Fic: Proxy (adult, Dr. Who/Torchwood)
Title: Proxy
Author: xtricks
Fandom: Torchwood
Notes and etc: For the kink_bingo, prompt=leather. Pairing is Jack/9 (sorta), and set just after 'Last of the Time Lords'.
Disclaimer: I fancy that the imaginary people I'm writing this fiction about are above the arbitrary age of eighteen and no storybook figures were harmed in the writing of this make-believe. Dr. Who, Jack Harkness, Torchwood and etc are copyright of BBC.
Proxy
The TARDIS was bigger on the inside, as big as the Doctor wanted - the hallways and rooms spiraled off from the central core like the curves of a nautilus shell. After the Master, after the Year that Never Was, after death and more death, the Doctor had taken away his companions; Martha and Jack, and hidden them away inside the TARDIS. Then, not really surprising to either of them, the Doctor had disappeared into his grief. Jack and Martha kept each other occasional company and talked about oranges, eighties pop stars and the merits of coffee over tea. They didn't talk about the end of the world, or the Valiant, or meet each other's eyes.
Jack Harkness hadn't slept in more than a century but there were some nights when he longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness. He'd even take the temporary relief of suicide but the TARDIS had hidden away the med-bay and anything Jack might use to achieve a relatively neat death. "C'mon baby," he implored the curving coral walls, stroking a support beam as coaxingly as he knew how. "Give me something."
Martha might be asleep, or as restless as he, but Jack hadn't seen her for some unmarked span of time. He didn't mind the isolation, he minded the scrabbling, frenetic tumble of his own thoughts. There was no one to fuck. There was nothing to drink or smoke. There was no one to fight. Jack turned the curves of the TARDIS' hallways faster and faster, until he was running.
It was only when he'd run down, panting and faintly sick and blessedly empty that the TARDIS brought him to a room. It wasn't his room and Jack froze as soon as he entered.
He knew that smell. Not human, not quite human. This was the Doctor's room but not the man he knew now. The air was still, unused, perfectly sealed as all rooms in the TARDIS were. It carried a smell Jack remembered; ozone and soot and rust, somehow speaking of anger and grief, even though it was nothing more than a collection of pheromones and chemicals. The Doctor he'd met, when the bombs were falling and Jack was hoping to con a few thousand credits out of who he thought was a wayward Time Agent. Rose. Rose and the Doctor.
His Doctor.
Breathing hard, Jack stepped inside and the door slipped shut.
The room had an abandoned look, as if the Doctor had never returned to it once he'd regenerated. It as stark, something that Jack expected of the old Doctor; a narrow bed, a single chair and small table with an psychic data-log sitting on it as if set aside and never picked up again. Draped over the back of the chair was a dark leather jacket, one empty sleeve trailing on the floor.
Jack blinked back a sudden rush of tears; he'd been doing that a lot lately.
He scrubbed roughly at his sweaty face and pressed a hand to the door behind himself. He should leave, that was the responsible, Torchwood-leader thing to do, the hero he'd become, not the con man he was; this was more a memorial than a room. But Jack never let go when he should and he couldn't resist the secrets of this room, to get to know the Doctor - his old Doctor - when he never did before.
Besides, the TARDIS had brought him here. Wasn't that some kind of permission?
Jack pushed off from the wall, going over to the table to pick up the data-log and laughed. It was a many centuries descendent of Norton Juster's 'Phantom Tollbooth'. He put his hand on the back of the chair and his laughter faded into a sad, sweet ache. Jack imagined the leather was still warm, somehow, as if the Doctor had just taken it off and would be back in a moment to read this book, to smile at Jack, to tease him and promise him dancing.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and his hand fisted tight on the soft, black leather. Dancing had never been on the offer, not from that Doctor and not from the one Jack loved now. That was what he wanted, that the Doctor would love him but, gods knew, he wasn't the only one who'd never had a chance. Jack laughed again, softly, how many Companions ached like he did? Martha, Sara Jane ... they should start a support group. Or a band.
Jack picked up the coat and sniffed the collar, chasing the familiar, comforting smell. It was still there, heady, missed and he wondered if he could smell a bit of Rose too, somehow caught up in this place and time. The three of them; they'd been something.
Crazy as loons, each of them, and better together than apart; the con man, the innocent and the fool. They'd been greater than the sum of their parts and Jack missed them like his own limbs, like his own laughter, like the heart pounding joy of running, running, running - hand in hand in hand.
Jack opened his mouth against the leather and moaned. He could taste them, still; Rose's hands on the Doctor's shoulder here - Jack licked the seam - the place where the Doctor always tugged his collar when thinking - Jack bit down on the leather, warm as flesh in his hands. He curled the empty leather sleeve low around his waist in an embrace that had never happened. Jack looked heavy-lidded at the narrow bed in the corner and thought, he'd done stupider things for less reason.
He settled down on the edge of the bed and, laying the leather coat next to him gently, kicked off his boots, stripped of his shirt and wiggled out of his pants. Naked he lay back and spread the coat over himself, shivering. As it warmed against his body, Jack imagined that reflected body heat was company, that he wasn't alone. The edge of a zipper scraped against a nipple and he gasped, arching a little and closing his eyes.
When he ran his hand down the coat, the satin lining inside shifted, silky and warm, against his belly and thighs. Jack arched into it, lasciviously, spreading his legs slightly to let the fabric drape lower, over his swelling cock. The musky smell of the leather made him breathe heavily, and he turned his cheek to the sleeve, rubbing against it, lips parted. Eyes still closed, Jack flicked his tongue over the leather, tasting memory and fantasy, mouth watering. He pushed the coat more firmly against his cock and drew his knees up.
It was easy to hold the leather close, the folds and creases warm against his skin and he kissed the coat like a lover, open mouthed, wet and noisy. It was warm and Jack was hot under it, cock hard, balls aching - how long had it been since he'd had sex? - and imagined the Doctor's voice in his ear. Fantastic!
The room sounded like sex, his own panting, his own moans. It smelled like sex, his own body, the warm, lively smell of leather - he kept his eyes tight shut. Sliding his arm partway into one sleeve, he curled his leather clad hand around his cock and groaned. The touch was stiff, chill, sensuous and Jack could imagine the Doctor touching him, his sleeve rubbing Jack's thighs and he let them fall wider, squirming without shame for more. "Please - " he breathed, eyes clenched shut. He drew his hand across his cock, then thrust back up for more. "Doc - please - "
And he got what he wanted. The warm weight of the Doctor pressed close in the dimness of Jack's imagination. Leather slipped over his sweaty skin, too light, until Jack rolled over in the bed and trapped the coat - the Doctor - beneath him. "Let me show you what I can do for you ...." Jack growled to his memory and kissed the coat, over the hearts.
With one arm trapped within, Jack rubbed himself against the leather, grinding down onto it, fucking against his own leather-clad palm. He breathed harshly, mouth open to taste and smell and feel the leather on his tongue like a kiss. When he cried out, Jack bit the leather, leaving teeth marks, he'd been here. The taste under his tongue, echoing alien chemistry, made Jack groan and buck, sweat sliding down his back as the Doctor - the coat - twisted and writhed under him.
He was hard and aching and not going to last long in the darkness behind his eyes and the smooth cradle of the Doctor's coat. Jack's cock leaked pre-come onto the leather, smoothing the way, a warm, wet caress as if someone had kissed him ... there. As if someone had taken him to bed, to touch, to have ... to let Jack taste and touch and fuck and come.
Jack came in a shuddering rush, rocking against the coat as he shot all over it and he was there now, pressed into the leather, his scent, his memory, his body, part of the Doctor. Fantastic.
Jack settled against the leather, cradled by it, legs sprawled, breathing quieting and didn't need to run anymore.
END (072408)
Author: xtricks
Fandom: Torchwood
Notes and etc: For the kink_bingo, prompt=leather. Pairing is Jack/9 (sorta), and set just after 'Last of the Time Lords'.
Disclaimer: I fancy that the imaginary people I'm writing this fiction about are above the arbitrary age of eighteen and no storybook figures were harmed in the writing of this make-believe. Dr. Who, Jack Harkness, Torchwood and etc are copyright of BBC.
Proxy
The TARDIS was bigger on the inside, as big as the Doctor wanted - the hallways and rooms spiraled off from the central core like the curves of a nautilus shell. After the Master, after the Year that Never Was, after death and more death, the Doctor had taken away his companions; Martha and Jack, and hidden them away inside the TARDIS. Then, not really surprising to either of them, the Doctor had disappeared into his grief. Jack and Martha kept each other occasional company and talked about oranges, eighties pop stars and the merits of coffee over tea. They didn't talk about the end of the world, or the Valiant, or meet each other's eyes.
Jack Harkness hadn't slept in more than a century but there were some nights when he longed for the oblivion of unconsciousness. He'd even take the temporary relief of suicide but the TARDIS had hidden away the med-bay and anything Jack might use to achieve a relatively neat death. "C'mon baby," he implored the curving coral walls, stroking a support beam as coaxingly as he knew how. "Give me something."
Martha might be asleep, or as restless as he, but Jack hadn't seen her for some unmarked span of time. He didn't mind the isolation, he minded the scrabbling, frenetic tumble of his own thoughts. There was no one to fuck. There was nothing to drink or smoke. There was no one to fight. Jack turned the curves of the TARDIS' hallways faster and faster, until he was running.
It was only when he'd run down, panting and faintly sick and blessedly empty that the TARDIS brought him to a room. It wasn't his room and Jack froze as soon as he entered.
He knew that smell. Not human, not quite human. This was the Doctor's room but not the man he knew now. The air was still, unused, perfectly sealed as all rooms in the TARDIS were. It carried a smell Jack remembered; ozone and soot and rust, somehow speaking of anger and grief, even though it was nothing more than a collection of pheromones and chemicals. The Doctor he'd met, when the bombs were falling and Jack was hoping to con a few thousand credits out of who he thought was a wayward Time Agent. Rose. Rose and the Doctor.
His Doctor.
Breathing hard, Jack stepped inside and the door slipped shut.
The room had an abandoned look, as if the Doctor had never returned to it once he'd regenerated. It as stark, something that Jack expected of the old Doctor; a narrow bed, a single chair and small table with an psychic data-log sitting on it as if set aside and never picked up again. Draped over the back of the chair was a dark leather jacket, one empty sleeve trailing on the floor.
Jack blinked back a sudden rush of tears; he'd been doing that a lot lately.
He scrubbed roughly at his sweaty face and pressed a hand to the door behind himself. He should leave, that was the responsible, Torchwood-leader thing to do, the hero he'd become, not the con man he was; this was more a memorial than a room. But Jack never let go when he should and he couldn't resist the secrets of this room, to get to know the Doctor - his old Doctor - when he never did before.
Besides, the TARDIS had brought him here. Wasn't that some kind of permission?
Jack pushed off from the wall, going over to the table to pick up the data-log and laughed. It was a many centuries descendent of Norton Juster's 'Phantom Tollbooth'. He put his hand on the back of the chair and his laughter faded into a sad, sweet ache. Jack imagined the leather was still warm, somehow, as if the Doctor had just taken it off and would be back in a moment to read this book, to smile at Jack, to tease him and promise him dancing.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and his hand fisted tight on the soft, black leather. Dancing had never been on the offer, not from that Doctor and not from the one Jack loved now. That was what he wanted, that the Doctor would love him but, gods knew, he wasn't the only one who'd never had a chance. Jack laughed again, softly, how many Companions ached like he did? Martha, Sara Jane ... they should start a support group. Or a band.
Jack picked up the coat and sniffed the collar, chasing the familiar, comforting smell. It was still there, heady, missed and he wondered if he could smell a bit of Rose too, somehow caught up in this place and time. The three of them; they'd been something.
Crazy as loons, each of them, and better together than apart; the con man, the innocent and the fool. They'd been greater than the sum of their parts and Jack missed them like his own limbs, like his own laughter, like the heart pounding joy of running, running, running - hand in hand in hand.
Jack opened his mouth against the leather and moaned. He could taste them, still; Rose's hands on the Doctor's shoulder here - Jack licked the seam - the place where the Doctor always tugged his collar when thinking - Jack bit down on the leather, warm as flesh in his hands. He curled the empty leather sleeve low around his waist in an embrace that had never happened. Jack looked heavy-lidded at the narrow bed in the corner and thought, he'd done stupider things for less reason.
He settled down on the edge of the bed and, laying the leather coat next to him gently, kicked off his boots, stripped of his shirt and wiggled out of his pants. Naked he lay back and spread the coat over himself, shivering. As it warmed against his body, Jack imagined that reflected body heat was company, that he wasn't alone. The edge of a zipper scraped against a nipple and he gasped, arching a little and closing his eyes.
When he ran his hand down the coat, the satin lining inside shifted, silky and warm, against his belly and thighs. Jack arched into it, lasciviously, spreading his legs slightly to let the fabric drape lower, over his swelling cock. The musky smell of the leather made him breathe heavily, and he turned his cheek to the sleeve, rubbing against it, lips parted. Eyes still closed, Jack flicked his tongue over the leather, tasting memory and fantasy, mouth watering. He pushed the coat more firmly against his cock and drew his knees up.
It was easy to hold the leather close, the folds and creases warm against his skin and he kissed the coat like a lover, open mouthed, wet and noisy. It was warm and Jack was hot under it, cock hard, balls aching - how long had it been since he'd had sex? - and imagined the Doctor's voice in his ear. Fantastic!
The room sounded like sex, his own panting, his own moans. It smelled like sex, his own body, the warm, lively smell of leather - he kept his eyes tight shut. Sliding his arm partway into one sleeve, he curled his leather clad hand around his cock and groaned. The touch was stiff, chill, sensuous and Jack could imagine the Doctor touching him, his sleeve rubbing Jack's thighs and he let them fall wider, squirming without shame for more. "Please - " he breathed, eyes clenched shut. He drew his hand across his cock, then thrust back up for more. "Doc - please - "
And he got what he wanted. The warm weight of the Doctor pressed close in the dimness of Jack's imagination. Leather slipped over his sweaty skin, too light, until Jack rolled over in the bed and trapped the coat - the Doctor - beneath him. "Let me show you what I can do for you ...." Jack growled to his memory and kissed the coat, over the hearts.
With one arm trapped within, Jack rubbed himself against the leather, grinding down onto it, fucking against his own leather-clad palm. He breathed harshly, mouth open to taste and smell and feel the leather on his tongue like a kiss. When he cried out, Jack bit the leather, leaving teeth marks, he'd been here. The taste under his tongue, echoing alien chemistry, made Jack groan and buck, sweat sliding down his back as the Doctor - the coat - twisted and writhed under him.
He was hard and aching and not going to last long in the darkness behind his eyes and the smooth cradle of the Doctor's coat. Jack's cock leaked pre-come onto the leather, smoothing the way, a warm, wet caress as if someone had kissed him ... there. As if someone had taken him to bed, to touch, to have ... to let Jack taste and touch and fuck and come.
Jack came in a shuddering rush, rocking against the coat as he shot all over it and he was there now, pressed into the leather, his scent, his memory, his body, part of the Doctor. Fantastic.
Jack settled against the leather, cradled by it, legs sprawled, breathing quieting and didn't need to run anymore.
END (072408)