Doctor Who fic
Sooooo.... I was digging around in my Current Writage folder (which is more like Everything Written in the Past Year folder), and came across this. It's, well... utterly without redeeming value. It's pure smut, for one thing, and rather improbable smut, on top of that. No matter how much my fangirl brain, not to mention Jack's, may dream. Le sigh.
May I present:
Tab A; Slot B
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Jack/Ten
Rating: NC-17 (PWP)
Notes: AU, insofar as I like to imagine that Jack did one-on-one travelling with the Doctor for a while.
When the Doctor finally lets Jack fuck him for the first time, it’s more a matter of boredom and sympathy on the Doctor’s part than any grand seductive scheme of Jack’s. Jack figures they’ve been dating, or together, or companions-without-benefits, or whatever, for a while now; maybe a couple months on his personal timeline. They are rarely apart; on those odd occasions, it’s just long enough for Jack to feel the ache of separation and know that he doesn’t like it. The Doctor lets Jack kiss him sometimes, but Jack knows that what is a momentous, heart-stopping, time-dilating, hand-trembling moment for him is nothing much more than a curiosity to the Doctor. Jack doesn’t know if Time Lords just didn’t bothered with mating, on account of their gargantuan lifespans, or whether this is peculiar to the Doctor himself.
The Doctor indulges Jack’s feverish whims because it makes Jack happy, not because he wants it for himself. Jack considers being insulted by this, wonders if he’s going about the whole thing all wrong, and then decides, sleepless nights and roiling mental pain later, that the mere fact of the indulgence itself means that the Doctor would rather put himself out for Jack’s sake than leave him forever high and dry. To Jack, this is a grand epiphany, because it means the Doctor cares for him. Loves him, maybe.
Jack has said the L word more often than he should, maybe, during his long life. He means it every time, and he’s grown used to brandishing it as a shining gauntlet of devotion and affection before most of his past conquests. Not every one, of course, but he grew up in a place where love and sex were tantamount to inviting someone for a good dinner; he knows when it’s appropriate to say. And Jack loves so easily.
The first time he and the Doctor have sex, it’s almost an accident. They are up against the edge of the enormous bed the TARDIS put in Jack’s bedroom his first night back, Jack pressing his advantage ever-so carefully, not pushing, not demanding, just kissing and being happy with it. But the Doctor is especially delicious tonight, warm and bony under him, turning his head fetchingly away so that Jack can set his teeth to the long stretch of his neck. Jack’s feet are on the floor, his coat over a chair by the door, braces around his hips, and then the Doctor lifts himself up, fussily pushing at Jack to give him room, and lays back on the bed, thighs spread just enough for Jack to fit between them and lean over.
It’s too much, it honestly is. Jack’s been so motherfucking good for so long, taking only as much as he’s given, content with the occasional kiss, the sporadic petting, a smile or a wink or the fleeting brush of the Doctor’s hand down his spine, across his chest. He’s had a continuous hard-on for months, waiting, and coming to the slow realization that he’s never going to get anything more than this, and that he’d better start being happy about it. It’s not easy being monogamous when you’re not actually getting any sex at all.
So when he shifts just right, grinds the edge of his hip into the Doctor’s groin and discovers the most shocking thing he’s ever encountered-- an answering erection, tight and hard against his own-- he almost recoils from the shock alone. As it is, he jerks his head up and stares down at the Doctor, grasping for words that won’t come.
The Doctor meets his gaze, eyes widening until he looks shocked and guilty all at once, and starts to sit up.
Jack stops him quick as he can, pins him down with body and hands. Opens his mouth to force out words that still haven’t condensed in his brain, but the Doctor leans up and kisses him, thin lips against his and mad hair tickling Jack’s forehead, so that’s the end of that.
Jack slides his hands down slender sides, feeling the ridges of ribs and, finally, hipbones, and tucks two fingers beneath the waistband of the Doctor’s trousers. Slips them around until he finds the catch, and opens it. The tips of his fingers touch cotton beneath, and oh God, he’s about to find out what sort of underwear the Doctor wears. It’s enough to make his breath stick in his chest, that sort of plebeian intimacy; that the Doctor even wears underwear. Jack’s brain goes off on a tangent all its own, wondering, does the TARDIS pick them out the way she makes clothes for him, what about colour, does it even enter the Doctor’s mind to make a distinction between pairs, or does he just chuck on whatever’s closest to hand? The mere confirmation that the Doctor actually possesses a body beneath this indelible suit is enough to make Jack’s heart skip.
Jack wonders if he should say something, query as to consent or desire, but he’s not going to interrupt his own flow, right now. If he says or does anything to mess this up, he’ll never forgive himself. So he reaches back up and starts undoing the Doctor’s pinstripe jacket from the top, all four buttons, and then up again to the tie, which comes loose with silken efficiency. Just a shirt now, dark blue, and Jack’s fingers falter. He looks up quickly, locks eyes with the Doctor. There’s calm in that gaze, a sort of mildly questioning regard. The Doctor’s curious about what Jack’s going to do next. Maybe a little wary, a little aroused (a lot aroused, if the solid length against Jack’s belly has anything to say about it).
Jack eases up a little more and kisses him again, licks into his mouth and spends a few minutes rehashing this familiar territory. The Doctor kisses like a child-- a very adept child, Jack thinks, bemusing himself. Sure and skilled, but very careful. The same uneasy delicacy of a ten-year-old fiddling with chess pieces or paper money. Jack sucks the Doctor’s tongue for a couple minutes, strokes his fingers under the Doctor’s chin and coaxes him to open up more, take a little more.
Against his own cock, he feels the Doctor’s twitch and strain, so he grinds down into it. The Doctor hisses between his teeth and lets his head drop back, watches Jack from under his lashes, Adam’s apple bobbing and chest lurching.
Jack undoes the first shirt button, then the second, and the third. His eyes are riveted to the white flesh underneath, until he has to squeeze his lids closed and do the rest blind. The trousers are unfastened by feel, and he peels them and the mysterious underwear without looking, tosses them far away, and only then opens his eyes. The Doctor looks down at him, leaning up on his elbows, and smiles, just the tiniest tip of his lips.
“Get to it, then,” he says gently.
Jack feels relief flood through him in a galvanizing wash. He straightens and yanks his shirt over his head. Clothing is entirely uncalled for. He eases himself down again, puts one hand under the Doctor’s bare hip and pulls their cocks together, only the dual layer of Jack’s own pants and underwear between them, Jesus Christ. He expects a halt to be called any second, the Doctor to slither politely out from under him, reclothe himself, and pat Jack consolingly on the back before escaping to some enigmatic room of his own. Jack finds himself caught between hurrying through, getting as much as he can before this brilliant opportunity escapes, and slowing down to enjoy every instant of it.
The Doctor shifts beneath him, spreads his legs a little wider, and drags his wet lips over Jack’s jaw, one hand flattening against his shoulder blade. “Ah, there’s a good boy,” the Doctor breathes.
Jack groans so deep it hurts his throat, buries his face in the Doctor’s damp neck, and snaps his hips forward. It’s gone past the point of help; he couldn’t stop if he tried. The Doctor wraps one ankle around his calf and holds him in place, lifting his own hips a fraction of an inch, grinding back.
Jack needs to get rid of his clothes right motherfucking now. He sits back, yanks his pants down, and lets himself finally see the focus of so many sleeping fantasies and drooling daydreams. The Doctor’s cock is of the same dimensions as the man himself; long and slim and eager looking. His balls are tight and high, and Jack has to cup one tentative hand around them for a long second, feeling gooseflesh race across them and prickle his palm, touch his fingertips to the soft crease of hip and thigh. He runs his thumb over the softness, into the cleft beneath, and touches the Doctor’s ass.
And then he goes to his knees, because some things are too mouth-watering to resist. The first touch of his tongue to the hole gets a tiny reaction, a stifled moan and a clenching of muscles all over, and then nothing. But Jack curls his hand around the Doctor’s erection and feels it go even harder as he licks and sucks the tiny pucker, and knows that this silence is not indicative of disinterest.
When he straightens back up, so hard it aches, and braces himself with a hand on the bed next to the Doctor’s side, he catches a flash of concern, expectation, in brown eyes, and has to lean in for another long kiss. Jack spreads as much spit as he can gather on his cock. He knows from experience that it’ll be enough, and even though the TARDIS would probably be more than happy to provide some form of lubrication, he just can’t bring himself to ask for it.
He touches the head of his cock to the Doctor’s asshole, one hand hooked under the Doctor’s thigh, pressing it up and out of the way. At the first press, as slow as he can make it, the Doctor’s brows quirk in, a look like confusion, or hurt passion, coming over his face before smoothing out again. It’s a long time before Jack is fully inside, soothing the way with tiny rocks forward and even tinier retreats, leaning forward to kiss the Doctor’s open mouth, leaning back to watch the tight joining of their bodies. Eventually, he’s in as much as he can get, and presses his chest to the Doctor’s, rests their foreheads together.
“I’m gonna fuck you,” Jack whispers.
The Doctors lets out this noise that’s sort of a laugh, sort of an encouraging whimper, and both his legs slide up Jack’s to wrap around his waist. Jack figures that’s permission enough.
He doesn’t know how long they fuck for, but it’s long enough that, by the time he doesn’t think he can hold back from coming anymore, the Doctor’s gone a lovely shade of scarlet, and his neck is stretched back, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut against the sweat streaming down his forehead. Jack doesn’t think he’s ever done anything so amazing with anyone so marvellous. The Doctor’s nails are digging into his back, sinking a bit deeper with every thrust, every shudder and arching of spine. Jack gives it to him as hard as he can, measured and careful, but deep. Jack fixes his gaze on the far wall, concentrating on holding out just a little longer, only a bit more, and just when he’s about to lose it, the Doctor groans, “Oh, Jack,” and comes.
Jack feels his cock jerk between their bellies, where it’s been steadily smearing precome over their skin, and spurt wet and scorching. The Doctor’s entire body goes rigid, solid and unyielding as rock, and his nails makes Jack’s shoulders bleed. Jack takes the pain and runs with it, shoving his cock as far into the spasming flesh surrounding him as he can get, and comes deep inside. He comes so hard and for so long, it’s like he hasn’t been jerking off consistently twice a day for months on end. He comes like a freight train hitting a brick wall, and eases back to awareness with the Doctor loose and hot under him, limp as a rag.
Jack sits slowly up, supporting himself on trembling arms, and looks down at the come dripping off his chest and pooling on the Doctor’s belly. His sensitive cock gives an abortive twitch, and he has to pull out then, or die of sensation. His own come dribbles out after him, and he rolls sideways, collapsing on the bed in a heap of sweat and tremulous limbs. He pants for a couple minutes, palming salt dampness out of his eyes, feeling the ambient heat of afterglow surround them like a halo.
Eventually, he opens his eyes. The Doctor hasn’t moved, but is looking straight at him, eyes soft and vague. Jack smiles, incapable of saying anything intelligent or helpful.
“You know,” the Doctor murmurs, “that’s the first I’ve come in about thirty years.”
Jack feels his eyebrows fly up of their own accord. Sure, he’d figured on the Doctor hitting the asexual side of things, and that was unimaginable enough for someone of his own fervent pansexuality, but to hear it confirmed is mind-boggling.
“And?” he says at last, because it bears asking.
“And…” The Doctor regards him for a moment, and then grins, face splitting wide open, and rolls closer to touch his lips against the corner of Jack’s own. “I think it’s a habit I might be taking up again.”
May I present:
Tab A; Slot B
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Jack/Ten
Rating: NC-17 (PWP)
Notes: AU, insofar as I like to imagine that Jack did one-on-one travelling with the Doctor for a while.
When the Doctor finally lets Jack fuck him for the first time, it’s more a matter of boredom and sympathy on the Doctor’s part than any grand seductive scheme of Jack’s. Jack figures they’ve been dating, or together, or companions-without-benefits, or whatever, for a while now; maybe a couple months on his personal timeline. They are rarely apart; on those odd occasions, it’s just long enough for Jack to feel the ache of separation and know that he doesn’t like it. The Doctor lets Jack kiss him sometimes, but Jack knows that what is a momentous, heart-stopping, time-dilating, hand-trembling moment for him is nothing much more than a curiosity to the Doctor. Jack doesn’t know if Time Lords just didn’t bothered with mating, on account of their gargantuan lifespans, or whether this is peculiar to the Doctor himself.
The Doctor indulges Jack’s feverish whims because it makes Jack happy, not because he wants it for himself. Jack considers being insulted by this, wonders if he’s going about the whole thing all wrong, and then decides, sleepless nights and roiling mental pain later, that the mere fact of the indulgence itself means that the Doctor would rather put himself out for Jack’s sake than leave him forever high and dry. To Jack, this is a grand epiphany, because it means the Doctor cares for him. Loves him, maybe.
Jack has said the L word more often than he should, maybe, during his long life. He means it every time, and he’s grown used to brandishing it as a shining gauntlet of devotion and affection before most of his past conquests. Not every one, of course, but he grew up in a place where love and sex were tantamount to inviting someone for a good dinner; he knows when it’s appropriate to say. And Jack loves so easily.
The first time he and the Doctor have sex, it’s almost an accident. They are up against the edge of the enormous bed the TARDIS put in Jack’s bedroom his first night back, Jack pressing his advantage ever-so carefully, not pushing, not demanding, just kissing and being happy with it. But the Doctor is especially delicious tonight, warm and bony under him, turning his head fetchingly away so that Jack can set his teeth to the long stretch of his neck. Jack’s feet are on the floor, his coat over a chair by the door, braces around his hips, and then the Doctor lifts himself up, fussily pushing at Jack to give him room, and lays back on the bed, thighs spread just enough for Jack to fit between them and lean over.
It’s too much, it honestly is. Jack’s been so motherfucking good for so long, taking only as much as he’s given, content with the occasional kiss, the sporadic petting, a smile or a wink or the fleeting brush of the Doctor’s hand down his spine, across his chest. He’s had a continuous hard-on for months, waiting, and coming to the slow realization that he’s never going to get anything more than this, and that he’d better start being happy about it. It’s not easy being monogamous when you’re not actually getting any sex at all.
So when he shifts just right, grinds the edge of his hip into the Doctor’s groin and discovers the most shocking thing he’s ever encountered-- an answering erection, tight and hard against his own-- he almost recoils from the shock alone. As it is, he jerks his head up and stares down at the Doctor, grasping for words that won’t come.
The Doctor meets his gaze, eyes widening until he looks shocked and guilty all at once, and starts to sit up.
Jack stops him quick as he can, pins him down with body and hands. Opens his mouth to force out words that still haven’t condensed in his brain, but the Doctor leans up and kisses him, thin lips against his and mad hair tickling Jack’s forehead, so that’s the end of that.
Jack slides his hands down slender sides, feeling the ridges of ribs and, finally, hipbones, and tucks two fingers beneath the waistband of the Doctor’s trousers. Slips them around until he finds the catch, and opens it. The tips of his fingers touch cotton beneath, and oh God, he’s about to find out what sort of underwear the Doctor wears. It’s enough to make his breath stick in his chest, that sort of plebeian intimacy; that the Doctor even wears underwear. Jack’s brain goes off on a tangent all its own, wondering, does the TARDIS pick them out the way she makes clothes for him, what about colour, does it even enter the Doctor’s mind to make a distinction between pairs, or does he just chuck on whatever’s closest to hand? The mere confirmation that the Doctor actually possesses a body beneath this indelible suit is enough to make Jack’s heart skip.
Jack wonders if he should say something, query as to consent or desire, but he’s not going to interrupt his own flow, right now. If he says or does anything to mess this up, he’ll never forgive himself. So he reaches back up and starts undoing the Doctor’s pinstripe jacket from the top, all four buttons, and then up again to the tie, which comes loose with silken efficiency. Just a shirt now, dark blue, and Jack’s fingers falter. He looks up quickly, locks eyes with the Doctor. There’s calm in that gaze, a sort of mildly questioning regard. The Doctor’s curious about what Jack’s going to do next. Maybe a little wary, a little aroused (a lot aroused, if the solid length against Jack’s belly has anything to say about it).
Jack eases up a little more and kisses him again, licks into his mouth and spends a few minutes rehashing this familiar territory. The Doctor kisses like a child-- a very adept child, Jack thinks, bemusing himself. Sure and skilled, but very careful. The same uneasy delicacy of a ten-year-old fiddling with chess pieces or paper money. Jack sucks the Doctor’s tongue for a couple minutes, strokes his fingers under the Doctor’s chin and coaxes him to open up more, take a little more.
Against his own cock, he feels the Doctor’s twitch and strain, so he grinds down into it. The Doctor hisses between his teeth and lets his head drop back, watches Jack from under his lashes, Adam’s apple bobbing and chest lurching.
Jack undoes the first shirt button, then the second, and the third. His eyes are riveted to the white flesh underneath, until he has to squeeze his lids closed and do the rest blind. The trousers are unfastened by feel, and he peels them and the mysterious underwear without looking, tosses them far away, and only then opens his eyes. The Doctor looks down at him, leaning up on his elbows, and smiles, just the tiniest tip of his lips.
“Get to it, then,” he says gently.
Jack feels relief flood through him in a galvanizing wash. He straightens and yanks his shirt over his head. Clothing is entirely uncalled for. He eases himself down again, puts one hand under the Doctor’s bare hip and pulls their cocks together, only the dual layer of Jack’s own pants and underwear between them, Jesus Christ. He expects a halt to be called any second, the Doctor to slither politely out from under him, reclothe himself, and pat Jack consolingly on the back before escaping to some enigmatic room of his own. Jack finds himself caught between hurrying through, getting as much as he can before this brilliant opportunity escapes, and slowing down to enjoy every instant of it.
The Doctor shifts beneath him, spreads his legs a little wider, and drags his wet lips over Jack’s jaw, one hand flattening against his shoulder blade. “Ah, there’s a good boy,” the Doctor breathes.
Jack groans so deep it hurts his throat, buries his face in the Doctor’s damp neck, and snaps his hips forward. It’s gone past the point of help; he couldn’t stop if he tried. The Doctor wraps one ankle around his calf and holds him in place, lifting his own hips a fraction of an inch, grinding back.
Jack needs to get rid of his clothes right motherfucking now. He sits back, yanks his pants down, and lets himself finally see the focus of so many sleeping fantasies and drooling daydreams. The Doctor’s cock is of the same dimensions as the man himself; long and slim and eager looking. His balls are tight and high, and Jack has to cup one tentative hand around them for a long second, feeling gooseflesh race across them and prickle his palm, touch his fingertips to the soft crease of hip and thigh. He runs his thumb over the softness, into the cleft beneath, and touches the Doctor’s ass.
And then he goes to his knees, because some things are too mouth-watering to resist. The first touch of his tongue to the hole gets a tiny reaction, a stifled moan and a clenching of muscles all over, and then nothing. But Jack curls his hand around the Doctor’s erection and feels it go even harder as he licks and sucks the tiny pucker, and knows that this silence is not indicative of disinterest.
When he straightens back up, so hard it aches, and braces himself with a hand on the bed next to the Doctor’s side, he catches a flash of concern, expectation, in brown eyes, and has to lean in for another long kiss. Jack spreads as much spit as he can gather on his cock. He knows from experience that it’ll be enough, and even though the TARDIS would probably be more than happy to provide some form of lubrication, he just can’t bring himself to ask for it.
He touches the head of his cock to the Doctor’s asshole, one hand hooked under the Doctor’s thigh, pressing it up and out of the way. At the first press, as slow as he can make it, the Doctor’s brows quirk in, a look like confusion, or hurt passion, coming over his face before smoothing out again. It’s a long time before Jack is fully inside, soothing the way with tiny rocks forward and even tinier retreats, leaning forward to kiss the Doctor’s open mouth, leaning back to watch the tight joining of their bodies. Eventually, he’s in as much as he can get, and presses his chest to the Doctor’s, rests their foreheads together.
“I’m gonna fuck you,” Jack whispers.
The Doctors lets out this noise that’s sort of a laugh, sort of an encouraging whimper, and both his legs slide up Jack’s to wrap around his waist. Jack figures that’s permission enough.
He doesn’t know how long they fuck for, but it’s long enough that, by the time he doesn’t think he can hold back from coming anymore, the Doctor’s gone a lovely shade of scarlet, and his neck is stretched back, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut against the sweat streaming down his forehead. Jack doesn’t think he’s ever done anything so amazing with anyone so marvellous. The Doctor’s nails are digging into his back, sinking a bit deeper with every thrust, every shudder and arching of spine. Jack gives it to him as hard as he can, measured and careful, but deep. Jack fixes his gaze on the far wall, concentrating on holding out just a little longer, only a bit more, and just when he’s about to lose it, the Doctor groans, “Oh, Jack,” and comes.
Jack feels his cock jerk between their bellies, where it’s been steadily smearing precome over their skin, and spurt wet and scorching. The Doctor’s entire body goes rigid, solid and unyielding as rock, and his nails makes Jack’s shoulders bleed. Jack takes the pain and runs with it, shoving his cock as far into the spasming flesh surrounding him as he can get, and comes deep inside. He comes so hard and for so long, it’s like he hasn’t been jerking off consistently twice a day for months on end. He comes like a freight train hitting a brick wall, and eases back to awareness with the Doctor loose and hot under him, limp as a rag.
Jack sits slowly up, supporting himself on trembling arms, and looks down at the come dripping off his chest and pooling on the Doctor’s belly. His sensitive cock gives an abortive twitch, and he has to pull out then, or die of sensation. His own come dribbles out after him, and he rolls sideways, collapsing on the bed in a heap of sweat and tremulous limbs. He pants for a couple minutes, palming salt dampness out of his eyes, feeling the ambient heat of afterglow surround them like a halo.
Eventually, he opens his eyes. The Doctor hasn’t moved, but is looking straight at him, eyes soft and vague. Jack smiles, incapable of saying anything intelligent or helpful.
“You know,” the Doctor murmurs, “that’s the first I’ve come in about thirty years.”
Jack feels his eyebrows fly up of their own accord. Sure, he’d figured on the Doctor hitting the asexual side of things, and that was unimaginable enough for someone of his own fervent pansexuality, but to hear it confirmed is mind-boggling.
“And?” he says at last, because it bears asking.
“And…” The Doctor regards him for a moment, and then grins, face splitting wide open, and rolls closer to touch his lips against the corner of Jack’s own. “I think it’s a habit I might be taking up again.”