the office, the glint reflected in his eyes as he recalls how good Owen looks in it.
Owen naked but for the collar, kneeling on the floor in front of him, looking at him with those dark, defiant eyes. Jack palms himself through his trousers. Damn, but thinking about Owen like that makes him hard.
Leaving the floggers on his desk, Jack goes to find Owen.
Owen has finished in the autopsy bay, all traces of blood and alien corpse have been removed, when Jack descends the steps.
“Owen.”
He doesn’t look up, just gives a non-committal grunt and finishes drying his hands.
“It’s not nice to ignore your boss, you know. Could get you into trouble.”
Owen still doesn’t look around, and his tone is irritable when he replies, “What do you want?”
Jack closes the distance between them until Owen is almost close enough to touch. “What I want is for you to remember that some things are out of your control.”
“You can’t remember something you haven’t learnt.”
“Then maybe it’s about time you learnt.”
That seems to get Owen’s attention and he turns to face Jack, looking slightly startled to find Jack standing so close. “You going to teach me then?”
“Yeah, I thought I’d offer a refresher course.” Jack takes the collar from his pocket, letting Owen realise just what he was offering tonight.
Owen’s eyes flick over to the collar that’s held loosely in Jack’s hands, recognition of it and the last time they used it clear on his face. “And what makes you think I’ll say yes?”
“Experience.” Jack keeps his gaze cool and indifferent as he hands Owen the collar, although his hands are warm when they linger a fraction too long. “Put it on. Then go to the firing range, strip and wait for me.”
Owen glares at Jack, but he takes the collar from him without hesitation, turning it slowly in his hands, fingertips considering the smooth, soft leather. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you hand it back to me right now and you get the hell out of here. You go and do whatever you have to to get by. But I want you back here tomorrow morning still functioning. Have you got that?”
Owen gives a short, bitter laugh. “We both know that’s not going to happen.”
Jack doesn’t push for clarification, he doesn’t need it, he knows Owen far too well for that. Instead he watches impassively as Owen slowly puts the collar around his neck and fastens the small sliver buckle.
Once it’s done Jack places a hand on Owen’s shoulder fingers briefly kneading the tense muscles, showing his pleasure at Owen doing as he’s asked. “Good. Now go down to the firing range, strip and wait for me. I’ll be…” He checks his watch although he already knows how exactly how long he’s going to give Owen to get ready. “…fifteen minutes.”
There is a flicker of something in Owen’s eyes as he leaves, something that is as much excitement and anticipation as it is trepidation as to how far their session will go this time.
As soon as Owen has left Jack returns to his office to watch Owen on the CCTV as he makes his way down to the firing range. The firing range is as good a place as any, it has plenty of space, a well stocked medical kit if anything were to go horribly wrong and is, when the door is closed, as private a place as they are likely to get in the Hub.
Jack doesn’t need fifteen minutes to get ready or to gather his toys: he’s already done that. No, those minutes are to be spent observing Owen, reading his body language as he strips, trying to gauge how far and how hard the session will need to be for Owen to get any benefit from it.
The first time that they’d done this Jack had talked Owen through it, had explained it all in advance, had agreed with him words and signals that he should use if it became more than he could take or was comfortable with.
Words and signals that he'd rapidly discovered Owen didn’t use, even when he was sure that they were on the edge of taking it places that he was confident Owen wouldn’t want to go. It's for that reason, and that reason alone, that Jack has ordered Owen not to do this with anybody other than him. It’s not about jealousy or making Owen his, it’s about saving him from himself and preventing anybody else getting caught up in one of Owen’s self destructive episodes.
Whether Owen’s inclination towards self-destruction is in fact some incredibly complex and twisted passive aggressive game that he’s playing with him or if it’s that Owen really has no sense of self-preservation when he gets into his darker moods, Jack doesn’t know. If he’s honest with himself maybe he doesn’t want to know, things are complicated enough between them as it is without over analysing what is and isn’t going on inside Owen head.
Tonight, Jack can see the barely suppressed rage and hurt bubbling just below the surface. It’s in the way that Owen moves, all sharp actions and anger. The way he strips off his clothes, throwing them on the floor without a second thought. The fact that Owen somehow manages to make taking off his socks look aggressive tells Jack that Owen will be looking for a hard session tonight, one to break him down until he can finally let go.
Not that its ever been easy to get Owen to a state where he’s able to let go, where he no longer feels the need to or indeed has the ability to hide his fears behind sarcasm and overconfidence. Part of keeping Owen Harper whole and sane is breaking him down sometimes and then being there to put him back together.
Jack’s not sure what Owen’s life had been like before Torchwood, what has made Owen the man he is, because he’s sure that it’s not only the loss of his fiancé. Most days though he doesn’t have enough free time to wonder, and on the days that he does the final decision is always the same: It’s none of his damn business.
Playing dom for Owen on the occasions when it gets to much is exhausting though. It’s the fact that he seems to have almost no concept of when he’s had enough. Yet somehow it makes it all the more of a rush because Jack knows that Owen is truly putting his life in his hands. It’s a trust that Jack would never willingly betray. Owen is giving him something special: complete and total trust, and that not something than anybody has given him for a very long time.
Eventually Owen is naked except for the slim leather collar, and damn if he doesn’t look every bit as hot as Jack remembers.
Checking his watch, only five minutes have passed, Jack leans back in his chair. It will take him less than a minute to get to Owen. He smiles, opens his flies and slips a hand inside. There’s no way he’s going to do the session with a hard on, it’s far too distracting and Owen really does deserve his full attention.
Jack knows that Owen looks even better in person than he does over the CCTV. Lean and wiry, there seems to be nothing that isn’t essential for survival, everything pared down to the barest minimum. Owen’s not perfect, maybe not even conventionally handsome, but his attitude, wicked sense of humour and hidden heart of gold, make him a damn attractive man.
Working his cock with hard, fast strokes, Jack watches Owen as walks around the firing range, kicking idly at spent bullet casings that nobody can be bother to tidy away.
It doesn’t take long before Jack feels balls start to tighten and then he’s coming, hot and wet across his fingers. He knows Owen will be able to see the damp patch on his trousers, knows that Owen will realise that he’s been getting off on the sight of him naked and vulnerable, and that makes it all the sweeter.
With Owen ready and waiting, Jack grabs and handful of tissues and cleans himself up before refastening his flies. Then, picking the floggers up from his desk, he goes down to the firing range.
There’s no softness, no kindness or preamble in Jack’s tone as he says, “Face the wall.” He knows that it’s not necessary, that it would ruin what they are playing out here, and that's something that neither of them want.
Owen’s eyes meet Jack’s. It’s an unspoken challenge, the need to be forced to surrender control. It doesn’t surprise Jack, this is how it always starts, a battle of wills.
“I said face the wall.” Jack keeps his expression grim as he steps in close and trails the flogger down Owen’s cheek. There is barely any pressure, yet Owen shudders, half fear half excitement. Jack’s smile is predatory as he leans in, “Now are you going to face the wall or do I have to make you?”
“You don’t have it in you.” His tone is confident in his assertion, yet the look in Owen’s eyes suggests that he believes that Jack does, that he thinks that there is nothing that Jack’s not capable of given the right provocation or motivation.
Jack taps the flogger lightly against Owen’s jaw. “Scared?”
“Of you?” It’s something close to a sneer, yet still his eyes betray him. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“This won’t be more than you can take.”
“You don’t know what I can take.”
“I know what you can’t,” Jack says quietly, his lips nearly touching Owen’s ear. “Now turn and face the wall.”
Owen gives a barely perceptible nod before turning slowly away from Jack to face the concrete wall in front of him. A wall that is featureless but for a narrow rail that runs across it at waist height.
“Good. Now hold the rail and kneel.” Jack knows that Owen’s not keen on kneeling, it makes him feel small, vulnerable. But right now that just how Jack needs Owen to feel, it makes what they are going to do easier, easier for Owen to get into the right mindset.
“No.”
Jack doesn’t need to be able to see Owen’s face to know the look of defiance that will be there. Owen always does this, tries to goad him, make him angry. It makes him wonder sometimes if Owen really understands what it is that they are doing, that none of the blows that he will land on him in these sessions will ever be done in anger. Jack knows the day he actually gets angry doing this will be the day he walks away from it, anything less would be a betrayal of the trust placed in him, even if Owen is unable see it that way.
Placing a hand on Owens shoulder, Jack keeps the pressure light, not forcing, just reminding. “I don’t like repeating myself. Now I told you to kneel. So either you kneel and you do it now, or I walk away.”
Owen makes a noise that could be a grunt or a mumbled swear word, but takes hold of the rail. Then, with a slowness that’s more about continuing to show defiance than any real unwillingness, he kneels.
Jack pats Owen’s shoulder, a reassurance before they begin. There’s never any conversation that passes between then when they do this, there doesn’t seem any need, like words would somehow cheapen the experience or make it less intense.
Jack knows that it’s as much about the sound of the flogger cutting through the air, the sharp crack and swish of its tails and anticipation of the blows as it is the sting of the leather against skin.
It’s an art, Jack thinks, as he picks up the lightest of the floggers. Knowing how to start light, where to strike, where not to. Owen’s body is a canvas, his canvas, the blows telling a story that mere words never could. It’s a story that Jack reads well, knowing when to pause and when to strike harder or in a different place. Sometimes Jack wonders if he doesn’t know Owen better than Owen knows himself. Then there are other days when he is certain that he doesn’t know him at all.
The first blow of the heavy flogger makes Owen gasp, back arching, hands tense on the rail. The thinner strands quickly raising thin welts across the already reddened skin.
The first sob that escapes Owen is almost inaudible, the sharp crack of leather against his skin muffling it, yet Jack hears. Holding off the next blow he trails the tails of the flogger over the raised marks that criss-cross Owen’s shoulders, arse and thighs.
Owen shudders, forehead resting on his hands, where he holds the rail in a white knuckled grasp.
He’s close now, Jack knows it. Putting the flogger down he runs his fingers over the hot, reddened skin, feeling the raised edges of the welts left by his last few blows and the muscles tense and quiver in anticipation.
Jack steps back as he feels Owen lean into his touch, breaking all contact between them. He watches silently as a second, louder sob escapes Owen, shoulders starting to shake, thighs starting to twitch and tremble with the effort of kneeling for so long on a cold, hard floor.
This, Jack thinks, is the hardest moment. When it must surely feel to Owen than he has been abandoned, left cold, hurting and bereft. This is always the moment when Jack gets the sudden thrill of fear that maybe he has pushed Owen to far, that somehow this moment of abandonment could be more damaging than any physical hurt he could do to Owen.
Closing the distance between them again, Jack’s runs his hands down over Owen’s arms, until they cover his hands. Then slowly and carefully he uncurls Owen’s fingers from the rail and helps him to stand. Turning him around until they face one another, Owen sags against him, shaking and shuddering through tears that seem to threaten to tear him apart.
“I’m still here. Just let it go, let it all go,” Jack says calmly, holding Owen loosely in his arms, the other man’s head tucked in under his chin.
Owen’s tears are quiet and despite everything brief. Jack’s not sure what sort of life it was that Owen lived before Torchwood, what kind of life has made Owen man he is. In these moments when Owen is so open and vulnerable in front of him he considers asking him. He doesn’t though, it seems too much of a violation of the trust between them. Instead he waits until Owen’s breathing returns to something approaching normal before asking, “Any better?”
Owen nods, lips pressed together in a thin, tight line, as if not trusting himself to speak. Scared he’ll reveal too much, say things that cannot be unsaid.
Jack smiles and presses a kiss to Owen’s forehead. “Good, now lets get you home and into that big bed of yours.” Stroking a hand down Owen’s neck, Jack pauses for a moment to unbuckle the collar and slip it back into his pocket. “And you know how much I like big things.”
Owen nods again, tired, pliable and seemingly at peace in Jack’s arms.
Once they’re back at Owen’s flat Jack will carefully check the bruises that will inevitably be starting to form, making sure that they’ll heal properly. He’ll speak softly in Owen’s ear as they stand in the shower together, the heat soothing away any remaining stiffness, while he offers reassurances that Owen did well in their session tonight. Sometime he might even throw in a few endearments as well, usually ones of the sort that would get him slapped if he’d said them aloud in so called polite society. He knows that they won’t be returned or ever mentioned later, but that doesn’t matter, they’re said as part of they whole slow wind down from the natural high they’re both on after these sessions.
And when they finally get to bed they might have sex or they might not, that’s always up to Owen. Either way Jack knows they’ll spend the night together in Owen’s bed, with him watching Owen sleep until the sun rises across the Bay and floods the apartment with light. Then, before the city is properly awake, he’ll leave, getting back to the Hub before Suzie arrives to work on whatever is her latest obsession.
It’s not a relationship, not in that way, Jack knows that, he also knows that getting into serious relationship with each other is the last thing that he or Owen really wants or needs. It’s inadvisable and impossible for far too many reasons, most of which Jack knows are because of himself. No, this is friendship with a few added extras when they need it.
If life has taught Jack anything it’s to enjoy these moments while he can. The closeness of another warm body, they way they feel against his skin, the look in their eyes when they realise how good he’s making them feel and the ecstasy of just letting go until nothing else, not even who they are, matters.
He knows to enjoy these moments because sooner or later, one way or another, they’ll be gone. Jack just hopes that there are plenty of those sorts of enjoyable moments for Owen and himself, anything less would feel like being cheated.
Pairing: Jack/Owen (set pre-series one)
Rating: NC17/adult
Word Count: 3512
Prompts: Collars. Kneeling. Floggers. Breaking somebody to tears, Jack/Owen.
Warnings: BDSM (all totally consensual)
Authors note: This was originally written for round 9 of rounds_of_kink but has since had parts added/rewritten. Original version can be found here
Its been brewing for a while now, the tension, the anger and the impotent rage at situations beyond his control. All the lives he couldn’t save eating him up inside.
Jack can see it in Owen’s stiff posture as he works. Leant over the autopsy table his scalpel slicing into the weevil’s chest with a ferocity that even a corpse doesn’t deserve. He hears it in the way Owen’s teasing is harsher than normal, more biting and hurtful in how it’s directed, until even Suzie has felt the need to call him on it.
He knows that if he lets it go on much longer there will be trouble. Whether it will be an ill chosen word at the wrong moment, Owen arriving at the Hub still drunk from the previous night’s bender or if it will simply be that one day Owen doesn’t arrive at all and he has to go collect a body from the city morgue, Jack doesn’t know.
What he does know is that it has to stop, and it has to stop right now.
After watching Suzie and Tosh leave for the night, Jack checks that Owen is still down in the autopsy bay before ducking back in to his office. Closing the door, he gives the systems one last check before switching Hub’s computers and messenger system to auto. Then, satisfied that they won’t be disturbed unless it is a real emergency, he climbs down the hatchway behind his desk.
Pulling a trunk out from under his bed, Jack spends a few minutes sorting through the contents. He knows that most people would, were they to see what the trunk contains, think that he has far more sex toys and fetish equipment than is reasonable for one person to own. The simple fact is that its been collected over a number of years, and Jack hates not having the right piece of kit on hand should he, or the person he’s with, want it.
Taking three floggers from the trunk, Jack runs the strands through his fingers, feeling the different weights and textures of them. A light weight one with wide, soft tails, a medium weight on that feels so familiar in his hand, its grip worn smooth with use, and a heavier one, rarely used, its narrow tails made of plaited leather cord.
These are exactly what he needs. Its been a couple of months since the last time he and Owen did this, and he knows that every time they do this there’s a very real chance that it will be the last. Either because Owen will say no more or he will go the way of every other Torchwood operative that Jack has ever known.
For now though Owen is his responsibility, or at least that’s how Jack sees it. It was him who’d brought Owen into Torchwood, him who’d forced Owen to go on living when he’d thought he’d got nothing left to give, and him who’d first introduced Owen to this somewhat unorthodox method of stress relief.
Pushing the trunk back to under his bed, Jack returns to his office. Placing the floggers on his desk, he opens one of the drawers and removes a collar. It’s narrow, the black leather soft and pliable when he turns it slowly in his hands. The silver buckle glints slightly in the low lamp light of the office, the glint reflected in his eyes as he recalls how good Owen looks in it.
Owen naked but for the collar, kneeling on the floor in front of him, looking at him with those dark, defiant eyes. Jack palms himself through his trousers. Damn, but thinking about Owen like that makes him hard.
Leaving the floggers on his desk, Jack goes to find Owen.
Owen has finished in the autopsy bay, all traces of blood and alien corpse have been removed, when Jack descends the steps.
“Owen.”
He doesn’t look up, just gives a non-committal grunt and finishes drying his hands.
“It’s not nice to ignore your boss, you know. Could get you into trouble.”
Owen still doesn’t look around, and his tone is irritable when he replies, “What do you want?”
Jack closes the distance between them until Owen is almost close enough to touch. “What I want is for you to remember that some things are out of your control.”
“You can’t remember something you haven’t learnt.”
“Then maybe it’s about time you learnt.”
That seems to get Owen’s attention and he turns to face Jack, looking slightly startled to find Jack standing so close. “You going to teach me then?”
“Yeah, I thought I’d offer a refresher course.” Jack takes the collar from his pocket, letting Owen realise just what he was offering tonight.
Owen’s eyes flick over to the collar that’s held loosely in Jack’s hands, recognition of it and the last time they used it clear on his face. “And what makes you think I’ll say yes?”
“Experience.” Jack keeps his gaze cool and indifferent as he hands Owen the collar, although his hands are warm when they linger a fraction too long. “Put it on. Then go to the firing range, strip and wait for me.”
Owen glares at Jack, but he takes the collar from him without hesitation, turning it slowly in his hands, fingertips considering the smooth, soft leather. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you hand it back to me right now and you get the hell out of here. You go and do whatever you have to to get by. But I want you back here tomorrow morning still functioning. Have you got that?”
Owen gives a short, bitter laugh. “We both know that’s not going to happen.”
Jack doesn’t push for clarification, he doesn’t need it, he knows Owen far too well for that. Instead he watches impassively as Owen slowly puts the collar around his neck and fastens the small sliver buckle.
Once it’s done Jack places a hand on Owen’s shoulder fingers briefly kneading the tense muscles, showing his pleasure at Owen doing as he’s asked. “Good. Now go down to the firing range, strip and wait for me. I’ll be…” He checks his watch although he already knows how exactly how long he’s going to give Owen to get ready. “…fifteen minutes.”
There is a flicker of something in Owen’s eyes as he leaves, something that is as much excitement and anticipation as it is trepidation as to how far their session will go this time.
As soon as Owen has left Jack returns to his office to watch Owen on the CCTV as he makes his way down to the firing range. The firing range is as good a place as any, it has plenty of space, a well stocked medical kit if anything were to go horribly wrong and is, when the door is closed, as private a place as they are likely to get in the Hub.
Jack doesn’t need fifteen minutes to get ready or to gather his toys: he’s already done that. No, those minutes are to be spent observing Owen, reading his body language as he strips, trying to gauge how far and how hard the session will need to be for Owen to get any benefit from it.
The first time that they’d done this Jack had talked Owen through it, had explained it all in advance, had agreed with him words and signals that he should use if it became more than he could take or was comfortable with.
Words and signals that he'd rapidly discovered Owen didn’t use, even when he was sure that they were on the edge of taking it places that he was confident Owen wouldn’t want to go. It's for that reason, and that reason alone, that Jack has ordered Owen not to do this with anybody other than him. It’s not about jealousy or making Owen his, it’s about saving him from himself and preventing anybody else getting caught up in one of Owen’s self destructive episodes.
Whether Owen’s inclination towards self-destruction is in fact some incredibly complex and twisted passive aggressive game that he’s playing with him or if it’s that Owen really has no sense of self-preservation when he gets into his darker moods, Jack doesn’t know. If he’s honest with himself maybe he doesn’t want to know, things are complicated enough between them as it is without over analysing what is and isn’t going on inside Owen head.
Tonight, Jack can see the barely suppressed rage and hurt bubbling just below the surface. It’s in the way that Owen moves, all sharp actions and anger. The way he strips off his clothes, throwing them on the floor without a second thought. The fact that Owen somehow manages to make taking off his socks look aggressive tells Jack that Owen will be looking for a hard session tonight, one to break him down until he can finally let go.
Not that its ever been easy to get Owen to a state where he’s able to let go, where he no longer feels the need to or indeed has the ability to hide his fears behind sarcasm and overconfidence. Part of keeping Owen Harper whole and sane is breaking him down sometimes and then being there to put him back together.
Jack’s not sure what Owen’s life had been like before Torchwood, what has made Owen the man he is, because he’s sure that it’s not only the loss of his fiancé. Most days though he doesn’t have enough free time to wonder, and on the days that he does the final decision is always the same: It’s none of his damn business.
Playing dom for Owen on the occasions when it gets to much is exhausting though. It’s the fact that he seems to have almost no concept of when he’s had enough. Yet somehow it makes it all the more of a rush because Jack knows that Owen is truly putting his life in his hands. It’s a trust that Jack would never willingly betray. Owen is giving him something special: complete and total trust, and that not something than anybody has given him for a very long time.
Eventually Owen is naked except for the slim leather collar, and damn if he doesn’t look every bit as hot as Jack remembers.
Checking his watch, only five minutes have passed, Jack leans back in his chair. It will take him less than a minute to get to Owen. He smiles, opens his flies and slips a hand inside. There’s no way he’s going to do the session with a hard on, it’s far too distracting and Owen really does deserve his full attention.
Jack knows that Owen looks even better in person than he does over the CCTV. Lean and wiry, there seems to be nothing that isn’t essential for survival, everything pared down to the barest minimum. Owen’s not perfect, maybe not even conventionally handsome, but his attitude, wicked sense of humour and hidden heart of gold, make him a damn attractive man.
Working his cock with hard, fast strokes, Jack watches Owen as walks around the firing range, kicking idly at spent bullet casings that nobody can be bother to tidy away.
It doesn’t take long before Jack feels balls start to tighten and then he’s coming, hot and wet across his fingers. He knows Owen will be able to see the damp patch on his trousers, knows that Owen will realise that he’s been getting off on the sight of him naked and vulnerable, and that makes it all the sweeter.
With Owen ready and waiting, Jack grabs and handful of tissues and cleans himself up before refastening his flies. Then, picking the floggers up from his desk, he goes down to the firing range.
There’s no softness, no kindness or preamble in Jack’s tone as he says, “Face the wall.” He knows that it’s not necessary, that it would ruin what they are playing out here, and that's something that neither of them want.
Owen’s eyes meet Jack’s. It’s an unspoken challenge, the need to be forced to surrender control. It doesn’t surprise Jack, this is how it always starts, a battle of wills.
“I said face the wall.” Jack keeps his expression grim as he steps in close and trails the flogger down Owen’s cheek. There is barely any pressure, yet Owen shudders, half fear half excitement. Jack’s smile is predatory as he leans in, “Now are you going to face the wall or do I have to make you?”
“You don’t have it in you.” His tone is confident in his assertion, yet the look in Owen’s eyes suggests that he believes that Jack does, that he thinks that there is nothing that Jack’s not capable of given the right provocation or motivation.
Jack taps the flogger lightly against Owen’s jaw. “Scared?”
“Of you?” It’s something close to a sneer, yet still his eyes betray him. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“This won’t be more than you can take.”
“You don’t know what I can take.”
“I know what you can’t,” Jack says quietly, his lips nearly touching Owen’s ear. “Now turn and face the wall.”
Owen gives a barely perceptible nod before turning slowly away from Jack to face the concrete wall in front of him. A wall that is featureless but for a narrow rail that runs across it at waist height.
“Good. Now hold the rail and kneel.” Jack knows that Owen’s not keen on kneeling, it makes him feel small, vulnerable. But right now that just how Jack needs Owen to feel, it makes what they are going to do easier, easier for Owen to get into the right mindset.
“No.”
Jack doesn’t need to be able to see Owen’s face to know the look of defiance that will be there. Owen always does this, tries to goad him, make him angry. It makes him wonder sometimes if Owen really understands what it is that they are doing, that none of the blows that he will land on him in these sessions will ever be done in anger. Jack knows the day he actually gets angry doing this will be the day he walks away from it, anything less would be a betrayal of the trust placed in him, even if Owen is unable see it that way.
Placing a hand on Owens shoulder, Jack keeps the pressure light, not forcing, just reminding. “I don’t like repeating myself. Now I told you to kneel. So either you kneel and you do it now, or I walk away.”
Owen makes a noise that could be a grunt or a mumbled swear word, but takes hold of the rail. Then, with a slowness that’s more about continuing to show defiance than any real unwillingness, he kneels.
Jack pats Owen’s shoulder, a reassurance before they begin. There’s never any conversation that passes between then when they do this, there doesn’t seem any need, like words would somehow cheapen the experience or make it less intense.
Jack knows that it’s as much about the sound of the flogger cutting through the air, the sharp crack and swish of its tails and anticipation of the blows as it is the sting of the leather against skin.
It’s an art, Jack thinks, as he picks up the lightest of the floggers. Knowing how to start light, where to strike, where not to. Owen’s body is a canvas, his canvas, the blows telling a story that mere words never could. It’s a story that Jack reads well, knowing when to pause and when to strike harder or in a different place. Sometimes Jack wonders if he doesn’t know Owen better than Owen knows himself. Then there are other days when he is certain that he doesn’t know him at all.
The first blow of the heavy flogger makes Owen gasp, back arching, hands tense on the rail. The thinner strands quickly raising thin welts across the already reddened skin.
The first sob that escapes Owen is almost inaudible, the sharp crack of leather against his skin muffling it, yet Jack hears. Holding off the next blow he trails the tails of the flogger over the raised marks that criss-cross Owen’s shoulders, arse and thighs.
Owen shudders, forehead resting on his hands, where he holds the rail in a white knuckled grasp.
He’s close now, Jack knows it. Putting the flogger down he runs his fingers over the hot, reddened skin, feeling the raised edges of the welts left by his last few blows and the muscles tense and quiver in anticipation.
Jack steps back as he feels Owen lean into his touch, breaking all contact between them. He watches silently as a second, louder sob escapes Owen, shoulders starting to shake, thighs starting to twitch and tremble with the effort of kneeling for so long on a cold, hard floor.
This, Jack thinks, is the hardest moment. When it must surely feel to Owen than he has been abandoned, left cold, hurting and bereft. This is always the moment when Jack gets the sudden thrill of fear that maybe he has pushed Owen to far, that somehow this moment of abandonment could be more damaging than any physical hurt he could do to Owen.
Closing the distance between them again, Jack’s runs his hands down over Owen’s arms, until they cover his hands. Then slowly and carefully he uncurls Owen’s fingers from the rail and helps him to stand. Turning him around until they face one another, Owen sags against him, shaking and shuddering through tears that seem to threaten to tear him apart.
“I’m still here. Just let it go, let it all go,” Jack says calmly, holding Owen loosely in his arms, the other man’s head tucked in under his chin.
Owen’s tears are quiet and despite everything brief. Jack’s not sure what sort of life it was that Owen lived before Torchwood, what kind of life has made Owen man he is. In these moments when Owen is so open and vulnerable in front of him he considers asking him. He doesn’t though, it seems too much of a violation of the trust between them. Instead he waits until Owen’s breathing returns to something approaching normal before asking, “Any better?”
Owen nods, lips pressed together in a thin, tight line, as if not trusting himself to speak. Scared he’ll reveal too much, say things that cannot be unsaid.
Jack smiles and presses a kiss to Owen’s forehead. “Good, now lets get you home and into that big bed of yours.” Stroking a hand down Owen’s neck, Jack pauses for a moment to unbuckle the collar and slip it back into his pocket. “And you know how much I like big things.”
Owen nods again, tired, pliable and seemingly at peace in Jack’s arms.
Once they’re back at Owen’s flat Jack will carefully check the bruises that will inevitably be starting to form, making sure that they’ll heal properly. He’ll speak softly in Owen’s ear as they stand in the shower together, the heat soothing away any remaining stiffness, while he offers reassurances that Owen did well in their session tonight. Sometime he might even throw in a few endearments as well, usually ones of the sort that would get him slapped if he’d said them aloud in so called polite society. He knows that they won’t be returned or ever mentioned later, but that doesn’t matter, they’re said as part of they whole slow wind down from the natural high they’re both on after these sessions.
And when they finally get to bed they might have sex or they might not, that’s always up to Owen. Either way Jack knows they’ll spend the night together in Owen’s bed, with him watching Owen sleep until the sun rises across the Bay and floods the apartment with light. Then, before the city is properly awake, he’ll leave, getting back to the Hub before Suzie arrives to work on whatever is her latest obsession.
It’s not a relationship, not in that way, Jack knows that, he also knows that getting into serious relationship with each other is the last thing that he or Owen really wants or needs. It’s inadvisable and impossible for far too many reasons, most of which Jack knows are because of himself. No, this is friendship with a few added extras when they need it.
If life has taught Jack anything it’s to enjoy these moments while he can. The closeness of another warm body, they way they feel against his skin, the look in their eyes when they realise how good he’s making them feel and the ecstasy of just letting go until nothing else, not even who they are, matters.
He knows to enjoy these moments because sooner or later, one way or another, they’ll be gone. Jack just hopes that there are plenty of those sorts of enjoyable moments for Owen and himself, anything less would feel like being cheated.