Torchwood Fic: "Big Bend to Boner" (Jack/OFC/OFC, rated PG (WHAT?))
Title: "Big Bend To Boner"
Author: Spiderine
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/OFC/OFC
Rating: PG (OMG SPIDER ARE YOU ILL?)
Warning/Spoilers: None/None (ARE YOU QUITE SURE YOU'RE NOT ILL?)
Disclaimer: O PLZ FR SRS!
Author's note: Here's a little somethin'-somethin' I whipped together for the Torchwood/Doctor Who Comment!Porn Battle V being hosted on cyus, which is the fic journal of cruentum. The available prompts for the "battle" were enclosed spaces; time travel; fail!sex. I managed to get all three prompts into one story! \0/ You can access the story directly at the site here, but I wanted to make sure I had a record of it in my journal.
Two of the three occupants of the stagecoach squealed when the conveyance hit a rut and sent the third traveler sprawling over their laps.
"Sorry, ladies," Jack Harkness said with a wink and a leer, quite obviously not sorry at all.
Neither the hydraulic shock absorber nor the word "smarmy" would be invented for another 50 years. Coincidence? Possibly not. Time travel was a bitch, but it had its compensations.
For example, the ladies in question, whose status as "ladies" was questionable indeed. A bit too much lace at the hem, not quite enough fabric at the décolletage, and a readiness to giggle over Jack's attempts at amusing conversation boded well for what would ordinarily be a tedious, taxing journey.
The ladies' names were Miranda and Samantha, but Jack immediately tagged them Randy and Sandy. They were on the Colorado Overland Stage from Big Bend to Boner. Fortunately, the word "innuendo" had been around since ancient Rome.
Jack reseated himself on the backward facing bench opposite his two companions and stretched out in what he hoped was a languorous pose. The coach lurched again and Jack's head knocked against the wall. He cursed and the ladies giggled again.
He could only laugh with them. "I'm so glad I'm keeping you gals entertained."
"You could do far better than that, I am sure," simpered Randy.
Jack's response was to let one leg slide off the bench seat to give them a nice eyeful of what he was keeping in his well-tailored 19th century trousers. He licked his lips, gave the two girls a low, dirty grin, and beckoned.
Innuendo. Latin gerund: giving a nod to, making a sign to. A nod's as good as a wink to a game whore.
Hunched over in the swaying confines of the coach, Randy moved to sit next to Jack on the bench; he wrapped one of his legs around her hips and one of his arms around her waist to draw her to him and start kissing her neck. Sandy sank to the floor of the coach in a rustle of silk and linen and knelt before him to start unbuttoning his flies.
The coach suddenly pitched to one side. Randy jerked, her nose slammed forward right into Jack's forehead and her knee landed in his groin. With an undignified squeal, his jaw snapped shut on the skin of her neck. They both shrieked and flinched, and Jack accidentally gave Sandy on the floor such a kick that she sprawled back on her ass and conked her head on the carriage seat.
The groans that filled the coach at that point were not the kind that any of them had originally intended.
"I think I'm gonna be sick," Sandy moaned, still splayed on the coach floor.
"You're not alone," grunted Jack, his face an unbecoming shade of green, as he gingerly cupped his groin.
Randy held her handkerchief up to her face. "I'm bleedin', ain't I? I am! You broke my nose!"
"It's not supposed to be like this," Jack groaned. "This never happens in the pulp novels."
"If I can't work because my looks are ruined," Randy said, "I'm gonna cut off your Johnson."
The threat was somewhat diminished by being uttered muffled through a lace hanky, but Jack's face still went paler. "I'll make it up to both of you," he wheezed, doing his best to ogle them through the haze of pain and nausea. "When we get where we're going it'll be beefsteak and champagne, I swear. But until then, why don't we just give it a rest?"
The ladies looked unimpressed and said nothing. Jack sighed. It would be a long time before they got off at Boner.
Author: Spiderine
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/OFC/OFC
Rating: PG (OMG SPIDER ARE YOU ILL?)
Warning/Spoilers: None/None (ARE YOU QUITE SURE YOU'RE NOT ILL?)
Disclaimer: O PLZ FR SRS!
Author's note: Here's a little somethin'-somethin' I whipped together for the Torchwood/Doctor Who Comment!Porn Battle V being hosted on cyus, which is the fic journal of cruentum. The available prompts for the "battle" were enclosed spaces; time travel; fail!sex. I managed to get all three prompts into one story! \0/ You can access the story directly at the site here, but I wanted to make sure I had a record of it in my journal.
Two of the three occupants of the stagecoach squealed when the conveyance hit a rut and sent the third traveler sprawling over their laps.
"Sorry, ladies," Jack Harkness said with a wink and a leer, quite obviously not sorry at all.
Neither the hydraulic shock absorber nor the word "smarmy" would be invented for another 50 years. Coincidence? Possibly not. Time travel was a bitch, but it had its compensations.
For example, the ladies in question, whose status as "ladies" was questionable indeed. A bit too much lace at the hem, not quite enough fabric at the décolletage, and a readiness to giggle over Jack's attempts at amusing conversation boded well for what would ordinarily be a tedious, taxing journey.
The ladies' names were Miranda and Samantha, but Jack immediately tagged them Randy and Sandy. They were on the Colorado Overland Stage from Big Bend to Boner. Fortunately, the word "innuendo" had been around since ancient Rome.
Jack reseated himself on the backward facing bench opposite his two companions and stretched out in what he hoped was a languorous pose. The coach lurched again and Jack's head knocked against the wall. He cursed and the ladies giggled again.
He could only laugh with them. "I'm so glad I'm keeping you gals entertained."
"You could do far better than that, I am sure," simpered Randy.
Jack's response was to let one leg slide off the bench seat to give them a nice eyeful of what he was keeping in his well-tailored 19th century trousers. He licked his lips, gave the two girls a low, dirty grin, and beckoned.
Innuendo. Latin gerund: giving a nod to, making a sign to. A nod's as good as a wink to a game whore.
Hunched over in the swaying confines of the coach, Randy moved to sit next to Jack on the bench; he wrapped one of his legs around her hips and one of his arms around her waist to draw her to him and start kissing her neck. Sandy sank to the floor of the coach in a rustle of silk and linen and knelt before him to start unbuttoning his flies.
The coach suddenly pitched to one side. Randy jerked, her nose slammed forward right into Jack's forehead and her knee landed in his groin. With an undignified squeal, his jaw snapped shut on the skin of her neck. They both shrieked and flinched, and Jack accidentally gave Sandy on the floor such a kick that she sprawled back on her ass and conked her head on the carriage seat.
The groans that filled the coach at that point were not the kind that any of them had originally intended.
"I think I'm gonna be sick," Sandy moaned, still splayed on the coach floor.
"You're not alone," grunted Jack, his face an unbecoming shade of green, as he gingerly cupped his groin.
Randy held her handkerchief up to her face. "I'm bleedin', ain't I? I am! You broke my nose!"
"It's not supposed to be like this," Jack groaned. "This never happens in the pulp novels."
"If I can't work because my looks are ruined," Randy said, "I'm gonna cut off your Johnson."
The threat was somewhat diminished by being uttered muffled through a lace hanky, but Jack's face still went paler. "I'll make it up to both of you," he wheezed, doing his best to ogle them through the haze of pain and nausea. "When we get where we're going it'll be beefsteak and champagne, I swear. But until then, why don't we just give it a rest?"
The ladies looked unimpressed and said nothing. Jack sighed. It would be a long time before they got off at Boner.