Fic: And Always
Title: And Always
Author: rallalon | Rall
Beta: vyctori
Rating: Very Adult
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: Another installment in the universe started in At Thirty Paces.
“Hello,” Rose replies, tugging the Doctor’s overcoat tighter around her, brown-dyed hair brushing softly against the lapels.
A/N: For wendymr and dark_aegis, for any harm I may have done to their hearts two weeks ago.
He’s trying to sleep when he hears the knock on the door. He’s trying very hard and failing very much, but it’s night and it’s dark and he’s tired of reading by the flickering flame of his lamp.
This is the lamp he lights in the dark, a practiced fumble for matches giving him time to listen for further noise. The flat is small in the tenement, small and a bit foul smelling and - most importantly - one window away from a fire escape. If it’s Torchwood again...
The knock comes again, this time the first five taps to an seven-beat rhythm he knows hasn’t been coined yet. At least, he’s almost sure it hasn’t been, but he’s got far more important things to think about now.
Jack scrambles into motion, makes a small effort in the near-dark to clean up his daily mess and gives up, grinning. He doesn’t even think of pulling on a shirt. Padding over to the door, he raps back twice, the two bits to the visitor’s shave and a haircut. Grinning like he hasn’t grinned in months - and oh, he could count the days, but why bother when the wait’s over? - Jack opens the door.
His heart stops.
His first impression is brown. Brown suit, brown overcoat, brown hair; all different shades of brown, he’d never known so many different shades of brown. Eyes both brown and playful look up into his and he knows he’s gaping, he knows he’s been struck dumb; he knows it and he loves it.
“Hello,” he says, slowly starting to grin. He sets down the lamp on his desk, desperately needing to have his hands free.
“Hello,” Rose replies, tugging the Doctor’s overcoat tighter around her, brown-dyed hair brushing softly against the lapels. It moulds to her in the best way possible and, amazingly, Jack’s knees start to give way. He can’t remember the last time that happened.
“Hello,” he says again and then they grin at each other, simply look at each other and grin.
She steps forward into his flat and he can’t close the door behind her quickly enough. He closes the door and he locks it again and throws on the chain for good measure, just to make sure that nothing, nothing can come close to interrupting them.
He turns around and remembers that Rose’s kisses are as lush as her lips, deep and somehow full and filling and oh god, is this what he smells like? Like, like, oh god, this is what he smells like. This is- yes. He buries his hands in her hair, dyed a brown that’s just for him. He buries his hands and gives her his tongue and he’s shaking from how good it is. Just from a kiss, one simple kiss, he’s shaking.
What’s happened to him? What’s happened to the man who calls himself Jack Harkness? Besides the love and the longing and the separation, obviously. Besides all that, what’s happened to him? What’s happening to the seducer? He’s falling apart and he can’t stop touching her, can’t keep his hands from roving all over that coat and the jacket beneath. He groans more than a little as his fingers discover the tie.
She grins against his lips, her hands moving to unbutton his fly. His motions lack direction, his hands roaming across her back, slipping beneath the overcoat, rumpling the suit jacket further. The cloth feels fantastic against his chest. Her lips find that spot on his bare neck and the scent of a shampoo that’s not hers hits him hard and strong. One of his hands lifts to bury itself in that brown hair, thick and long and the perfect compromise.
“Tell me you brought a strap-on,” he very nearly begs. It makes him feel more like himself, the command if not the delivery of it. It’s half a flirt, half a giveaway: it’s been literally years since someone’s taken him that way.
“Next time,” she tells him, pressing into his touch as he attempts to pat down dimensionally transcendent pockets. She giggles before making herself stop, before pulling his head down and taking his mouth a way she’s never done before. More tongue, less pressure; she groans, a deep sound he knows he hasn’t provoked and that’s how he realizes it.
This is how he kisses.
He manoeuvres her to the bed, the pair of them nearly tripping on the overcoat, the brown hem trailing on the floor. “Next time,” he repeats, growling it against her lips, her neck, into the shell of her ear. It’s the start of a question he never finishes.
She gasps out an offer. “Leather jacket?”
They’re on the bed by this point, him naked save for his wriststrap, her still fully and fantastically clothed. He pulls her down atop of him, nearly can’t handle the sensation. Even the thought of it has the potential to tip him over, the thought of coming on coming on the Doctor’s suit.
The smell of it is enough to break him apart, never mind the sensation. This is the scent he’s caught wisps of for years, for a few days every year for years. It’s strong now and tangible and he can’t help but think of the pair of them in the TARDIS, showering. Cool hands working a man’s shampoo into brown-dyed hair; those fingers lathering her up with a masculine soap. He thinks of the Doctor’s tongue where his is right now, lapping droplets of water from heated skin.
Struggling not to fall off the bed in the process, he rolls her over and she grins up at him, her eyes asking, checking, double-checking. Is this good? Does he like it? Is she doing this right?
“Oh god, Rose,” he manages to groan out.
“What was that?” she asks, trying for deep instead of breathy, thickening her own accent and giving him a distracted mimicry of another grin.
He swears, loudly, curses her and him and the too-thin walls of his flat. “Doctor,” he breathes and she takes him in hand, works him until it’s too much. “Stop, stop, I- don’t want to- not yet.”
She gives him a bit of respite and he rolls off her to make sure he doesn’t finish himself off so soon. While the idea of coming on the Doctor’s clothes is fiercely erotic, the actual situation occurs to him as a strange form of sacrilege. Breathing heavily, he watches as she sits up, as she frees herself of the overcoat and reaches inside those pockets.
Items are fetched from the coat, placed on his nightstand where his lamp had been. He’s left the light by the door but he can see just fine. She’s brought condoms, lube - the strap-on is decidedly missing - and packets of.... He’s not sure.
“Ice packs,” she explains. “Y’know, the kind you hit and they go cold? Thought if you wanted a temperature difference, I might be able to-”
He kisses her, his body forgetting the transition from lying down to kneeling. She kisses him back the way a Time Lord would and he pulls back, his emotions as always using his lips as an outlet. He’s smiling in the way that means he loves her when he says, “This one’s for Rose.”
She kisses him back that way that the most beautiful human women do, the way that only she does.
When they break apart - horizontal once more - she grins up at him. “Got one more thing you’ll like.”
He pretends to think about it, his hands inside a Time Lord’s trousers. “This?” he asks, his voice terribly innocent for what his fingers are doing.
She shakes her head, gasping. “N-nuh... No. No, you- you’re using the back door tonight.”
His mouth is open; he knows it is. Having never been properly taught the joys of it, she hates anal. “While you wear the suit.”
“While I wear the suit.” And then her grin widens. “Got something else, though. And I don’t mean just his glasses, either.”
He can’t help but laugh as joy casts a not inconsiderable lust into shadow. “You stole his glasses.”
Her eyes shine even in the dark and he knows he’s going to hear this story in full later. “They were in his pocket. Sorta came with the suit.”
He kisses her proudly. “What else’ve you got, then?”
“Get off me and I’ll show you.”
Teasing her about needing to learn to multitask, he lifts himself onto his arms, manages to bring himself almost fully back under control. She pulls the overcoat to her, the brown suit jacket thoroughly rumpled by this point. The Doctor’s glasses are set on the nightstand, carefully out of the danger zone, and then she pulls out two earpieces.
He looks at her, mouth open so he doesn’t forget to breathe. She nods, reaches up to fasten his to his ear and he can’t find a single complaint at the anachronistic tech. A lifetime of experience tells him to protest and a future of longing keeps him silent.
Almost silent.
“...Doctor?”
He can hear a grin above the pounding of his heart. “Captain.”
Rose is watching him, her eyes bright and full of expectation. She’s waiting for him to smile so she can smile back.
He does and he has no idea why the expression feels nervous on his face. “Are you...”
“Naked?” the Doctor supplies, voice warm and playful in the younger man’s ear. “Yes, my clothes do seem to have mysteriously disappeared.”
“If I solve the mystery, do I get a reward?”
The Doctor chuckles, low and deep, a laugh he’s nearly speaking and oh fuck, Rose is eyeing him with that eagerness he can’t ever say no to.
“You two are...” He trails off, shaking his head in amazement, in admiration, looking to Rose with need.
It’s her turn to finish his question for him, grinning all the while. “About to be shagged?”
.-.-.-.-.-.
This is the moment he remembers forever.
Rose on his bed in the near-dark, the brown of the suit blurred into solid shadow against the white of his sheets. Her legs as open as they can be, the trousers pushed down to her ankles, her feet still clad in the Doctor’s red Chucks. She lies on her stomach, the tie thrown back over her shoulder to mingle with her hair.
He pushes into her, pushes past resistance and inside to be held where it is hot and tight and unexpectedly clean. He thinks of his lovers, thinks of how long they must have prepared, thinks of the Doctor doing this to her, thinks of both of them thinking of him all the while.
The Doctor gasps in his ear, echoing Rose perfectly until he isn’t, until his murmurs and curses come at a slightly different rhythm, until Jack realizes the other man is jerking off. The other man is jacking off, he thinks and he grins like a lunatic even as he groans at the visual.
The sounds Rose is making are beautiful, perfect, a wordless counterpoint to the Doctor’s accelerating babble. He loses himself in her, in them, in human flesh and Time Lord words, in two sets of breath mingling with his own, in two voices caressing his soul.
They call out his name in unpracticed unison, and for one perfect moment of the rarest role-reversal, Jack’s the one that’s shattered. It’s him who’s perfectly shattered and his world that’s complete.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Minutes later, still coming down from their collective high, they all murmur their love at once.
Giggling, Rose cuddles into him as he cleans them up, as the Doctor laughs himself sick in a show of his classic post-coital whimsicalness. Dropping everything into the small bag Rose brought along for their waste, Jack pulls the Doctor’s overcoat back onto the bed, lifts it from the floor where it had fallen during their lovemaking. He takes a moment he’d rather not to blow out his lamp, the effort requiring him to do the impossible and leave the small bed.
All of the Doctor’s clothes are in a pile at the foot of said bed by the time he returns, and Rose presses against him, firm and warm and distracting in the best of ways. Stroking her hair, pressing gentle kisses to her neck, he sets his earpiece on the bedside table next to hers, next to the Doctor’s glasses.
He closes his eyes, and breathes, and sleeps. When he dreams, he’s not the only one holding Rose close, holding her close, and safe, and always.
Author: rallalon | Rall
Beta: vyctori
Rating: Very Adult
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: Another installment in the universe started in At Thirty Paces.
“Hello,” Rose replies, tugging the Doctor’s overcoat tighter around her, brown-dyed hair brushing softly against the lapels.
A/N: For wendymr and dark_aegis, for any harm I may have done to their hearts two weeks ago.
He’s trying to sleep when he hears the knock on the door. He’s trying very hard and failing very much, but it’s night and it’s dark and he’s tired of reading by the flickering flame of his lamp.
This is the lamp he lights in the dark, a practiced fumble for matches giving him time to listen for further noise. The flat is small in the tenement, small and a bit foul smelling and - most importantly - one window away from a fire escape. If it’s Torchwood again...
The knock comes again, this time the first five taps to an seven-beat rhythm he knows hasn’t been coined yet. At least, he’s almost sure it hasn’t been, but he’s got far more important things to think about now.
Jack scrambles into motion, makes a small effort in the near-dark to clean up his daily mess and gives up, grinning. He doesn’t even think of pulling on a shirt. Padding over to the door, he raps back twice, the two bits to the visitor’s shave and a haircut. Grinning like he hasn’t grinned in months - and oh, he could count the days, but why bother when the wait’s over? - Jack opens the door.
His heart stops.
His first impression is brown. Brown suit, brown overcoat, brown hair; all different shades of brown, he’d never known so many different shades of brown. Eyes both brown and playful look up into his and he knows he’s gaping, he knows he’s been struck dumb; he knows it and he loves it.
“Hello,” he says, slowly starting to grin. He sets down the lamp on his desk, desperately needing to have his hands free.
“Hello,” Rose replies, tugging the Doctor’s overcoat tighter around her, brown-dyed hair brushing softly against the lapels. It moulds to her in the best way possible and, amazingly, Jack’s knees start to give way. He can’t remember the last time that happened.
“Hello,” he says again and then they grin at each other, simply look at each other and grin.
She steps forward into his flat and he can’t close the door behind her quickly enough. He closes the door and he locks it again and throws on the chain for good measure, just to make sure that nothing, nothing can come close to interrupting them.
He turns around and remembers that Rose’s kisses are as lush as her lips, deep and somehow full and filling and oh god, is this what he smells like? Like, like, oh god, this is what he smells like. This is- yes. He buries his hands in her hair, dyed a brown that’s just for him. He buries his hands and gives her his tongue and he’s shaking from how good it is. Just from a kiss, one simple kiss, he’s shaking.
What’s happened to him? What’s happened to the man who calls himself Jack Harkness? Besides the love and the longing and the separation, obviously. Besides all that, what’s happened to him? What’s happening to the seducer? He’s falling apart and he can’t stop touching her, can’t keep his hands from roving all over that coat and the jacket beneath. He groans more than a little as his fingers discover the tie.
She grins against his lips, her hands moving to unbutton his fly. His motions lack direction, his hands roaming across her back, slipping beneath the overcoat, rumpling the suit jacket further. The cloth feels fantastic against his chest. Her lips find that spot on his bare neck and the scent of a shampoo that’s not hers hits him hard and strong. One of his hands lifts to bury itself in that brown hair, thick and long and the perfect compromise.
“Tell me you brought a strap-on,” he very nearly begs. It makes him feel more like himself, the command if not the delivery of it. It’s half a flirt, half a giveaway: it’s been literally years since someone’s taken him that way.
“Next time,” she tells him, pressing into his touch as he attempts to pat down dimensionally transcendent pockets. She giggles before making herself stop, before pulling his head down and taking his mouth a way she’s never done before. More tongue, less pressure; she groans, a deep sound he knows he hasn’t provoked and that’s how he realizes it.
This is how he kisses.
He manoeuvres her to the bed, the pair of them nearly tripping on the overcoat, the brown hem trailing on the floor. “Next time,” he repeats, growling it against her lips, her neck, into the shell of her ear. It’s the start of a question he never finishes.
She gasps out an offer. “Leather jacket?”
They’re on the bed by this point, him naked save for his wriststrap, her still fully and fantastically clothed. He pulls her down atop of him, nearly can’t handle the sensation. Even the thought of it has the potential to tip him over, the thought of coming on coming on the Doctor’s suit.
The smell of it is enough to break him apart, never mind the sensation. This is the scent he’s caught wisps of for years, for a few days every year for years. It’s strong now and tangible and he can’t help but think of the pair of them in the TARDIS, showering. Cool hands working a man’s shampoo into brown-dyed hair; those fingers lathering her up with a masculine soap. He thinks of the Doctor’s tongue where his is right now, lapping droplets of water from heated skin.
Struggling not to fall off the bed in the process, he rolls her over and she grins up at him, her eyes asking, checking, double-checking. Is this good? Does he like it? Is she doing this right?
“Oh god, Rose,” he manages to groan out.
“What was that?” she asks, trying for deep instead of breathy, thickening her own accent and giving him a distracted mimicry of another grin.
He swears, loudly, curses her and him and the too-thin walls of his flat. “Doctor,” he breathes and she takes him in hand, works him until it’s too much. “Stop, stop, I- don’t want to- not yet.”
She gives him a bit of respite and he rolls off her to make sure he doesn’t finish himself off so soon. While the idea of coming on the Doctor’s clothes is fiercely erotic, the actual situation occurs to him as a strange form of sacrilege. Breathing heavily, he watches as she sits up, as she frees herself of the overcoat and reaches inside those pockets.
Items are fetched from the coat, placed on his nightstand where his lamp had been. He’s left the light by the door but he can see just fine. She’s brought condoms, lube - the strap-on is decidedly missing - and packets of.... He’s not sure.
“Ice packs,” she explains. “Y’know, the kind you hit and they go cold? Thought if you wanted a temperature difference, I might be able to-”
He kisses her, his body forgetting the transition from lying down to kneeling. She kisses him back the way a Time Lord would and he pulls back, his emotions as always using his lips as an outlet. He’s smiling in the way that means he loves her when he says, “This one’s for Rose.”
She kisses him back that way that the most beautiful human women do, the way that only she does.
When they break apart - horizontal once more - she grins up at him. “Got one more thing you’ll like.”
He pretends to think about it, his hands inside a Time Lord’s trousers. “This?” he asks, his voice terribly innocent for what his fingers are doing.
She shakes her head, gasping. “N-nuh... No. No, you- you’re using the back door tonight.”
His mouth is open; he knows it is. Having never been properly taught the joys of it, she hates anal. “While you wear the suit.”
“While I wear the suit.” And then her grin widens. “Got something else, though. And I don’t mean just his glasses, either.”
He can’t help but laugh as joy casts a not inconsiderable lust into shadow. “You stole his glasses.”
Her eyes shine even in the dark and he knows he’s going to hear this story in full later. “They were in his pocket. Sorta came with the suit.”
He kisses her proudly. “What else’ve you got, then?”
“Get off me and I’ll show you.”
Teasing her about needing to learn to multitask, he lifts himself onto his arms, manages to bring himself almost fully back under control. She pulls the overcoat to her, the brown suit jacket thoroughly rumpled by this point. The Doctor’s glasses are set on the nightstand, carefully out of the danger zone, and then she pulls out two earpieces.
He looks at her, mouth open so he doesn’t forget to breathe. She nods, reaches up to fasten his to his ear and he can’t find a single complaint at the anachronistic tech. A lifetime of experience tells him to protest and a future of longing keeps him silent.
Almost silent.
“...Doctor?”
He can hear a grin above the pounding of his heart. “Captain.”
Rose is watching him, her eyes bright and full of expectation. She’s waiting for him to smile so she can smile back.
He does and he has no idea why the expression feels nervous on his face. “Are you...”
“Naked?” the Doctor supplies, voice warm and playful in the younger man’s ear. “Yes, my clothes do seem to have mysteriously disappeared.”
“If I solve the mystery, do I get a reward?”
The Doctor chuckles, low and deep, a laugh he’s nearly speaking and oh fuck, Rose is eyeing him with that eagerness he can’t ever say no to.
“You two are...” He trails off, shaking his head in amazement, in admiration, looking to Rose with need.
It’s her turn to finish his question for him, grinning all the while. “About to be shagged?”
.-.-.-.-.-.
This is the moment he remembers forever.
Rose on his bed in the near-dark, the brown of the suit blurred into solid shadow against the white of his sheets. Her legs as open as they can be, the trousers pushed down to her ankles, her feet still clad in the Doctor’s red Chucks. She lies on her stomach, the tie thrown back over her shoulder to mingle with her hair.
He pushes into her, pushes past resistance and inside to be held where it is hot and tight and unexpectedly clean. He thinks of his lovers, thinks of how long they must have prepared, thinks of the Doctor doing this to her, thinks of both of them thinking of him all the while.
The Doctor gasps in his ear, echoing Rose perfectly until he isn’t, until his murmurs and curses come at a slightly different rhythm, until Jack realizes the other man is jerking off. The other man is jacking off, he thinks and he grins like a lunatic even as he groans at the visual.
The sounds Rose is making are beautiful, perfect, a wordless counterpoint to the Doctor’s accelerating babble. He loses himself in her, in them, in human flesh and Time Lord words, in two sets of breath mingling with his own, in two voices caressing his soul.
They call out his name in unpracticed unison, and for one perfect moment of the rarest role-reversal, Jack’s the one that’s shattered. It’s him who’s perfectly shattered and his world that’s complete.
.-.-.-.-.-.
Minutes later, still coming down from their collective high, they all murmur their love at once.
Giggling, Rose cuddles into him as he cleans them up, as the Doctor laughs himself sick in a show of his classic post-coital whimsicalness. Dropping everything into the small bag Rose brought along for their waste, Jack pulls the Doctor’s overcoat back onto the bed, lifts it from the floor where it had fallen during their lovemaking. He takes a moment he’d rather not to blow out his lamp, the effort requiring him to do the impossible and leave the small bed.
All of the Doctor’s clothes are in a pile at the foot of said bed by the time he returns, and Rose presses against him, firm and warm and distracting in the best of ways. Stroking her hair, pressing gentle kisses to her neck, he sets his earpiece on the bedside table next to hers, next to the Doctor’s glasses.
He closes his eyes, and breathes, and sleeps. When he dreams, he’s not the only one holding Rose close, holding her close, and safe, and always.