Ashes: Nine/Five, NC-17
Title: Ashes. Also archived here
Author: Becky_H
Pairing: Nine/Five
Beta: Matsujo_9, and baffled_fandom
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None.
Warning: Breath-play, safety and sanity are decidedly lacking, consent is dubious and there's a tiny bit of blood. After all that, do I need to tell you that this fic is dark?
Word Count: 800-ish
Summary: If you could go back in time and tell your younger self just one thing, what would it be? Set immediately after the Time War.
Author's Note: I almost want to apologize for this one.
Young and innocent, beautiful and fragile, alive and absolutely in love with the universe.
Everything he had been and nothing at all that he still was or could ever be again.
He wanted to choke the light out of those eyes, see them darken with death and force the slow burn of regeneration and maturity onto this delicate shadow of himself.
Trusting. Completely trusting when the hand wrapped around his throat. The skin under his calloused fingers was obscenely soft, and when they curled around the pulse didn't so much as jump. There was only a soft gasp and eyes going just a bit wide, a hand gripping his wrist but not pulling. Surprise, not fear, because of course there was very little real danger - respitory bypass. He wasn't going to need air for a good long while. That made it worse, somehow.
No, there was no fear in those wide, guileless eyes, only pity and gentle question. He didn't need to reach for the bright expanse of mind that lay behind them to know what the question was. He knew. ”What happened? What have I become?” The same questions he would have asked.
The only answer there was -- the only answer there could be -- was a harsh laugh, broken and ragged, and the tighter curl of his fingers into the unprotected throat of the man, the child, the fool, he had been. Hurting, if not suffocating. Tighter and tighter until he knew he was bruising and he could feel his own hearts speed.
He didn't think about what he was doing. One step forward, his leg pushing between the other man’s thighs and forcing them apart. The hand left his wrist and curled around the back of his neck, cool and soft. The familiar press into a body that was too slight and too yielding but still belonged to him.
He could hear the rasp and wheeze of air being forced past his hand and pulled into lungs that might not have needed the air, but wanted it, regardless . He could feel the push and throb against his hip of a different kind of ache, another sort of desperation, but one that still burned.
He watched, fascinated, at the flush rising in the pale face. He leaned in close enough to feel the soft brush of labored breath against his face. His weight pressed the body under his against the wall of the TARDIS even as the twist and squirm of that body brought them closer together.
He moved a fraction of an inch closer to seal his mouth over the more pliant one. His teeth caught at the lower lip, blunt and tearing, before he slipped his tongue into the velvet softness of a mouth already open in the struggle for air. The blood that flavored the kiss was sweet and metallic; he imagined he tasted of ashes and death.
His thrust when it came was brutally hard. It drove what air was left out of lungs already struggling and dug the sharp edges of thin hips into his own. He growled, his tongue sweeping -- fucking -- into the bloody kiss to the same rhythm as his hips and with every bit as much violence. Full of anger. Full of need. Suddenly he wasn't getting enough air either.
He wrenched away from the kiss, pulled back just enough to look into unfocused eyes that were starting to darken as consciousness spun away. He pressed a hand between them and could feel the pulse against the fingers of both hands as they curled and tightened around throat and cock. The jump, the stutter, before his heart began to race.
He saw the weary spark of disbelief, almost shock, in his own eyes. He felt the arch into him and the warmth against his palm, seeping slowly through those ridiculous pants.
He saw the spark fade to nothing and felt the boneless sag between his weight and the living thrum of the TARDIS.
He pulled his hands away only to catch the disheveled form and lower it to the ground. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he took one in tandem with -- and as ragged and raw as -- the one that came from the body he crouched over.
He pressed his hand over the thin chest, fingers splayed wide to feel the beat of two hearts. He'd come here to punish himself. To give himself a warning he wouldn't remember: You will lose everything.
He did neither.
Blue eyes opened and looked into his. The question had gone, and with it the pity. All that was left was compassion. One hand lifted and circled his wrist in a grip that was warmer and stronger than he remembered.
He wept for himself and the bloody, bruised remnants of his own fragile innocence
Author: Becky_H
Pairing: Nine/Five
Beta: Matsujo_9, and baffled_fandom
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None.
Warning: Breath-play, safety and sanity are decidedly lacking, consent is dubious and there's a tiny bit of blood. After all that, do I need to tell you that this fic is dark?
Word Count: 800-ish
Summary: If you could go back in time and tell your younger self just one thing, what would it be? Set immediately after the Time War.
Author's Note: I almost want to apologize for this one.
Young and innocent, beautiful and fragile, alive and absolutely in love with the universe.
Everything he had been and nothing at all that he still was or could ever be again.
He wanted to choke the light out of those eyes, see them darken with death and force the slow burn of regeneration and maturity onto this delicate shadow of himself.
Trusting. Completely trusting when the hand wrapped around his throat. The skin under his calloused fingers was obscenely soft, and when they curled around the pulse didn't so much as jump. There was only a soft gasp and eyes going just a bit wide, a hand gripping his wrist but not pulling. Surprise, not fear, because of course there was very little real danger - respitory bypass. He wasn't going to need air for a good long while. That made it worse, somehow.
No, there was no fear in those wide, guileless eyes, only pity and gentle question. He didn't need to reach for the bright expanse of mind that lay behind them to know what the question was. He knew. ”What happened? What have I become?” The same questions he would have asked.
The only answer there was -- the only answer there could be -- was a harsh laugh, broken and ragged, and the tighter curl of his fingers into the unprotected throat of the man, the child, the fool, he had been. Hurting, if not suffocating. Tighter and tighter until he knew he was bruising and he could feel his own hearts speed.
He didn't think about what he was doing. One step forward, his leg pushing between the other man’s thighs and forcing them apart. The hand left his wrist and curled around the back of his neck, cool and soft. The familiar press into a body that was too slight and too yielding but still belonged to him.
He could hear the rasp and wheeze of air being forced past his hand and pulled into lungs that might not have needed the air, but wanted it, regardless . He could feel the push and throb against his hip of a different kind of ache, another sort of desperation, but one that still burned.
He watched, fascinated, at the flush rising in the pale face. He leaned in close enough to feel the soft brush of labored breath against his face. His weight pressed the body under his against the wall of the TARDIS even as the twist and squirm of that body brought them closer together.
He moved a fraction of an inch closer to seal his mouth over the more pliant one. His teeth caught at the lower lip, blunt and tearing, before he slipped his tongue into the velvet softness of a mouth already open in the struggle for air. The blood that flavored the kiss was sweet and metallic; he imagined he tasted of ashes and death.
His thrust when it came was brutally hard. It drove what air was left out of lungs already struggling and dug the sharp edges of thin hips into his own. He growled, his tongue sweeping -- fucking -- into the bloody kiss to the same rhythm as his hips and with every bit as much violence. Full of anger. Full of need. Suddenly he wasn't getting enough air either.
He wrenched away from the kiss, pulled back just enough to look into unfocused eyes that were starting to darken as consciousness spun away. He pressed a hand between them and could feel the pulse against the fingers of both hands as they curled and tightened around throat and cock. The jump, the stutter, before his heart began to race.
He saw the weary spark of disbelief, almost shock, in his own eyes. He felt the arch into him and the warmth against his palm, seeping slowly through those ridiculous pants.
He saw the spark fade to nothing and felt the boneless sag between his weight and the living thrum of the TARDIS.
He pulled his hands away only to catch the disheveled form and lower it to the ground. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he took one in tandem with -- and as ragged and raw as -- the one that came from the body he crouched over.
He pressed his hand over the thin chest, fingers splayed wide to feel the beat of two hearts. He'd come here to punish himself. To give himself a warning he wouldn't remember: You will lose everything.
He did neither.
Blue eyes opened and looked into his. The question had gone, and with it the pity. All that was left was compassion. One hand lifted and circled his wrist in a grip that was warmer and stronger than he remembered.
He wept for himself and the bloody, bruised remnants of his own fragile innocence