A lot of fic-related stuff...plus actual fic! (Ten/Jack, about PG-13...sowwy, no porn.)
Fic-Related Stuff
1. Final edit of A Brief Lecture on the Appeal of Constants up.
1.5 The little Master voice in my head provided another line of dialogue just after the end of that fic which I thought might amuse: "Now, my dear Doctor, I want to watch you work. And I don't think I feel like doing anything until handsome Jack here is begging me to hurt him. So. Break him."
2. Self-pimped my recent kinky PWPs on solid_leather.
2.5 Also pimping solid_leather itself. Piiiiiimp! Dedicated to all kinks in all forms and moderated by the exquisite, brilliant author of Nothing but Flowers. Go, pet it, love it!
3. Have account on A Teaspoon and an Open Mind under the name Letterblade. Radical! Getting bored of Arkady; not going to try changing my name everywhere, but, hey, new fandom, and almost entirely a new start, seeing as how long it's been since I was active as a fanwriter. Will be doing an archive run on Sunday.
4. Still arguing with dw_literotica challenge. Will finish that if I have to towel-whip the Gwen-muse into submission, goddamnit! Off to rewatch Out of Time and End of Days and make more sense of her attitude towards Rhys.
5. Got a couple of ficlets to empty out of the notebook and post. One's going up right now...
Actual Fic!
...because it's going to get jossed in a few days. Spawned from a theory I had a bit after watching Sound of Drums (so spoilers for that) and inspired by THOSE PICTURES of Jack in Last of the Time Lords (so sortof spoilers for that).
Centennial - one hundred taken, one hundred given, four hundred words of rampant speculation. Quatradrabble with a dash of kink.
*
They've roughed Jack up and strung him out in the boiler room, ninety celsius and rising, maybe just to see if he'll combust. He's streaked with grime from boots and gratings, oil and thicker stuff, stands tall in shackles that cut him at the wrist, feet planted firm and fire in his eyes.
The Doctor limps in the door, staggers in the heat, clenches his jaw at Jack's glare.
"One hundred years, Doctor? Take it."
His tone brokes no argument.
The Doctor hesitates, every instinct rebelling--wrong! perverse! But here's the only man in the universe from whom he could accept such a gift in conscience. He shuffles up. Jack's shifting, close to him as he can with the little play in the chains.
"You ever done this before?" the Doctor rasps.
"Sure, a few times. It's not like I'm hard up. You?"
"Only with the TARDIS."
"Well?" Jack's panting from the heat, deep desperate breaths, pouring sweat; the cloying air is starting to pound the Doctor's temples, and there's nothing to do but take that familiar face in unfamiliar hands--swollen, spotted--and kiss him, and hope.
Jack's dry mouth tastes of salt and copper, and Jack's life doesn't taste human at all, more like endless golden light, raining over him, marching down his spine and straightening it with every beat. Jack's life welling up around him, infinite as the Vortex, to silk his skin, spin his hair brown, ease the swelling and soothe his joints; he wants to run from it, or run through it forever, not sure which, just that his suit's fitting properly again, and Jack's helpless body is spasming in the chains, Jack's scream is muffled in his mouth, as the life-mark fights a hundred-year drain.
It comes easier than a century taken by force, almost pleasant; still exhausting, and when he breaks off the kiss, young again, he's gasping in stifling air. Jack sags with a ragged moan, catches himself, looks slowly up at him, and their eyes lock.
The Doctor trails fingertips--elegant again, agile--down Jack's throat, bared where they'd torn open his overshirt, and from the look in his eyes, there might as well be a collar there.
"Remind me," says the Doctor, after a moment, "to get myself killed again before this regeneration gets that old. I go senile! Bloody embarrassing, that."
Jack grins a soft, lopsided grin. "Yes, Sir."
*
Mm-hm. Did I mention my part of the world's been having one hell of a heat wave? Oddly inspiring, that.
1. Final edit of A Brief Lecture on the Appeal of Constants up.
1.5 The little Master voice in my head provided another line of dialogue just after the end of that fic which I thought might amuse: "Now, my dear Doctor, I want to watch you work. And I don't think I feel like doing anything until handsome Jack here is begging me to hurt him. So. Break him."
2. Self-pimped my recent kinky PWPs on solid_leather.
2.5 Also pimping solid_leather itself. Piiiiiimp! Dedicated to all kinks in all forms and moderated by the exquisite, brilliant author of Nothing but Flowers. Go, pet it, love it!
3. Have account on A Teaspoon and an Open Mind under the name Letterblade. Radical! Getting bored of Arkady; not going to try changing my name everywhere, but, hey, new fandom, and almost entirely a new start, seeing as how long it's been since I was active as a fanwriter. Will be doing an archive run on Sunday.
4. Still arguing with dw_literotica challenge. Will finish that if I have to towel-whip the Gwen-muse into submission, goddamnit! Off to rewatch Out of Time and End of Days and make more sense of her attitude towards Rhys.
5. Got a couple of ficlets to empty out of the notebook and post. One's going up right now...
Actual Fic!
...because it's going to get jossed in a few days. Spawned from a theory I had a bit after watching Sound of Drums (so spoilers for that) and inspired by THOSE PICTURES of Jack in Last of the Time Lords (so sortof spoilers for that).
Centennial - one hundred taken, one hundred given, four hundred words of rampant speculation. Quatradrabble with a dash of kink.
*
They've roughed Jack up and strung him out in the boiler room, ninety celsius and rising, maybe just to see if he'll combust. He's streaked with grime from boots and gratings, oil and thicker stuff, stands tall in shackles that cut him at the wrist, feet planted firm and fire in his eyes.
The Doctor limps in the door, staggers in the heat, clenches his jaw at Jack's glare.
"One hundred years, Doctor? Take it."
His tone brokes no argument.
The Doctor hesitates, every instinct rebelling--wrong! perverse! But here's the only man in the universe from whom he could accept such a gift in conscience. He shuffles up. Jack's shifting, close to him as he can with the little play in the chains.
"You ever done this before?" the Doctor rasps.
"Sure, a few times. It's not like I'm hard up. You?"
"Only with the TARDIS."
"Well?" Jack's panting from the heat, deep desperate breaths, pouring sweat; the cloying air is starting to pound the Doctor's temples, and there's nothing to do but take that familiar face in unfamiliar hands--swollen, spotted--and kiss him, and hope.
Jack's dry mouth tastes of salt and copper, and Jack's life doesn't taste human at all, more like endless golden light, raining over him, marching down his spine and straightening it with every beat. Jack's life welling up around him, infinite as the Vortex, to silk his skin, spin his hair brown, ease the swelling and soothe his joints; he wants to run from it, or run through it forever, not sure which, just that his suit's fitting properly again, and Jack's helpless body is spasming in the chains, Jack's scream is muffled in his mouth, as the life-mark fights a hundred-year drain.
It comes easier than a century taken by force, almost pleasant; still exhausting, and when he breaks off the kiss, young again, he's gasping in stifling air. Jack sags with a ragged moan, catches himself, looks slowly up at him, and their eyes lock.
The Doctor trails fingertips--elegant again, agile--down Jack's throat, bared where they'd torn open his overshirt, and from the look in his eyes, there might as well be a collar there.
"Remind me," says the Doctor, after a moment, "to get myself killed again before this regeneration gets that old. I go senile! Bloody embarrassing, that."
Jack grins a soft, lopsided grin. "Yes, Sir."
*
Mm-hm. Did I mention my part of the world's been having one hell of a heat wave? Oddly inspiring, that.