(no subject)
Title: What It Is
Author: Becky_H
Character(s): Captain Jack Harkness, Captain John Hart.
Genre: PWP, Slash.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers S2 E1, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.
Warnings: Very mild BDSM themes, if you squint.
Word Count: About 2,500
Beta: Matsujo9
Prompt: Set2Music Prompt 38: This is me pretending this is all I need
Summary: John's not a considerate lover. Wall!Sex.
Author's Note: This was written before the last episode of TW S2 aired. It doesn't contradict canon, but it doesn't deal with the episode at all, either.
John's not a considerate lover. The only person he's concerned about is himself. That's okay. Jack can take care of himself and he's here to fuck, not make love.
Jack's back hits the wall, hard, and there are sharp teeth at his lower lip, biting and prying and demanding. Hard fingers digging into his upper arms and fighting to get through layers of cloth to skin. Scratching, pinching, bruising. He can taste blood and there's a knee jammed into his thigh. It's not comfortable; it's exactly what he wants.
It's almost exactly what he wants.
He grabs John by the shoulders and shoves him away. "Calm down," he says firmly. John grins at him, lips shiny and wet with spit and Jack's blood, teeth flashing white in contrast. That's hot. That's really, really hot.
Jack groans and -- with a hard pivot, twist and another push -- slams John into the wall. All the air leaves John's lungs with a rush, but there's laughter there too, even as his hands fall on Jack's shoulders, gripping hard enough to ache.
"Tsk, love. Weren't you just saying something about calming down?" His voice, like his laugh, is breathless, hard-edged and mocking. Jack could not possibly care less because the flush across John's cheeks tells him just how turned on John is.
Jack grabs John's belt and yanks. Leather slips tighter before the fastening comes undone and whatever breath John's got back he loses again. "Bloody hell," he murmurs in a low, strained voice.
"Shut up," Jack snaps.
John shuts up.
Jack makes short work of getting John's pants opened the rest of the way, then leans in close to John and bites at his jaw, hard and sharp enough to raise a bruise. "Don't even think about moving," he warns.
"And if I do?" John asks, like he has to know.
He probably does, Jack realizes. "Then I'm going to be really pissed off -- and you're not going to come." He adds a little weight to his threat -- promise, really -- by slipping his hand inside John's pants and curling his fingers around John's cock. He's hard in Jack's hand, hot and leaking.
John moans, closes his eyes and thumps his head against the wall. He loosens his grip on Jack's shoulders and in the next instant -- the very next breath -- he presses them, fisted, against the wall.
"Good boy," Jack tells him.
John opens his eyes to glare at Jack, lips curled back from his teeth. It's more snarl than grin and the sound is a lot more growl than groan.
That look goes straight to Jack's cock. It makes his breath catch, his skin flush, his heart pound and his pants uncomfortably tight. He tightens his grip around John's cock, just a fraction. Pushes down, pulls the foreskin back and slides his thumb across the pre-come slick head.
Jack can see the flare of heat in John's eyes, wild and unrestrained. "Do you want to come?" he asks. His voice is low and firm, his eyes stay on John's and his thumb doesn't stop moving.
"What?" John squawks. He thumps Jack on the shoulder with one fisted hand. "Of course I want to come, you daft.…" His bitching comes to an abrupt stop when Jack tugs his cock. Deliberate. Short. Rough.
"Unfasten my pants." When Jack makes the demand he can see the look in John's eyes fade from want and confusion to banked heat and sullen resistance. "John," he warns. This threat really is one and he backs it up by loosening his hand around John's cock.
John's hard swallow and the fading defiance in his eyes tell Jack he's won -- this round, anyway -- even before John's muttered "fine." The hand on his belt is no surprise, pulling tighter and harder than is necessary, a bit of revenge.
"Thanks," Jack says in a conversational tone and with a pleasant smile, utterly ignoring the discomfort.
"You're welcome, you bloody fucking bastard," John grinds out through clenched teeth as he yanks Jack's pants open.
"Careful there," Jack cautions and pulls his hand free of John's pants.
John protests the loss of the hand with another snarl. "Turn around," Jack tells him before the protest can turn into speech.
John doesn't have to be told twice. If he's got a problem with things not going as planned -- or with being fucked -- he doesn't say anything about it. Just closes his mouth, spins around and puts his hands against the wall to brace himself.
Jack steps back to appreciate the view: John spread out and waiting to be fucked. He gets the lube out of his pocket with one hand, and uses the other to ease John's pants down past his hips. He can't resist asking, "Who's the wife now?"
"Oh, shut up, you wanker," John snarls over his shoulder.
Jack swats John's ass hard enough to sting and make his skin turn pink but not hard enough to really hurt. "You sure you want to insult me now?" he asks. He doesn't even sound angry, just amused.
John yelps when he’s smacked, but that yelp turns into a reluctant groan when Jack hand curls around his hip. "I always insult you. Just get on with it, would you? I'm dying here."
"Sure you are," Jack says pleasantly. He takes his time unscrewing the lube and slicking two of his fingers, just to be contrary.
John looks over his shoulder and gives Jack a slightly feral grin. He's flushed, his pupils are blown to hell. Probably just arousal and endorphins, but Jack wouldn't be surprised if John had found a way to take something while his head was down, either. "You calling me a liar?"
"You are a liar," Jack reminds him as he pushes two fingers into him, and twists.
"Whatever," John growl-groans, drops his head back down and pushes back onto Jack's fingers.
It's a strong, fluid move that makes Jack moan. The hot grip around his fingers makes his cock ache in sympathy. John doesn't need the prep; it's certainly not the first time he's been fucked.
Even against a wall.
Even against a wall by Jack.
Suddenly Jack doesn't want to wait. He just wants to be inside John, and the tease is frustrating him at least as much as it is John. He pushes his fingers deeper and then pulls out, fast, reversing his earlier twist.
He drags his fingers over John's prostate on the way out, a little rough and definitely not long enough to do more than force a yelp and shuddering moan out of John's throat and past his teeth. "Bastard," he accuses, breathless and panting.
"Leave my mother out of this," Jack says tersely as he slicks his cock with light, careful strokes.
"Kinky bastard," John amends.
Jack shuts him up by biting the back of his neck. Not a nip this time, but teeth in, hard enough to leave intentions and to bruise.
It's effective. John yelps again and tries to get his legs spread further apart. When his pants stop him he makes a low, frustrated sound and smacks the heel of his hand against the wall. "Jack...." It's not begging, it's not pleading. John just sounds irritated as anything.
Jack would grin if he weren't busy holding John in place with his teeth. Instead he grabs the hand John was flailing around, flattens it against the wall and holds it there with a low, soft, warning growl.
John subsides almost immediately, breathing hard enough for Jack to feel the rise and fall of it. It's loud in the enclosed space. It sounds more desperate than anything Jack's heard from either of them tonight, and it sends another wave of heat to his cock.
Jack is done waiting. He uses his free hand to position himself against John, then to pin John's second hand to the wall. There's no more prep than that, no warm up or easing into it. He just shoves his dick into John and John into the wall.
Just the way they both want it.
John fights being shoved into the wall, but not Jack's grip on his hands, much less Jack's cock in his ass. In fact, it’s just the opposite. The tension and push back that protects John's face pushes him onto Jack's cock, and tightens his ass around it.
Jack feels that familiar grip like a punch to the gut, and it knocks the breath out of him. For a second his vision blurs and his heart beats loud in his ears. He lets go of John's neck to catch a gasping breath, and, as much as he wants to say something witty, he doesn't have a thought left in his head.
Jack doesn't move, not right away. Not until he can be sure he can move without coming. Surprisingly enough John doesn't say anything and accepts the pause. His thin body is strung tight with need under Jack's -- trembling with it -- but he lets Jack have his second to gather his wits. It's that more than any familiar sensation that reminds Jack that John knows him at least as well as he knows John.
Probably better; John's memories are more recent.
Jack gathers his scattered wits and, more importantly, control. He pulls back slowly, adjusts his angle and slams back into John.
It's fast and hard. It's brutal and demanding. John meets him, thrust for stroke, tight and hot and forcing himself back into Jack and away from the wall. It's a struggle and a fight, and there's no way to mistake it for anything but what it is.
It's fucking.
It's fucking and it goes on until Jack's lungs are burning and his heart pounding. Until sweat stings his eyes and slicks John's skin.
Until John starts fighting to free one of his hands from Jack's grip. Jack doesn't catch on right away. His hand tightens around John's, he snarls, and the next thrust is brutal. John growls and shoves right back, taking the punishing thrust and shoving back against Jack just as hard. Hard enough to make Jack's hips ache.
It breaks Jack's momentum, his rhythm, and the haze of heat blanketing his brain. Not completely, but enough. "Fuck," Jack gasps, faltering and breathless.
John takes advantage and yanks his hand free from Jack's. "You fuck," he says, voice strained almost to the point of breaking. "I'll wank."
Jack wants to laugh at that, but when John gets his hand down and wrapped around his cock, he shudders, and that shiver and response is something Jack can feel around his dick. The only sound Jack actually manages to make is a moan. "Your wish...."
Jack holds John's shoulder with his newly freed hand, and that's the grip and leverage he needs to change his angle so his cock hits John's prostate more directly with every stroke.
"Is your command," John finishes for Jack, words forced out in time with the heavy, deep thrusts.
Jack's reluctantly impressed that John's still talking, but he's not surprised. It takes more than being shagged through a wall to shut the guy up. "I thought," Jack says, as best he can, "you wanted to come." Jack's fight to hold back and not be the first one over that edge is apparent in his voice as irritation, even to his own ears.
"Do," John manages somehow.
John's breathing heavily and Jack can see the tension in his shoulders, the flush that's creeping up the back of his neck, the clench of his jaw. Jack doesn't slow down, doesn't pause or hesitate or let up even the slightest bit, even though his thighs are starting to ache almost as much as his balls, the lube's getting sticky and the friction's just about too much to be good.
He doesn’t slow because Jack knows from the way John feels around him, from the taut fragility of John's voice, that he is right there.
Jack leans into his next thrust and bites down on John's neck again -- holding him there hard enough that his jaw aches and he knows it's got to be hurting John -- and growls.
The extra bit of stimulation is enough, because John stops moving. Stops fighting to meet Jack's movement and just takes it. He stiffens and tightens and cries out, strangled and wordless and without any kind of inhibition at all, even pride.
It's a beautiful sound, a beautiful reaction that grabs Jack by the heart and balls at the same time and twists. Jack inhales, thrusts into the gripping heat of John's body one more time, and curls his fingers down over John's.
In the fading aftershocks of John's climax and the building intensity of his own, there's a moment where it's all turned upside down. He's not forcing John down, John's keeping him up. He's not pinning John's hand to the wall, John's holding his.
It's just a moment -- a single instant -- that's barely there before it's gone. But that moment is intimacy and being with someone, being all the way with them. It's partnership, if only in the pursuit of mutual pleasure. It's a second, a breath, a heartbeat, a wave of heartbreakingly intense feeling that takes everything and leaves no room for lies.
It's over all too soon, slipping away like water through his fingers.
It leaves him shattered and breathless, heartbeat loud in his ears. He lets go of John's neck and presses his forehead where his teeth have been, catching his breath and waiting to properly come to his senses.
As Jack pulls out he can feel the shift and move of muscle as John wipes his hand clean and fastens his pants, one handed, but doesn't move away. John doesn't ask him to, and Jack squeezes the hand that he's still holding -- or that's holding his? He can't tell -- in silent gratitude. His grip is returned with a little more pressure than is strictly comfortable, but it tells Jack what he needs to know: Message received and sentiment returned.
They pull away from each other at the same time.
John releases Jack's hand; Jack steps back. He has to glance down to do up his pants and when he looks up again, John's looking at back him. He's already put himself together except for the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the flush across his cheeks. Jack doesn't feel anywhere near that composed.
John opens his mouth to say something, but Jack cuts him with an uplifted hand and shake of his head. "Just go," he says, tilting his head toward the door.
John lifts one eyebrow into an arch that's downright challenging but Jack doesn't rise to the bait. He just repeats the nod toward the door. "Go," he says more firmly.
John concedes. He flips Jack a sloppy salute that conveys more sarcasm than respect and leaves.
Leaves Jack alone.
When the door closes Jack takes a slow breath and closes his eyes.
John's not a considerate lover. It doesn't matter because Jack is. He doesn't know how to be anything else. He doesn't know how to leave his heart out of fucking, either. Thinking back on the whole thing he decides that's one lesson he doesn't want to learn.
Author: Becky_H
Character(s): Captain Jack Harkness, Captain John Hart.
Genre: PWP, Slash.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers S2 E1, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.
Warnings: Very mild BDSM themes, if you squint.
Word Count: About 2,500
Beta: Matsujo9
Prompt: Set2Music Prompt 38: This is me pretending this is all I need
Summary: John's not a considerate lover. Wall!Sex.
Author's Note: This was written before the last episode of TW S2 aired. It doesn't contradict canon, but it doesn't deal with the episode at all, either.
John's not a considerate lover. The only person he's concerned about is himself. That's okay. Jack can take care of himself and he's here to fuck, not make love.
Jack's back hits the wall, hard, and there are sharp teeth at his lower lip, biting and prying and demanding. Hard fingers digging into his upper arms and fighting to get through layers of cloth to skin. Scratching, pinching, bruising. He can taste blood and there's a knee jammed into his thigh. It's not comfortable; it's exactly what he wants.
It's almost exactly what he wants.
He grabs John by the shoulders and shoves him away. "Calm down," he says firmly. John grins at him, lips shiny and wet with spit and Jack's blood, teeth flashing white in contrast. That's hot. That's really, really hot.
Jack groans and -- with a hard pivot, twist and another push -- slams John into the wall. All the air leaves John's lungs with a rush, but there's laughter there too, even as his hands fall on Jack's shoulders, gripping hard enough to ache.
"Tsk, love. Weren't you just saying something about calming down?" His voice, like his laugh, is breathless, hard-edged and mocking. Jack could not possibly care less because the flush across John's cheeks tells him just how turned on John is.
Jack grabs John's belt and yanks. Leather slips tighter before the fastening comes undone and whatever breath John's got back he loses again. "Bloody hell," he murmurs in a low, strained voice.
"Shut up," Jack snaps.
John shuts up.
Jack makes short work of getting John's pants opened the rest of the way, then leans in close to John and bites at his jaw, hard and sharp enough to raise a bruise. "Don't even think about moving," he warns.
"And if I do?" John asks, like he has to know.
He probably does, Jack realizes. "Then I'm going to be really pissed off -- and you're not going to come." He adds a little weight to his threat -- promise, really -- by slipping his hand inside John's pants and curling his fingers around John's cock. He's hard in Jack's hand, hot and leaking.
John moans, closes his eyes and thumps his head against the wall. He loosens his grip on Jack's shoulders and in the next instant -- the very next breath -- he presses them, fisted, against the wall.
"Good boy," Jack tells him.
John opens his eyes to glare at Jack, lips curled back from his teeth. It's more snarl than grin and the sound is a lot more growl than groan.
That look goes straight to Jack's cock. It makes his breath catch, his skin flush, his heart pound and his pants uncomfortably tight. He tightens his grip around John's cock, just a fraction. Pushes down, pulls the foreskin back and slides his thumb across the pre-come slick head.
Jack can see the flare of heat in John's eyes, wild and unrestrained. "Do you want to come?" he asks. His voice is low and firm, his eyes stay on John's and his thumb doesn't stop moving.
"What?" John squawks. He thumps Jack on the shoulder with one fisted hand. "Of course I want to come, you daft.…" His bitching comes to an abrupt stop when Jack tugs his cock. Deliberate. Short. Rough.
"Unfasten my pants." When Jack makes the demand he can see the look in John's eyes fade from want and confusion to banked heat and sullen resistance. "John," he warns. This threat really is one and he backs it up by loosening his hand around John's cock.
John's hard swallow and the fading defiance in his eyes tell Jack he's won -- this round, anyway -- even before John's muttered "fine." The hand on his belt is no surprise, pulling tighter and harder than is necessary, a bit of revenge.
"Thanks," Jack says in a conversational tone and with a pleasant smile, utterly ignoring the discomfort.
"You're welcome, you bloody fucking bastard," John grinds out through clenched teeth as he yanks Jack's pants open.
"Careful there," Jack cautions and pulls his hand free of John's pants.
John protests the loss of the hand with another snarl. "Turn around," Jack tells him before the protest can turn into speech.
John doesn't have to be told twice. If he's got a problem with things not going as planned -- or with being fucked -- he doesn't say anything about it. Just closes his mouth, spins around and puts his hands against the wall to brace himself.
Jack steps back to appreciate the view: John spread out and waiting to be fucked. He gets the lube out of his pocket with one hand, and uses the other to ease John's pants down past his hips. He can't resist asking, "Who's the wife now?"
"Oh, shut up, you wanker," John snarls over his shoulder.
Jack swats John's ass hard enough to sting and make his skin turn pink but not hard enough to really hurt. "You sure you want to insult me now?" he asks. He doesn't even sound angry, just amused.
John yelps when he’s smacked, but that yelp turns into a reluctant groan when Jack hand curls around his hip. "I always insult you. Just get on with it, would you? I'm dying here."
"Sure you are," Jack says pleasantly. He takes his time unscrewing the lube and slicking two of his fingers, just to be contrary.
John looks over his shoulder and gives Jack a slightly feral grin. He's flushed, his pupils are blown to hell. Probably just arousal and endorphins, but Jack wouldn't be surprised if John had found a way to take something while his head was down, either. "You calling me a liar?"
"You are a liar," Jack reminds him as he pushes two fingers into him, and twists.
"Whatever," John growl-groans, drops his head back down and pushes back onto Jack's fingers.
It's a strong, fluid move that makes Jack moan. The hot grip around his fingers makes his cock ache in sympathy. John doesn't need the prep; it's certainly not the first time he's been fucked.
Even against a wall.
Even against a wall by Jack.
Suddenly Jack doesn't want to wait. He just wants to be inside John, and the tease is frustrating him at least as much as it is John. He pushes his fingers deeper and then pulls out, fast, reversing his earlier twist.
He drags his fingers over John's prostate on the way out, a little rough and definitely not long enough to do more than force a yelp and shuddering moan out of John's throat and past his teeth. "Bastard," he accuses, breathless and panting.
"Leave my mother out of this," Jack says tersely as he slicks his cock with light, careful strokes.
"Kinky bastard," John amends.
Jack shuts him up by biting the back of his neck. Not a nip this time, but teeth in, hard enough to leave intentions and to bruise.
It's effective. John yelps again and tries to get his legs spread further apart. When his pants stop him he makes a low, frustrated sound and smacks the heel of his hand against the wall. "Jack...." It's not begging, it's not pleading. John just sounds irritated as anything.
Jack would grin if he weren't busy holding John in place with his teeth. Instead he grabs the hand John was flailing around, flattens it against the wall and holds it there with a low, soft, warning growl.
John subsides almost immediately, breathing hard enough for Jack to feel the rise and fall of it. It's loud in the enclosed space. It sounds more desperate than anything Jack's heard from either of them tonight, and it sends another wave of heat to his cock.
Jack is done waiting. He uses his free hand to position himself against John, then to pin John's second hand to the wall. There's no more prep than that, no warm up or easing into it. He just shoves his dick into John and John into the wall.
Just the way they both want it.
John fights being shoved into the wall, but not Jack's grip on his hands, much less Jack's cock in his ass. In fact, it’s just the opposite. The tension and push back that protects John's face pushes him onto Jack's cock, and tightens his ass around it.
Jack feels that familiar grip like a punch to the gut, and it knocks the breath out of him. For a second his vision blurs and his heart beats loud in his ears. He lets go of John's neck to catch a gasping breath, and, as much as he wants to say something witty, he doesn't have a thought left in his head.
Jack doesn't move, not right away. Not until he can be sure he can move without coming. Surprisingly enough John doesn't say anything and accepts the pause. His thin body is strung tight with need under Jack's -- trembling with it -- but he lets Jack have his second to gather his wits. It's that more than any familiar sensation that reminds Jack that John knows him at least as well as he knows John.
Probably better; John's memories are more recent.
Jack gathers his scattered wits and, more importantly, control. He pulls back slowly, adjusts his angle and slams back into John.
It's fast and hard. It's brutal and demanding. John meets him, thrust for stroke, tight and hot and forcing himself back into Jack and away from the wall. It's a struggle and a fight, and there's no way to mistake it for anything but what it is.
It's fucking.
It's fucking and it goes on until Jack's lungs are burning and his heart pounding. Until sweat stings his eyes and slicks John's skin.
Until John starts fighting to free one of his hands from Jack's grip. Jack doesn't catch on right away. His hand tightens around John's, he snarls, and the next thrust is brutal. John growls and shoves right back, taking the punishing thrust and shoving back against Jack just as hard. Hard enough to make Jack's hips ache.
It breaks Jack's momentum, his rhythm, and the haze of heat blanketing his brain. Not completely, but enough. "Fuck," Jack gasps, faltering and breathless.
John takes advantage and yanks his hand free from Jack's. "You fuck," he says, voice strained almost to the point of breaking. "I'll wank."
Jack wants to laugh at that, but when John gets his hand down and wrapped around his cock, he shudders, and that shiver and response is something Jack can feel around his dick. The only sound Jack actually manages to make is a moan. "Your wish...."
Jack holds John's shoulder with his newly freed hand, and that's the grip and leverage he needs to change his angle so his cock hits John's prostate more directly with every stroke.
"Is your command," John finishes for Jack, words forced out in time with the heavy, deep thrusts.
Jack's reluctantly impressed that John's still talking, but he's not surprised. It takes more than being shagged through a wall to shut the guy up. "I thought," Jack says, as best he can, "you wanted to come." Jack's fight to hold back and not be the first one over that edge is apparent in his voice as irritation, even to his own ears.
"Do," John manages somehow.
John's breathing heavily and Jack can see the tension in his shoulders, the flush that's creeping up the back of his neck, the clench of his jaw. Jack doesn't slow down, doesn't pause or hesitate or let up even the slightest bit, even though his thighs are starting to ache almost as much as his balls, the lube's getting sticky and the friction's just about too much to be good.
He doesn’t slow because Jack knows from the way John feels around him, from the taut fragility of John's voice, that he is right there.
Jack leans into his next thrust and bites down on John's neck again -- holding him there hard enough that his jaw aches and he knows it's got to be hurting John -- and growls.
The extra bit of stimulation is enough, because John stops moving. Stops fighting to meet Jack's movement and just takes it. He stiffens and tightens and cries out, strangled and wordless and without any kind of inhibition at all, even pride.
It's a beautiful sound, a beautiful reaction that grabs Jack by the heart and balls at the same time and twists. Jack inhales, thrusts into the gripping heat of John's body one more time, and curls his fingers down over John's.
In the fading aftershocks of John's climax and the building intensity of his own, there's a moment where it's all turned upside down. He's not forcing John down, John's keeping him up. He's not pinning John's hand to the wall, John's holding his.
It's just a moment -- a single instant -- that's barely there before it's gone. But that moment is intimacy and being with someone, being all the way with them. It's partnership, if only in the pursuit of mutual pleasure. It's a second, a breath, a heartbeat, a wave of heartbreakingly intense feeling that takes everything and leaves no room for lies.
It's over all too soon, slipping away like water through his fingers.
It leaves him shattered and breathless, heartbeat loud in his ears. He lets go of John's neck and presses his forehead where his teeth have been, catching his breath and waiting to properly come to his senses.
As Jack pulls out he can feel the shift and move of muscle as John wipes his hand clean and fastens his pants, one handed, but doesn't move away. John doesn't ask him to, and Jack squeezes the hand that he's still holding -- or that's holding his? He can't tell -- in silent gratitude. His grip is returned with a little more pressure than is strictly comfortable, but it tells Jack what he needs to know: Message received and sentiment returned.
They pull away from each other at the same time.
John releases Jack's hand; Jack steps back. He has to glance down to do up his pants and when he looks up again, John's looking at back him. He's already put himself together except for the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the flush across his cheeks. Jack doesn't feel anywhere near that composed.
John opens his mouth to say something, but Jack cuts him with an uplifted hand and shake of his head. "Just go," he says, tilting his head toward the door.
John lifts one eyebrow into an arch that's downright challenging but Jack doesn't rise to the bait. He just repeats the nod toward the door. "Go," he says more firmly.
John concedes. He flips Jack a sloppy salute that conveys more sarcasm than respect and leaves.
Leaves Jack alone.
When the door closes Jack takes a slow breath and closes his eyes.
John's not a considerate lover. It doesn't matter because Jack is. He doesn't know how to be anything else. He doesn't know how to leave his heart out of fucking, either. Thinking back on the whole thing he decides that's one lesson he doesn't want to learn.