FIC: Part 1 - Denial
Title: Part 1 - Denial
Author: starfirefic
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Owen, Jack
Word Count: ~600
Genre: Dark, angsty pr0n
Rating: Definite NC-17
Beta: The mutli-talented riftugee
Author's Notes:Written in response to a prompt from karaokegal for a Jack/Owen BDSM prompt. It didn't turn out as BDSMy as I wanted, but I'm really hoping that Part 2 will fix that...
Spoilers: Mid-to-late s1 with specific references to scenes in Countrycide and Combat
Summary: Owen's not exactly comfortable with the way he's reacting to Jack's past
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 characterisation
Part 1 - Denial
If he just hit the bag hard enough, Owen told himself silently, slamming his bare fists into the leather over and over again, it would all go away. All of it: the aching void Diane had left when she’d flown away (slam); the guilt for using Gwen and letting her use him (slam); the snarky, supercilious expression on the face of the bastard who'd run the Weevil fight club every time the man had looked at him (slam-slam); but most of all… *most* of all, his own apparently inescapable reaction to Captain Jack Fucking Harkness (slam-slam-slam…*SLAM*)
The last blow slipped, sliding off to one side along the surface of the bag, and he glanced down, unsurprised to find his knuckles slick and shiny with blood. “Shit.” Wouldn’t be the first time he’d ended up bloody trying (and failing) to get away from thoughts of the great and glorious Captain. Thoughts that had been growing progressively more graphic since he'd debriefed the wounded Brecon villager who'd finally told Jack what was going on, when the camping trip from hell had finally, finally come to an end.
It shouldn’t have this effect on him, dammit. He was a doctor; and piss-poor bedside manner nothwithstanding, he was a good one (if he did say so himself). It was a point of pride - he’d sworn a bloody Hippocratic oath, hadn't he? Granted his interpretation of said oath might be a little looser than that of most of the medicos he'd trained with... maybe 'do no harm unless the bastard really deserves it'? Whatever. The important point was that wherever his personal boundaries might lie, cold blooded torture was... should be... well beyond them.
And that being the case, when his mind showed him (as it seemed so damned determined to lately) *that* image - the one with the Captain nose-to-nose with the wounded villager, hissing coldly about how good a torturer he'd been; Owen was fairly sure that whatever his own reaction was supposed to be, it wasn’t his throat drying until he couldn’t swallow, or his pulse starting to race. It meant, when the double-action feature on the movie screen in his mind yet again starred Jack making the bastard writhe - whimper - *beg* for God's sake, he knew that getting painfully hard wasn’t anywhere on the list of acceptable responses.
And it meant that when he lay, stretched out naked on the Egyptian cotton sheets of his bed, alone in the dark and the quiet, jerking viciously at his cock; the fantasies keeping him company shouldn’t include Jack turning that empty, dead-eyed glare on him. Shouldn’t involve Jack’s voice gone cold, controlled and cruel; cataloguing everything he was about to do, and how very much it was going to hurt. Shouldn't feature Jack’s hand, twisting tightly in his hair, wrenching back his head and forcing him to his knees. And the thing that dragged him over the edge every time - the thing that slammed into him with the force of a freight-train until he came, shuddering, cursing and hissing into the pillow - shouldn’t, shouldn’t, oh God *shouldn’t* be the sensation of choking and gagging around the hard, hot length of Jack’s cock while it pounded again and again and again into the back of his throat.
Face twisting into a sneer of self-loathing, Owen roughly wiped his hands on his T-shirt, ignoring the sting of the coarse, sweat-soaked fabric on raw flesh. Teeth gritted, he turned back towards the punchbag. (*Slam*) Oh yeah. If he could just hit it hard enough, this would all go away…
To be Continued
Author: starfirefic
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Owen, Jack
Word Count: ~600
Genre: Dark, angsty pr0n
Rating: Definite NC-17
Beta: The mutli-talented riftugee
Author's Notes:Written in response to a prompt from karaokegal for a Jack/Owen BDSM prompt. It didn't turn out as BDSMy as I wanted, but I'm really hoping that Part 2 will fix that...
Spoilers: Mid-to-late s1 with specific references to scenes in Countrycide and Combat
Summary: Owen's not exactly comfortable with the way he's reacting to Jack's past
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 characterisation
Part 1 - Denial
If he just hit the bag hard enough, Owen told himself silently, slamming his bare fists into the leather over and over again, it would all go away. All of it: the aching void Diane had left when she’d flown away (slam); the guilt for using Gwen and letting her use him (slam); the snarky, supercilious expression on the face of the bastard who'd run the Weevil fight club every time the man had looked at him (slam-slam); but most of all… *most* of all, his own apparently inescapable reaction to Captain Jack Fucking Harkness (slam-slam-slam…*SLAM*)
The last blow slipped, sliding off to one side along the surface of the bag, and he glanced down, unsurprised to find his knuckles slick and shiny with blood. “Shit.” Wouldn’t be the first time he’d ended up bloody trying (and failing) to get away from thoughts of the great and glorious Captain. Thoughts that had been growing progressively more graphic since he'd debriefed the wounded Brecon villager who'd finally told Jack what was going on, when the camping trip from hell had finally, finally come to an end.
It shouldn’t have this effect on him, dammit. He was a doctor; and piss-poor bedside manner nothwithstanding, he was a good one (if he did say so himself). It was a point of pride - he’d sworn a bloody Hippocratic oath, hadn't he? Granted his interpretation of said oath might be a little looser than that of most of the medicos he'd trained with... maybe 'do no harm unless the bastard really deserves it'? Whatever. The important point was that wherever his personal boundaries might lie, cold blooded torture was... should be... well beyond them.
And that being the case, when his mind showed him (as it seemed so damned determined to lately) *that* image - the one with the Captain nose-to-nose with the wounded villager, hissing coldly about how good a torturer he'd been; Owen was fairly sure that whatever his own reaction was supposed to be, it wasn’t his throat drying until he couldn’t swallow, or his pulse starting to race. It meant, when the double-action feature on the movie screen in his mind yet again starred Jack making the bastard writhe - whimper - *beg* for God's sake, he knew that getting painfully hard wasn’t anywhere on the list of acceptable responses.
And it meant that when he lay, stretched out naked on the Egyptian cotton sheets of his bed, alone in the dark and the quiet, jerking viciously at his cock; the fantasies keeping him company shouldn’t include Jack turning that empty, dead-eyed glare on him. Shouldn’t involve Jack’s voice gone cold, controlled and cruel; cataloguing everything he was about to do, and how very much it was going to hurt. Shouldn't feature Jack’s hand, twisting tightly in his hair, wrenching back his head and forcing him to his knees. And the thing that dragged him over the edge every time - the thing that slammed into him with the force of a freight-train until he came, shuddering, cursing and hissing into the pillow - shouldn’t, shouldn’t, oh God *shouldn’t* be the sensation of choking and gagging around the hard, hot length of Jack’s cock while it pounded again and again and again into the back of his throat.
Face twisting into a sneer of self-loathing, Owen roughly wiped his hands on his T-shirt, ignoring the sting of the coarse, sweat-soaked fabric on raw flesh. Teeth gritted, he turned back towards the punchbag. (*Slam*) Oh yeah. If he could just hit it hard enough, this would all go away…
To be Continued