FIC: Empowerment In Itself, Tom McLaughlin/Daniel Holt, NC-17
Title: Empowerment In Itself
Fandom/Movie: H2O
Pairing: Tom McLaughlin/Daniel Holt (PG/CKR role pairing)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tom doesn’t have time for sex, and he cannot allow himself to be distracted.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine, they belong to Paul Gross and John Krizanc. I just couldn’t resist.
Author’s notes: Big thanks to many_miles_away for idea bouncing, hand holding, encouragement and beta.
This story is set right after McLaughlin’s speech about the implementing of the Emergency’s Act; that is the night after he’s first seen the picture of Daniel Holt.
The title is taken from a quote by Gloria Steinem: “Power can be taken, but not given. The process of the taking is empowerment in itself.”
~*~*~
Empowerment In Itself
Tom falls asleep that night, the image of his father's killer etched into his mind. He has dreamed about drowning before, again and again ever since his sister died, but never have his dreams been this vivid. He can feel the water closing in on him, and he gasps, fully aware it will do no good, will, in fact, kill him. The water is filling his lungs now, and there are hands, strong and slender, hands wrapped around his neck holding him down, and he tries to fight them, but he cannot lift his arms. He can't move anymore; he is tired, tired, tired.
Tom wakes up with a gasp, trembling and hard. He doesn't have time for this, he thinks and pushes back the face of Daniel Holt as he gives his cock a few long, well-practised strokes until he comes.
~*~*~
Tom doesn’t have time for sex. He doesn’t need it. Each day, another piece of his puzzle slips into place, and it gives him a rush that is beyond sexual pleasure. Yet every night he wakes, panting and hard and thinking of him.
Tom doesn’t have time for sex, and he cannot allow himself to be distracted.
After five nights of dreams, Tom picks up the phone. Two hours later, there is a knock at the door. He could have told him to meet somewhere else - a hotel room, a back alley, a car - but Tom knows people pay the least attention to what happens right in front of them. His mother is fast asleep - alcohol and her new medication mix well.
Tom is sitting at his desk, staring at Holt’s open file before him. He doesn’t know what he is looking for, exactly, and he doesn’t know what to expect when he hears the door open behind him. He covers Holt’s picture with a letter from the U.S. ambassador before turning around.
Holt is leaning against the doorframe with a faintly amused expression. He looks older than on the picture; Tom suspects it is as much the lack of uniform as the fact that he has, of course, aged.
Tom has met killers before; has, at times, defended them. But this is the man who killed his father, and without him, Tom wouldn’t be where he is. They told him he ought to be grateful. Tom doesn’t like it when people tell him what to do.
For once, he is at a loss for words. What does one say to the killer of one’s father? Good evening seems hardly appropriate; You killed my father overly melodramatic. Tom leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Holt’s.
“What do you want?” Holt’s voice is quiet and steady. The door behind him is still open, but there is no light in the corridor.
Aye, there’s the rub. What does he want? Tom moistens his lips and tightens his grip on the chair. Control. Power. “How much did they pay you?” Tom asks.
“Enough.” Holt grins. “I didn’t do it for the money, though.”
“Then why did you do it?” Tom finds he is honestly curious.
Holt shrugs. “It’s what I do.” He glances over to the couch and raises his eyebrows. Tom nods curtly, and Holt closes the door before crossing the room and sitting down. He leans back against the couch and spreads his legs easily.
“Do you like what you do?” Tom’s gaze flickers to Holt’s hands. His fingers are long and slender, the hands of an artist. He pictures them wrapped around his father’s throat. His own throat. He shifts in his chair.
“It’s a job.” For the first time, Holt doesn’t look like he knows where this is going. He has followed Tom’s gaze and now eyes him curiously.
“But you just said you didn’t do it for the money.”
“I don’t. Money’s not the problem. It’s what I know, what I’m trained to do.”
“Besides, you’re dead.”
“Yeah, there’s that too.” He chuckles. “It happens. It gets pretty confusing out there. All they found of me was a heap of burned flesh, unidentifiable. Car bombing. No dogtags, but I was supposed to be in that car, so people assumed. It was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time.”
Tom doesn’t ask, But why didn’t you say anything. It is clear to him that Holt enjoys being a ghost. He probably arranged it, too, but he doesn’t want to know. He looks at Holt, who is smirking at him. Tom feels like punching him, but he knows that is what Holt expects. Punishment for his sins. Tom doesn’t want to punish him.
“Blow me,” he says. Holt looks up, surprised.
“What?” he asks.
“You heard me. Blow me.” Holt narrows his eyes at him. Tom meets them steadily, even though he himself doesn’t know whether he is bluffing or not. Then Holt nods.
“Okay.” Holt gets up slowly. He only has to take two steps to stand in front of Tom. Tom spreads his legs, eyes still on Holt’s, daring him to back down. Holt doesn’t, Holt kneels down and swiftly opens his belt, unbuttons his pants, slips down the zipper. He’s smirking again, and Tom doesn’t want anything more than wipe that smirk off his face, to show him who is calling the shots. He pushes Holt’s hands away and takes out his cock himself.
“Do it.” Tom watches as Holt licks his lips. He doesn’t expect Holt’s fingers wrapping themselves around his cock and he hisses as he feels himself harden. He hadn’t actually thought he would find this arousing, but it has been a long time since he felt someone else’s hands on his cock. Tom closes his eyes and he sees the same fingers closed around his throat. He moans and he can hear Holt chuckle again, and angrily grabs his head and pushes him towards his cock. The thought that Holt might hurt him doesn’t cross his mind; he is the one in control, he is the Prime Minister of Canada, he is Tom McLaughlin.
Holt opens his mouth and swallow’s Tom’s cock, and Tom has to fight hard to keep in control of himself. Holt’s mouth is hot and wet and Holt is sucking him, and fuck that feels good. He starts thrusting into Holt’s mouth, harder and deeper than he would with anyone else, and he waits for Holt to complain but he doesn’t. Tom wants to pull at his hair and force some reaction from him, but instead he pushes Holt away.
“Stop!” he gasps and Holt raises one eyebrow.
“What? Something wrong?” His voice is mocking, and Tom has had enough.
“Get up,” he hisses, and he grabs Holt by his shirt and drags him upwards. Tom pushes back his chair and shoves Holt against his desk.
“You wanna fuck me? Is that it?” Tom wishes Holt would look terrified, abhorred, anything but amused. Holt is already unfastening his pants and Tom can see he is hard and it confuses him. This still isn’t what he wants, but he is beyond the point where he could return. He grabs Holt’s pants and pulls them down before turning Holt around. Holt braces himself on the desk and leans forward, legs spread, offering himself even though Tom wants to take. It’s infuriating, and Tom feels completely helpless.
His cock is already slick, glistening with precome and Holt’s spit, but it won’t be enough. Tom pulls open the top drawer of his desk and takes out a small bottle of hand lotion. He is about to open it when Holt twists under his hands, pushes him backwards to reach down to his pants and pull something from his pockets. He hands Tom the condom, grinning.
“After all, you don’t know where I’ve been.” Did you see this coming? Tom wants to ask, but again he doesn’t want to know the answer. He is the one who is calling the shots and Holt couldn’t have known it. Holt doesn’t know him. Tom hastily tears open the package and rolls the condom over his cock. He quickly slicks himself up but doesn’t bother with Holt, who hasn’t seemed to expect anything different.
Tom positions his cock at Holt’s entrance before gripping his hips with both hands. He pushes inside almost ruthlessly, but ends up sliding inside him too easily. He is about to ask, Do you do this a lot?, when the sensation of being inside another man overwhelms him. Holt is hot and tight around him, and Tom pushes down deeper and further until he is buried up to the hilt of his cock.
Holt hisses, and Tom cannot tell whether it’s from pain or from pleasure. He waits a moment to collect himself, and that is when Holt says,
“It was nothing personal, you know?” His voice is conversational, and Tom’s grip on Holt’s hips tightens.
“Neither is this,” he replies through clenched teeth before he starts thrusting into him. He doesn’t care whether Holt is enjoying it, wishes he wouldn’t, but Holt bucks and moans under him and Tom suddenly realizes Holt knows everything about him. Holt knows everything about him, and he will use it against him. Tom has to admire that.
Tom starts fucking him in earnest, harder and faster, pistoning into him again and again until he comes with a final gasp and groan. Holt is coming, too, and Tom watches, intrigued, even as he pulls his cock from Holt’s ass. He discards the condom into the waste bucket immediately; he will have to get rid of it before the morning, he thinks.
Tom pulls his pants back on and is fastening his belt when Holt turns around. While they were fucking, the letter from the ambassador was pushed from where it was covering Holt’s file. Holt picks it up and looks at it.
“That’s not a bad picture, actually. Where did you get it?”
“Sergeant Collins gave it to me.”
“Ah, Leah,” Holt says. Tom doesn’t like the intimacy the first name carries with it. “Do you want me to kill her?” Again, Holt sounds casual, as if he is making a grocery list.
“No!” The word comes out stronger than Tom had intended. He can see how it’s another piece for Holt’s puzzle and turns around, afraid to show him even more. Holt knows too much already, although Tom doesn’t understand what he intends to do with that knowledge.
“Why?” he asks, walking over to the cabinet to pour himself a glass of water. He doesn’t look at Holt but he can hear him getting dressed as well, zipping up his pants, straightening his clothes.
“I’m curious,” Holt replies, and Tom knows that’s the only answer he’s going to get that night. He nods; he understands curiosity. He turns back to face him, Holt is already on his way out but stops at the door.
“You have my number if you need anything.” Holt smirks at him one last time before he’s gone. Tom finishes his drink and goes to bed after flushing the used condom down the toilet.
The dreams that night are even more vivid, but this time, he doesn’t come.
Fandom/Movie: H2O
Pairing: Tom McLaughlin/Daniel Holt (PG/CKR role pairing)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Tom doesn’t have time for sex, and he cannot allow himself to be distracted.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine, they belong to Paul Gross and John Krizanc. I just couldn’t resist.
Author’s notes: Big thanks to many_miles_away for idea bouncing, hand holding, encouragement and beta.
This story is set right after McLaughlin’s speech about the implementing of the Emergency’s Act; that is the night after he’s first seen the picture of Daniel Holt.
The title is taken from a quote by Gloria Steinem: “Power can be taken, but not given. The process of the taking is empowerment in itself.”
~*~*~
Empowerment In Itself
Tom falls asleep that night, the image of his father's killer etched into his mind. He has dreamed about drowning before, again and again ever since his sister died, but never have his dreams been this vivid. He can feel the water closing in on him, and he gasps, fully aware it will do no good, will, in fact, kill him. The water is filling his lungs now, and there are hands, strong and slender, hands wrapped around his neck holding him down, and he tries to fight them, but he cannot lift his arms. He can't move anymore; he is tired, tired, tired.
Tom wakes up with a gasp, trembling and hard. He doesn't have time for this, he thinks and pushes back the face of Daniel Holt as he gives his cock a few long, well-practised strokes until he comes.
~*~*~
Tom doesn’t have time for sex. He doesn’t need it. Each day, another piece of his puzzle slips into place, and it gives him a rush that is beyond sexual pleasure. Yet every night he wakes, panting and hard and thinking of him.
Tom doesn’t have time for sex, and he cannot allow himself to be distracted.
After five nights of dreams, Tom picks up the phone. Two hours later, there is a knock at the door. He could have told him to meet somewhere else - a hotel room, a back alley, a car - but Tom knows people pay the least attention to what happens right in front of them. His mother is fast asleep - alcohol and her new medication mix well.
Tom is sitting at his desk, staring at Holt’s open file before him. He doesn’t know what he is looking for, exactly, and he doesn’t know what to expect when he hears the door open behind him. He covers Holt’s picture with a letter from the U.S. ambassador before turning around.
Holt is leaning against the doorframe with a faintly amused expression. He looks older than on the picture; Tom suspects it is as much the lack of uniform as the fact that he has, of course, aged.
Tom has met killers before; has, at times, defended them. But this is the man who killed his father, and without him, Tom wouldn’t be where he is. They told him he ought to be grateful. Tom doesn’t like it when people tell him what to do.
For once, he is at a loss for words. What does one say to the killer of one’s father? Good evening seems hardly appropriate; You killed my father overly melodramatic. Tom leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Holt’s.
“What do you want?” Holt’s voice is quiet and steady. The door behind him is still open, but there is no light in the corridor.
Aye, there’s the rub. What does he want? Tom moistens his lips and tightens his grip on the chair. Control. Power. “How much did they pay you?” Tom asks.
“Enough.” Holt grins. “I didn’t do it for the money, though.”
“Then why did you do it?” Tom finds he is honestly curious.
Holt shrugs. “It’s what I do.” He glances over to the couch and raises his eyebrows. Tom nods curtly, and Holt closes the door before crossing the room and sitting down. He leans back against the couch and spreads his legs easily.
“Do you like what you do?” Tom’s gaze flickers to Holt’s hands. His fingers are long and slender, the hands of an artist. He pictures them wrapped around his father’s throat. His own throat. He shifts in his chair.
“It’s a job.” For the first time, Holt doesn’t look like he knows where this is going. He has followed Tom’s gaze and now eyes him curiously.
“But you just said you didn’t do it for the money.”
“I don’t. Money’s not the problem. It’s what I know, what I’m trained to do.”
“Besides, you’re dead.”
“Yeah, there’s that too.” He chuckles. “It happens. It gets pretty confusing out there. All they found of me was a heap of burned flesh, unidentifiable. Car bombing. No dogtags, but I was supposed to be in that car, so people assumed. It was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time.”
Tom doesn’t ask, But why didn’t you say anything. It is clear to him that Holt enjoys being a ghost. He probably arranged it, too, but he doesn’t want to know. He looks at Holt, who is smirking at him. Tom feels like punching him, but he knows that is what Holt expects. Punishment for his sins. Tom doesn’t want to punish him.
“Blow me,” he says. Holt looks up, surprised.
“What?” he asks.
“You heard me. Blow me.” Holt narrows his eyes at him. Tom meets them steadily, even though he himself doesn’t know whether he is bluffing or not. Then Holt nods.
“Okay.” Holt gets up slowly. He only has to take two steps to stand in front of Tom. Tom spreads his legs, eyes still on Holt’s, daring him to back down. Holt doesn’t, Holt kneels down and swiftly opens his belt, unbuttons his pants, slips down the zipper. He’s smirking again, and Tom doesn’t want anything more than wipe that smirk off his face, to show him who is calling the shots. He pushes Holt’s hands away and takes out his cock himself.
“Do it.” Tom watches as Holt licks his lips. He doesn’t expect Holt’s fingers wrapping themselves around his cock and he hisses as he feels himself harden. He hadn’t actually thought he would find this arousing, but it has been a long time since he felt someone else’s hands on his cock. Tom closes his eyes and he sees the same fingers closed around his throat. He moans and he can hear Holt chuckle again, and angrily grabs his head and pushes him towards his cock. The thought that Holt might hurt him doesn’t cross his mind; he is the one in control, he is the Prime Minister of Canada, he is Tom McLaughlin.
Holt opens his mouth and swallow’s Tom’s cock, and Tom has to fight hard to keep in control of himself. Holt’s mouth is hot and wet and Holt is sucking him, and fuck that feels good. He starts thrusting into Holt’s mouth, harder and deeper than he would with anyone else, and he waits for Holt to complain but he doesn’t. Tom wants to pull at his hair and force some reaction from him, but instead he pushes Holt away.
“Stop!” he gasps and Holt raises one eyebrow.
“What? Something wrong?” His voice is mocking, and Tom has had enough.
“Get up,” he hisses, and he grabs Holt by his shirt and drags him upwards. Tom pushes back his chair and shoves Holt against his desk.
“You wanna fuck me? Is that it?” Tom wishes Holt would look terrified, abhorred, anything but amused. Holt is already unfastening his pants and Tom can see he is hard and it confuses him. This still isn’t what he wants, but he is beyond the point where he could return. He grabs Holt’s pants and pulls them down before turning Holt around. Holt braces himself on the desk and leans forward, legs spread, offering himself even though Tom wants to take. It’s infuriating, and Tom feels completely helpless.
His cock is already slick, glistening with precome and Holt’s spit, but it won’t be enough. Tom pulls open the top drawer of his desk and takes out a small bottle of hand lotion. He is about to open it when Holt twists under his hands, pushes him backwards to reach down to his pants and pull something from his pockets. He hands Tom the condom, grinning.
“After all, you don’t know where I’ve been.” Did you see this coming? Tom wants to ask, but again he doesn’t want to know the answer. He is the one who is calling the shots and Holt couldn’t have known it. Holt doesn’t know him. Tom hastily tears open the package and rolls the condom over his cock. He quickly slicks himself up but doesn’t bother with Holt, who hasn’t seemed to expect anything different.
Tom positions his cock at Holt’s entrance before gripping his hips with both hands. He pushes inside almost ruthlessly, but ends up sliding inside him too easily. He is about to ask, Do you do this a lot?, when the sensation of being inside another man overwhelms him. Holt is hot and tight around him, and Tom pushes down deeper and further until he is buried up to the hilt of his cock.
Holt hisses, and Tom cannot tell whether it’s from pain or from pleasure. He waits a moment to collect himself, and that is when Holt says,
“It was nothing personal, you know?” His voice is conversational, and Tom’s grip on Holt’s hips tightens.
“Neither is this,” he replies through clenched teeth before he starts thrusting into him. He doesn’t care whether Holt is enjoying it, wishes he wouldn’t, but Holt bucks and moans under him and Tom suddenly realizes Holt knows everything about him. Holt knows everything about him, and he will use it against him. Tom has to admire that.
Tom starts fucking him in earnest, harder and faster, pistoning into him again and again until he comes with a final gasp and groan. Holt is coming, too, and Tom watches, intrigued, even as he pulls his cock from Holt’s ass. He discards the condom into the waste bucket immediately; he will have to get rid of it before the morning, he thinks.
Tom pulls his pants back on and is fastening his belt when Holt turns around. While they were fucking, the letter from the ambassador was pushed from where it was covering Holt’s file. Holt picks it up and looks at it.
“That’s not a bad picture, actually. Where did you get it?”
“Sergeant Collins gave it to me.”
“Ah, Leah,” Holt says. Tom doesn’t like the intimacy the first name carries with it. “Do you want me to kill her?” Again, Holt sounds casual, as if he is making a grocery list.
“No!” The word comes out stronger than Tom had intended. He can see how it’s another piece for Holt’s puzzle and turns around, afraid to show him even more. Holt knows too much already, although Tom doesn’t understand what he intends to do with that knowledge.
“Why?” he asks, walking over to the cabinet to pour himself a glass of water. He doesn’t look at Holt but he can hear him getting dressed as well, zipping up his pants, straightening his clothes.
“I’m curious,” Holt replies, and Tom knows that’s the only answer he’s going to get that night. He nods; he understands curiosity. He turns back to face him, Holt is already on his way out but stops at the door.
“You have my number if you need anything.” Holt smirks at him one last time before he’s gone. Tom finishes his drink and goes to bed after flushing the used condom down the toilet.
The dreams that night are even more vivid, but this time, he doesn’t come.