FIC: Part 2 - Demand
Title: Part 2 - Demand
Author: starfirefic
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Owen, Jack
Word Count: ~2,000ish
Genre: Kink, pure and simple (oh, alright, there may be some character stuff in there too)
Rating: Definite NC-17
Beta: The incomparable riftugee (without whom there'd be a lot more monologue, and a lot less Jacktion)
Author's Notes:Written as the second part of a response to a prompt from karaokegal for a Jack/Owen BDSM prompt. Part 1 - Denial is here - I'm not sure how much sense this'll make on its own
Spoilers: None in this part really
Summary: Jack won't let Owen escape what he wants
Disclaimer: Neither Jack nor Owen belong to me. I can think of much better uses for them if they did
Warnings: Language, sexual imagery, and gratuitous author insertion and Mary-Sueing with Owen's reactions
Part 2 - Demand
The day had already been too long when Owen found himself summoned up to Jack’s office like some kind of naughty schoolboy. He supposed he should be grateful that His High and Mighty Captain-ness had at least permitted him the time to finish up his third autopsy of the day… although truth be told, it had made it just a tad difficult to concentrate on job at hand. What with the constant wondering where exactly he’d managed to screw up again this time and all.
The lights were out in the main part of the Hub as he passed through - looked like they’d all gone home. Even the teaboy, which was odd enough, in itself, that Owen felt his discomfort intensify. Light still shone through the partially open door of Jack’s office though. Of course it did. He couldn’t possibly be lucky enough for Jack to have crawled back down into the hole he called a home for the night, now could he? Bracing himself, Owen gathered his courage and knocked.
“Come in, Owen.” Jack didn’t even look up from the paperwork in front of him, boredom and frustration radiating out from him like a religious halo.
“You wanted to see me?" Owen kept his voice neutral. Well... as neutral as he ever did anyway. He had a reputation as a sarcastic prick to uphold, after all; and at times like this, he was glad he’d cultivated it. Gave him something to hide behind. He shoved his fists deep into the pockets of his jacket, determined to at least look casual.
“Yes. Yes I did.” Jack glanced up at last, the slightest hint of a knowing glint in his eyes that did… uncomfortable… things to the pit of Owen’s stomach. “Show me your hands, Owen,” he said, conversationally.
What the hell? His… hands? “Let me get this straight,” Owen found himself stalling for time. What the hell did the Captain want with his hands? “You called me up to your office to check my bloody manicure? That’s a little metrosexual even for you, isn’t it, Harkness?”
“Show me,” Jack repeated, his voice hardening just the tiniest, tiniest fraction, “your hands. Now.”
Reluctantly, Owen pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them out, palms up. “There you go. Happy? I can recommend a brilliant brand of handcream if you’re worried about fine lin_…”
“Turn them over. Show me the backs.” Short, sharp commands that sparked a reaction Owen was damned if he’d let himself admit to. Irritated, he pushed it down. He could be casual and keep up the façade - he’d been doing it for months now, hadn’t he? Rolling his eyes in what he hoped would pass for annoyance, he complied. Shit. Just a moment too late, he realised Jack’s point, remembering the state in which his ongoing dates with the punchbag were leaving his knuckles.
Jack glanced down at the skinned, bruised mess, with an exaggerated wince. “Ouch,” he said with a knowing grin. “That can’t be comfortable. Something on your mind to put those there, or did you just wake up one morning and decide you weren’t happy with your fingers the way they were?”
The tone teased at Owen, tantalising him with a promise of something he didn't recognise and wasn't honestly sure he wanted to. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he kept his voice as steady as he could. “But you’re wrong. I was just training a little hard, that’s all. Everything’s just fine in my world. How about yours?” OK, yeah, that was the kind of casual snideness he wanted. Now if he could just keep that up…
“Oh?” Jack pushed his chair out behind him, and stood slowly, leaning forward on the desk. Coiled power lurked under the Captain’s calm veneer, and Owen bit back a curse as he felt it fanning the spark he refused to acknowledge. “And what if I said I don’t believe you?” Jesus, that was steel in Jack's voice. Owen’s gut tightened. He didn’t want to respond like this, dammit. It wasn’t him.
“What if I said…” Jack stalked out from behind the desk, trapping Owen’s gaze with the way he moved. “What if I said that you’ve been distracted for several months now?” He was moving closer, getting right into Owen’s personal space, and every instinct Owen had screamed at him to back away.
“What if I said that you’ve been so damn distracted, you’ve become a danger to yourself and everyone else on the team?” Jack came to a stop close enough for Owen to feel the man’s breath hot against his ear with every word. “What if I told you I knew what was distracting you, and that for the sake of everyone who relies on you in the field, it was well beyond time to do something about it?”
No way. He couldn’t know. No fucking way could he know. He had to be bluffing. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re raving about, Harkness.” Yeah, and maybe that little protest would have sounded more convincing if his voice hadn’t cracked in the middle of it.
“It’s like this, Owen.” Jack’s tone turned dangerously silky. “Remember that wee pendant of Tosh’s? Remember she couldn’t use it on me? Now, why do you think that might have been?”
Oh god. This wasn’t happening.
“Yeah, I think from that expression, you can guess why, can’t you… It’s not the first time I’ve seen one of those things. That’s why I could read the signs with sweet little Tosh.” One corner of Jack’s lips curled upward in a knowing smirk. “And yep, you guessed it, I have one just like it. And Owen, Owen, Owen, you wouldn’t believe the dark-and-dirty secrets of yours it’s been letting me in on…”
NO. Oh, no no no *no*. Owen felt his knees weaken, and the blood drained from his face in an audible rush. Oh, but he was so completely and utterly screwed. He ought to be angry - ought to be furious that Harkness had done this. But the wash of humiliation and panic was far too strong for anything else to even register.
“So what…” Fuck, he couldn’t make his voice work. He did his best to swallow; and started again. “What exactly are you saying?”
“It’s simple.” Jack locked eyes with him, and Jesus, if Owen had felt trapped before, it was nothing to what he was feeling now. Moth around a candleflame, rabbit in a headlight… yeah, he knew just exactly how they felt. The spark in the pit of his stomach flared, completely unconcerned with just how fiercely he hated it at that moment.
“Like I said,” Jack continued blithely. “Right now, you’re endangering my team. I don't accept that from anyone. So I’m going to give you two options.” He took a measured half-step back - not enough to give Owen the illusion of space again, but enough to make crystal clear who controlled the distance. “Option 1? You walk away. I give you a nice hot cup of retcon, and you leave us. Forever. Might be the kindest thing, when all’s said and done…”
“And Option 2?” Owen asked, trying and failing to keep the trepidation from his words. Could he do it? Could he leave everything that had meant anything to him? Was pride really worth that much to him?
Jack smiled, sharp and wolflike; and it was every smile from every twisted fantasy Owen had ever entertained. “Option 2 means we work through these little scenes of yours - we make them real - so you can get your head back in the game.” Owen felt the flare inside blazing brighter now, parching the moisture from his throat with its heat.
“Option 2 is that I give you everything… and I do mean everything… you’ve been jerking yourself off to at night.” Jack reached out a lazy hand, stroking it down Owen’s jaw with the back of one finger in a mockery of a caress. Voice lowering to little more than a hungry whisper that arced like lightning up Owen’s spine, he continued, “Option 2 means you get to stay. But if you want that, Owen? You’ll need to do something for me first…”
“Wh.. what?” It took Owen three tries to actually get the word out, his tongue felt so thick.
"Oh, I think you know,” Jack grinned nastily. “But I’ll indulge you, shall I? I’ll pretend you don’t, and I’ll explain it to you, in nice, short, simple words, so I don’t confuse that poor little brain of yours.” Without warning, the hand that had stroked Owen’s jaw so gently was gripping the back of his neck like a vise, nails sharp and hard against his skin, and Owen’s pulse rose to a deafening drumbeat in his ears.
"It's like this.” Jack’s face was pitiless. “There aren’t a lot of lines I refuse to cross anymore - but forcing myself on the unwilling is one of them. So while I won’t deny the idea of breaking you holds definite appeal… if you choose Option 2, my boy, you’ll need to convince me that you really want it.” Owen felt the grip on his neck loosen, and Jack’s thumb began to stroke a hypnotic rhythm up and down his tendon.
“You know what that means, Owen?’ Long, slow, languorous strokes, and Jack’s voice softened to match them. “It means you’re going to have to plead for me to hurt you - to hold you down and use every skill I ever learned to make you scream and writhe. It means you’re going to need to come right out and ask me to give you bruises that’ll make those little grazes on your knuckles look like lovebites, and then make you thank me for every single fucking one of them."
Suddenly Owen’s neck was cold and empty where the heat of Jack’s hand had been, and Jack had stepped back again, arms folded across his chest. "Basically, Owen?” he sneered. “It means that if you want this, you need to get down on those bony little knees of yours, look me in the eye, and beg me to give it to you. And you need to do it now, because I am not in the mood for pissing around.”
And, God, Owen couldn’t help the gasp that escaped then. Couldn’t help feeling his eyes glazing and the world around him start to swim. Couldn’t keep himself from being dragged under by the current as something inside broke, and a wave of pure, raw, aching need washed over him like liquid fire, stealing the breath from his lungs. Dignity and pride and everything that he’d relied on to keep the world at a safe distance were swept away in the burning flood; and when it passed, there was nothing. Nothing but Jack. Nothing but the sharp, harsh bite of Jack’s words, and the sinister threat of the hunger in Jack’s eyes.
So crashing to his knees wasn’t a choice. Not really. Choice wasn’t an option the fiery torrent had left him. Kneeling there - eyes level with the buckle of Jack’s belt, want and lust a hot copper tang at the back of his dessicated throat - was nothing more or less than an inevitability. Slowly, Owen forced himself to raise his eyes, finding Jack’s, and shuddering under the implacability of the gaze that met his. “Please…” he managed in a cracked, barely audible whisper that took every last ounce of will he had just to shape his lips around. “Do it. Please.”
Jack’s chuckle flowed over his senses, and the glint in his dark eyes hardened to diamond. “Yeah,” he smirked as he traced one edge of Owen’s lip with a featherlight touch. “Somehow, I just knew you’d say that.”
Author: starfirefic
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Owen, Jack
Word Count: ~2,000ish
Genre: Kink, pure and simple (oh, alright, there may be some character stuff in there too)
Rating: Definite NC-17
Beta: The incomparable riftugee (without whom there'd be a lot more monologue, and a lot less Jacktion)
Author's Notes:Written as the second part of a response to a prompt from karaokegal for a Jack/Owen BDSM prompt. Part 1 - Denial is here - I'm not sure how much sense this'll make on its own
Spoilers: None in this part really
Summary: Jack won't let Owen escape what he wants
Disclaimer: Neither Jack nor Owen belong to me. I can think of much better uses for them if they did
Warnings: Language, sexual imagery, and gratuitous author insertion and Mary-Sueing with Owen's reactions
Part 2 - Demand
The day had already been too long when Owen found himself summoned up to Jack’s office like some kind of naughty schoolboy. He supposed he should be grateful that His High and Mighty Captain-ness had at least permitted him the time to finish up his third autopsy of the day… although truth be told, it had made it just a tad difficult to concentrate on job at hand. What with the constant wondering where exactly he’d managed to screw up again this time and all.
The lights were out in the main part of the Hub as he passed through - looked like they’d all gone home. Even the teaboy, which was odd enough, in itself, that Owen felt his discomfort intensify. Light still shone through the partially open door of Jack’s office though. Of course it did. He couldn’t possibly be lucky enough for Jack to have crawled back down into the hole he called a home for the night, now could he? Bracing himself, Owen gathered his courage and knocked.
“Come in, Owen.” Jack didn’t even look up from the paperwork in front of him, boredom and frustration radiating out from him like a religious halo.
“You wanted to see me?" Owen kept his voice neutral. Well... as neutral as he ever did anyway. He had a reputation as a sarcastic prick to uphold, after all; and at times like this, he was glad he’d cultivated it. Gave him something to hide behind. He shoved his fists deep into the pockets of his jacket, determined to at least look casual.
“Yes. Yes I did.” Jack glanced up at last, the slightest hint of a knowing glint in his eyes that did… uncomfortable… things to the pit of Owen’s stomach. “Show me your hands, Owen,” he said, conversationally.
What the hell? His… hands? “Let me get this straight,” Owen found himself stalling for time. What the hell did the Captain want with his hands? “You called me up to your office to check my bloody manicure? That’s a little metrosexual even for you, isn’t it, Harkness?”
“Show me,” Jack repeated, his voice hardening just the tiniest, tiniest fraction, “your hands. Now.”
Reluctantly, Owen pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them out, palms up. “There you go. Happy? I can recommend a brilliant brand of handcream if you’re worried about fine lin_…”
“Turn them over. Show me the backs.” Short, sharp commands that sparked a reaction Owen was damned if he’d let himself admit to. Irritated, he pushed it down. He could be casual and keep up the façade - he’d been doing it for months now, hadn’t he? Rolling his eyes in what he hoped would pass for annoyance, he complied. Shit. Just a moment too late, he realised Jack’s point, remembering the state in which his ongoing dates with the punchbag were leaving his knuckles.
Jack glanced down at the skinned, bruised mess, with an exaggerated wince. “Ouch,” he said with a knowing grin. “That can’t be comfortable. Something on your mind to put those there, or did you just wake up one morning and decide you weren’t happy with your fingers the way they were?”
The tone teased at Owen, tantalising him with a promise of something he didn't recognise and wasn't honestly sure he wanted to. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he kept his voice as steady as he could. “But you’re wrong. I was just training a little hard, that’s all. Everything’s just fine in my world. How about yours?” OK, yeah, that was the kind of casual snideness he wanted. Now if he could just keep that up…
“Oh?” Jack pushed his chair out behind him, and stood slowly, leaning forward on the desk. Coiled power lurked under the Captain’s calm veneer, and Owen bit back a curse as he felt it fanning the spark he refused to acknowledge. “And what if I said I don’t believe you?” Jesus, that was steel in Jack's voice. Owen’s gut tightened. He didn’t want to respond like this, dammit. It wasn’t him.
“What if I said…” Jack stalked out from behind the desk, trapping Owen’s gaze with the way he moved. “What if I said that you’ve been distracted for several months now?” He was moving closer, getting right into Owen’s personal space, and every instinct Owen had screamed at him to back away.
“What if I said that you’ve been so damn distracted, you’ve become a danger to yourself and everyone else on the team?” Jack came to a stop close enough for Owen to feel the man’s breath hot against his ear with every word. “What if I told you I knew what was distracting you, and that for the sake of everyone who relies on you in the field, it was well beyond time to do something about it?”
No way. He couldn’t know. No fucking way could he know. He had to be bluffing. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re raving about, Harkness.” Yeah, and maybe that little protest would have sounded more convincing if his voice hadn’t cracked in the middle of it.
“It’s like this, Owen.” Jack’s tone turned dangerously silky. “Remember that wee pendant of Tosh’s? Remember she couldn’t use it on me? Now, why do you think that might have been?”
Oh god. This wasn’t happening.
“Yeah, I think from that expression, you can guess why, can’t you… It’s not the first time I’ve seen one of those things. That’s why I could read the signs with sweet little Tosh.” One corner of Jack’s lips curled upward in a knowing smirk. “And yep, you guessed it, I have one just like it. And Owen, Owen, Owen, you wouldn’t believe the dark-and-dirty secrets of yours it’s been letting me in on…”
NO. Oh, no no no *no*. Owen felt his knees weaken, and the blood drained from his face in an audible rush. Oh, but he was so completely and utterly screwed. He ought to be angry - ought to be furious that Harkness had done this. But the wash of humiliation and panic was far too strong for anything else to even register.
“So what…” Fuck, he couldn’t make his voice work. He did his best to swallow; and started again. “What exactly are you saying?”
“It’s simple.” Jack locked eyes with him, and Jesus, if Owen had felt trapped before, it was nothing to what he was feeling now. Moth around a candleflame, rabbit in a headlight… yeah, he knew just exactly how they felt. The spark in the pit of his stomach flared, completely unconcerned with just how fiercely he hated it at that moment.
“Like I said,” Jack continued blithely. “Right now, you’re endangering my team. I don't accept that from anyone. So I’m going to give you two options.” He took a measured half-step back - not enough to give Owen the illusion of space again, but enough to make crystal clear who controlled the distance. “Option 1? You walk away. I give you a nice hot cup of retcon, and you leave us. Forever. Might be the kindest thing, when all’s said and done…”
“And Option 2?” Owen asked, trying and failing to keep the trepidation from his words. Could he do it? Could he leave everything that had meant anything to him? Was pride really worth that much to him?
Jack smiled, sharp and wolflike; and it was every smile from every twisted fantasy Owen had ever entertained. “Option 2 means we work through these little scenes of yours - we make them real - so you can get your head back in the game.” Owen felt the flare inside blazing brighter now, parching the moisture from his throat with its heat.
“Option 2 is that I give you everything… and I do mean everything… you’ve been jerking yourself off to at night.” Jack reached out a lazy hand, stroking it down Owen’s jaw with the back of one finger in a mockery of a caress. Voice lowering to little more than a hungry whisper that arced like lightning up Owen’s spine, he continued, “Option 2 means you get to stay. But if you want that, Owen? You’ll need to do something for me first…”
“Wh.. what?” It took Owen three tries to actually get the word out, his tongue felt so thick.
"Oh, I think you know,” Jack grinned nastily. “But I’ll indulge you, shall I? I’ll pretend you don’t, and I’ll explain it to you, in nice, short, simple words, so I don’t confuse that poor little brain of yours.” Without warning, the hand that had stroked Owen’s jaw so gently was gripping the back of his neck like a vise, nails sharp and hard against his skin, and Owen’s pulse rose to a deafening drumbeat in his ears.
"It's like this.” Jack’s face was pitiless. “There aren’t a lot of lines I refuse to cross anymore - but forcing myself on the unwilling is one of them. So while I won’t deny the idea of breaking you holds definite appeal… if you choose Option 2, my boy, you’ll need to convince me that you really want it.” Owen felt the grip on his neck loosen, and Jack’s thumb began to stroke a hypnotic rhythm up and down his tendon.
“You know what that means, Owen?’ Long, slow, languorous strokes, and Jack’s voice softened to match them. “It means you’re going to have to plead for me to hurt you - to hold you down and use every skill I ever learned to make you scream and writhe. It means you’re going to need to come right out and ask me to give you bruises that’ll make those little grazes on your knuckles look like lovebites, and then make you thank me for every single fucking one of them."
Suddenly Owen’s neck was cold and empty where the heat of Jack’s hand had been, and Jack had stepped back again, arms folded across his chest. "Basically, Owen?” he sneered. “It means that if you want this, you need to get down on those bony little knees of yours, look me in the eye, and beg me to give it to you. And you need to do it now, because I am not in the mood for pissing around.”
And, God, Owen couldn’t help the gasp that escaped then. Couldn’t help feeling his eyes glazing and the world around him start to swim. Couldn’t keep himself from being dragged under by the current as something inside broke, and a wave of pure, raw, aching need washed over him like liquid fire, stealing the breath from his lungs. Dignity and pride and everything that he’d relied on to keep the world at a safe distance were swept away in the burning flood; and when it passed, there was nothing. Nothing but Jack. Nothing but the sharp, harsh bite of Jack’s words, and the sinister threat of the hunger in Jack’s eyes.
So crashing to his knees wasn’t a choice. Not really. Choice wasn’t an option the fiery torrent had left him. Kneeling there - eyes level with the buckle of Jack’s belt, want and lust a hot copper tang at the back of his dessicated throat - was nothing more or less than an inevitability. Slowly, Owen forced himself to raise his eyes, finding Jack’s, and shuddering under the implacability of the gaze that met his. “Please…” he managed in a cracked, barely audible whisper that took every last ounce of will he had just to shape his lips around. “Do it. Please.”
Jack’s chuckle flowed over his senses, and the glint in his dark eyes hardened to diamond. “Yeah,” he smirked as he traced one edge of Owen’s lip with a featherlight touch. “Somehow, I just knew you’d say that.”