Becky's Writing

bhoadley@gmail.com — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 14:07:54 GMT

Title: Kyrie Eleison
Author: becky_h
Character(s): Captain Jack Harkness
Genre: Gen.
Rating: G
Spoilers The Parting Of The Ways and Last of the Time Lords.
Warnings: AU. Sort of.
Word Count: 500, exactly.
Beta: itinerant_vae, bless her.
Prompt: set2music Prompt 35: The road that I must travel.
Summary: For everything that does happen, there are countless possibilities for things that might have. This is a set of 5 drabbles, exploring how things could have gone differently after the events on Satellite Five.
Author's Notes: This is obviously inspired by the song 'Kyrie', but it is not (repeat not) song fic. Really, really, awesome art, made by the fantastic laurab1 can be found here.

____________________________

He throws his arms out, in a gesture of surrender and acceptance. The Dalek fires. There's a moment of intense pain, nerves set on fire by the Dalek's extermination ray, and then nothing.

He's dead before he hits the ground.

One more corpse on a station full of corpses.

When Rose comes and the Doctor says 'you can't', she listens. Bad Wolf doesn't bring life, only death.

The Doctor still tells her Jack's busy, saving the earth. She pretends to believe him.

Torchwood falls with the twentieth century. Earth's a sitting duck. It doesn't make it out of the twenty-first.

____________________________

He comes around with a reverse gasp that hurts.

He hears the TARDIS as he's climbing to his feet. He doesn't pause to figure out what happened, just starts running. He makes it there in time to see the Doctor catching Rose as she faints.

Jack can see the energy crackling under The Doctor's skin. The Doctor can see everything.

Jack stays with them until he gets his answers. Rose feels guilty, the Doctor won't stop twitching and Jack can't deal with either.

He leaves them on Earth, at Christmas.

Earth still doesn't make it out of the twenty-first century.

____________________________

He watches the TARDIS disappear, with a disbelieving laugh and choked sob.

He doesn't hang around waiting for them to come back.

He aims for the Rift, at the beginning of the twenty-first century.

He lands where, and when, he meant to but burns out his vortex-manipulator in the process.

A year later the TARDIS shows up, then starts to dematerialize.

Jack goes after it, and gets sucked through the Vortex, to the end of the Universe.

The Doctor says he's wrong. Jack tells the Doctor to go to hell.

Earth's destroyed by the Master, intergalactic war, and Toclafanes.

____________________________

His trip off the game station's rough and the landing's worse.

When he comes around again he knows his timing was off. It's closer to the middle of the nineteenth century than the start of the twenty-first.

He hauls himself painfully to his feet, cracks his neck and tries again.

He lands at roughly the right time and place, but with a working vortex-manipulator he doesn't have the patience to wait around.

He doesn't know the Doctor's regenerated.

When he finally catches the right version, it's at the premature end of the world and too late for answers to matter.

____________________________

When he hears the TARDIS he makes it there just in time to see her fading away.

He sets coordinates for Cardiff in the twenty-first century, but lands in the 19th. The trip burns his vortex manipulator out. He's stuck on earth, living linear time.

It's more than a century before he finds the Doctor and his answers. He catches a glimpse of what might have been and might still be, in his year on the Valiant.

He stays on Earth. He fights for what he loves.

Humanity spreads across the stars, and when Earth dies, it's of old age.

bhoadley@gmail.com — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 21:00:41 GMT

Title: Don't Close Your Eyes
Author: becky_h
Character(s): Tenth Doctor, Jack.
Genre: Slash.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers The Sound of Drums and Last of the Time Lords.
Warnings: BDSM themes if you're looking for them. Otherwise it's just rough!sex.
Word Count: 5,200-ish.
Beta: jadesfire2808, bless her.
Prompt: Sweet Charity fic. Written for unfeathered who wanted Jack/Ten, post-Valiant fic, with sex, sadism, and working out issues.
Summary: Set toward the end of The Last Of The Time Lords. Jack and the Doctor have some unfinished business to take care of.

The Doctor takes the Master's body out of the TARDIS and leaves Jack and Martha without a word to either one of them.

Martha looks to Jack for guidance and asks if they should go after him.

Another day, another time, maybe even another life, and he'd be amused that she's looking to him as the expert in Time Lord psychology. Tonight he just shakes his head and answers her question, best he knows how. "Leave him alone. He knows where to find us."

She seems reluctant to concede the point. Jack understands; he's got some qualms himself. He's tired, though --beyond tired-- and filthy. All he can think about is a hot shower, and a bed with clean sheets. It's not selfishness, exactly, it's tunnel vision brought on by exhaustion.

After a long pause, and a more than slightly assessing gaze she apparently reaches the same conclusion - at least where Jack is concerned. "Right then," she says briskly. "Wouldn't want you near me like that, either. Off you go." She punctuates the last with a sharp incline of her head toward the interior of the TARDIS and a shooing away gesture with both hands.

Jack lifts his eyebrow and one corner of his mouth and gives a soft snort that only makes it most of the way to being a laugh. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."

She rolls her eyes at him, lifts her hand and points sharply off into the TARDIS.

Jack smiles with a little more confidence. "I'm going!" he protests without really objecting, turns on his heel and goes.

______________________________________________

He's in the shower for a long time.

For one thing, he really is that dirty. It takes a lot more to get clean than standing under running water. It takes serious scrubbing, in places he barely remembers he has. It's ages before the water stops running gray. For another, the water just feels good. Those places he barely remembers having don't just need scrubbed, they ache.

Fortunately for Jack, the TARDIS' hot water heater seems as limitless as her interior.

By the time he gets out, his skin is rubbed pink, he can feel every bruise and overextended muscle. He's nearly asleep on his feet, and his drying off is a lot less thorough than his washing was. He drops his towel in the floor and doesn't bother with dressing. The clothes he was wearing are stiff with grime, and he's not putting them back on his freshly clean body. He's not going in search of a fresh set, either.

He falls into the bed face first, with his hair still soaking and skin damp enough to make the sheets cling to it. He pulls a pillow down and wraps one arm around it, pulls one of his knees up, and within seconds he drops into deep, dreamless, and much needed sleep.

______________________________________________

How long he's slept isn't clear. The lack of windows means that he wakes in the same dim glow of lamplight he fell asleep in. He hates that. Hates that. He misses sunlight. He misses the rise and fall of time as the earth spins. He misses....

He misses everything. The TARDIS is a far cry from the Valiant, but it's still outside time. Outside reality. He's been outside and watching long enough -- way too long, actually. He realizes in an instant, as he lets go of his pillow to turn the lamp off and the room plunges into complete darkness, that he doesn't want to be here.

He wants his feet on the ground, not deck-plates. He wants to stare into the sun until he's blinded by the brilliance. He wants to feel the wind in his hair. He wants to be part of the world --this world. He wants to be more than a visitor or observer. He wants to be part of the messy, wild, more than sometimes painful experience that being human, being alive, is.

It's not the conclusion that he expected to reach, but once it's there there's no denying it. He sighs softly, turns his face into the pillow he's holding onto and, still tired but relieved at having made a decision, falls asleep again.

______________________________________________

The second time he wakes it's to a dip in the mattress and a cold hand between his shoulder-blades. He tenses up, but he doesn't move away. There is no mistaking the hum of the TARDIS for the Valiant's engines. Besides, he's seen the only other cooler-than-human alien he's known in months die. He's got nothing to be afraid of, and even his reflexes know it.

"Where's Martha?" he asks, turning to speak over his shoulder as the Doctor slides into bed behind him.

"Sleeping, I think."

"She could probably use it." Jack's answer, and the yawn that follows it, are muffled into his pillow. "You slept yet?"

"Nope." The words are punctuated by a precise, sharp bite right to the back of Jack's shoulder.

Jack flinches, tenses up, and growls. "Hey."

"What?" the Doctor asks, with innocent confusion that Jack doesn't buy for a second. "You're not telling me you object to having my mouth on you, are you?"

"I don't think," Jack says, more than a little darkly, "that you really want me to tell you what I think."

The Doctor doesn't answer for so long Jack doesn't think he's going to, and begins to drift off again. He doesn't know how much sleep he's gotten and hasn't been assed to check his wrist-comp or watch since they've been returned. It wouldn't make much difference, anyway. However much it's been is somewhere between barely and not-quite enough.

He's nudged back around when the Doctor presses his knee into the bend of Jack's and says, "Of course, I do."

Jack groans to himself, rubs a hand over his face and rolls onto his back. If he was just a little more pissed off at the Doctor, he'd tell him. Since he's had some sleep and made his decision, he's capable of being 'generous'. He can let go of the past year, and react with compassion and love, instead of anger or hurt.

He can keep his mouth shut, or at least put it to a use that's not quite as cruel as telling the Doctor just what, exactly, he thinks the Doctor is doing in his bed, still smelling of the Master's funeral pyre, after the hell he put the entire human race through --put Jack and Martha through-- just so he wouldn't be alone.

Jack slides his fingers into the Doctor's hair, presses against the base of his skull to tip his head back, and kisses him. The Doctor's lips under his are cold, and so are the fingers the Doctor slides up to his shoulder, but it's not the temperature that makes Jack shiver. It's the need in the way the Doctor bites into the kiss, and the way his fingers dig into Jack's skin, clutching if not clinging.

Jack winces at the grip and sting of teeth, but he doesn't flinch away and he doesn't get rough in return. He does tighten his grip in the Doctor's hair and rolls them over so the weight of his body is pressing the Doctor into the mattress.

He expects the Doctor to calm down and realize that Jack's naked and on top of him, come to his senses and pull back with a wisecrack. When it doesn't happen, Jack's realizes that the Doctor wasn't bluffing - wouldn't be, actually, not now - and that his idea about why the Doctor crawled into bed with him in the first place was right.

The Doctor doesn't want to be alone.

All the violence, all the need, all the whipcord tension of the thin body under his, is down to desperation and the need to be with someone. It's not about Jack, Jack's just there.

The realization hurts just enough that Jack growls into the kiss, and bites back. His hand finds the Doctor's shoulder and presses down. He keeps pressing down with that hand, while he reaches across with the other and turns the lamp on. The light hurts his eyes, but he doesn't turn it off.

He'll do this because he loves the Doctor and because they both need it as much as they want it, but he won't do it with the lights off. He won't let the Doctor pretend he's someone else. Not that that should be a possibility, between Jack being 'wrong', being warm and only having one heart, but glancing down into the Doctor's face and seeing the darkness in his eyes, Jack doesn't think 'should' holds a lot of weight here. If it did, this wouldn't be happening at all.

For long moments neither one of them moves. Jack's hand stays stretched out and on the lamp. He looks down at the Doctor, the Doctor looks back. Their eyes meet, lock, and hold. There are no words. The only sounds are the constant, quiet background hum of the TARDIS, and the ragged, out of synch, rhythm of their breathing.

That pause feels heavy and seems to stretch out forever, though it doesn't last for more than a few heartbeats and the amount of time it takes Jack to question himself, and the brand new realization that he needs this, too. It doesn't take him long. He's seen more than enough suffering and death in the past year, and done his share of both.

The Doctor must see the conclusion reached in Jack's eyes as soon as Jack reaches it, because he's moving as soon as Jack is. His hand sliding from Jack's shoulder to the back of his neck, gripping hard and pulling himself up as Jack leans down. They're back in the kiss so suddenly that their teeth clash.

Jack doesn't let go of the Doctor, but his fingers curl around and grip the bony shoulder beneath the thin shirt, and keeps gripping while he rolls them both. Off the Doctor, back onto his side and bringing the Doctor with him.

The Doctor's hand on Jack's neck tightens with the move, until Jack can feel the sting of nails biting in. The Doctor isn't content to stay there, either. Jack's no sooner stopped controlling the roll than the Doctor's taken over. The hand leaves Jack's neck then - leaves it aching - and moves to his shoulder again and shoves.

Jack goes, but he goes because he wants to; he wants to as much as the Doctor wants him to. He keeps one hand on the Doctor's shoulder and hooks the other arm around the Doctor's waist and pulls him over so he's on top. That's where the kiss - biting and breathless - finally breaks.

The Doctor kneels up, knees on either side of Jack's hips. Jack doesn't wait for an invitation. He goes straight to the Doctor's waist, pulling his shirt out of his trousers, roughly, and then working on the buttons from the bottom up. The Doctor just stares down at him, watching.

Jack wonders briefly, if either one of them is sane. He decides that, unlike making sure they both wanted this, sanity is irrelevant and probably overrated. After the year they've just had, it's also damned unlikely.

"Finish that," he tells the Doctor, when he can't reach any higher, and drops his hands back down and tugs the Doctor's trousers open.

The Doctor finishes undoing his shirt, but doesn't take it off. Jack can't help but notice, as he undoes the buttons, that the Doctor's hands are shaking. Not a lot, it's barely noticeable. It's still there. "Too bad I'm not wearing a tie." The Doctor's probably trying to joke, but it can't stand up to the weight and intensity of the Doctor's voice.

"Good thing." Jack corrects him. "Because you sure as hell aren't tying me up." The flickering shift of shadow behind the Doctor's eyes tells Jack the remark hit home. As does the Doctor shutting up and letting his hands fall to Jack's stomach.

It's a tense moment, and Jack's not sure either of them is actually in the mood for this, anymore. He is, suddenly, very sure that he wants to make this work. Because they're both reaching for something, and because the Doctor needs someone and Jack needs to feel alive.

The Doctor's probably not going to be able to take the step necessary to move past that reminder, so Jack wraps his hands around the Doctor's wrists. He holds onto them while he leans up and catches the Doctor's mouth in another kiss. It's as rough as the first, all sharp teeth and bruising force.

It takes the Doctor a second to respond, but when he feels the shift of muscle and tendon and the Doctor's fingers digging into his stomach he relaxes. When he feels the vibration of the Doctor's growl and hears the soft snarl he stops thinking and starts responding; starts letting himself feel.

His hands on the Doctor's wrists tighten until he can feel the deceptively delicate bones grinding together. The Doctor doesn't flinch away, but he does twist them hard and toward the weak spot in Jack's grip in an obvious attempt to free them. He also bites down hard on Jack's lower lip, hard enough to make Jack's eyes water and his breath hiss out at the sudden pain.

He can taste blood - and the Doctor's desperation.

Jack doesn't want to let go of the Doctor's wrists; he's not all that trusting after the past year, even of the Doctor. Maybe that's something else he needs, here -- to get some of that back. Maybe the Doctor needs a little of that, too.

Jack doesn't know, but he does let go.

Letting go doesn't mean turning passive. There's still too much emotion and not enough trust for that. Maybe, if they're lucky, that'll be different at the end of this. Jack doesn't know that, either, but he can hope.

When his hands leave the Doctor's wrists they go back to his trousers, finishing pulling them open so he can slide one hand inside, rather than letting them fall back to the bed. The other rests light and open against the Doctor's thigh. He wraps his fingers around the Doctor's cock, in a tight grip. His first stroke pushes the foreskin back and his thumb sweeps directly across the head.

The Doctor responds with predictable intensity and unpredictable violence.

He jerks above Jack - first away and then falling forward and catching himself with his hands against Jack's shoulders. His nails dig in immediately, stinging, and his face is right there. He can't hide. Jack can see every flicker of emotion in the Doctor's eyes, every hint of response in his expression.

Jack rather likes it.

Jack repeats the stroke, just as rough as before and this time with an added twist at the end. He watches the flare of heat in the Doctor's eyes, and his face twist into a pained grimace that bares his teeth. The Doctor shoves himself into Jack's hand, and Jack uses his other one to slide in the back of the Doctor's trousers and push them down.

The Doctor works with Jack, squirms and kicks and twists to get the pants down. He's still wearing his fucking shoes, something Jack realizes when the Doctor knees him in the thigh trying to get them off. Jack lets go of the Doctor's cock with a grunt, sits up with the Doctor still astride him, and reaches around to jerk the trainers off.

It's annoying, but it beats the hell out of risking a bony knee somewhere a lot more sensitive than his thigh.

When the Doctor grunts and sinks his teeth into Jack's shoulder it occurs to Jack that having high-tops ripped off was probably not a comfortable experience. He tries to feel guilty about that, but doesn't quite make it; the bite's distracting.

It also just plain fucking hurts.

Jack fists his hand in the Doctor's hair and pulls his head back --and forces him to let go. He finds the Doctor's eyes in the dim light and says, "Trousers off." His voice is low and strained, even to his own ears. His shoulder is throbbing in time with his cock.

Pain in perfect, sympathetic echo of arousal. That hasn't happened for a while.

The Doctor doesn't move immediately, just looks at Jack like he doesn't understand what he's saying. Then he pushes away, forcing Jack to let go of his hair while he steps out of his trousers and kick them away. He balances with his hands on Jack's shoulders, palm pressed against the mark he's just left with his teeth. As soon as he's free of the fabric he shifts from holding onto Jack to shoving him away, and back.

Jack doesn't hesitate in going with the push and falling onto the bed. He does make sure he brings the Doctor with him, hands on the Doctor's hips and pulling him in.

The Doctor settles over him, light and fragile and brittle feeling, all sharp angles, and the temperature difference between them makes Jack gasp and tighten his hands on the Doctor's back. It's not immediately comfortable; Jack has to tense up to keep from pulling away, or shivering.

The Doctor's response, on the other hand, is to lunge into Jack. It's a strong, harsh movement that drags the Doctor's cock along his, and prevents Jack from even thinking about catching his breath. Jack scratches at the Doctor's back until he can get a grip on the Doctor's shoulders, and pulls one knee up.

That's all the leverage Jack needs to be able to pull the Doctor down and arch up into him, at the same time. The Doctor doesn't just accept it. He snarls, pushes back and covers Jack's mouth with his own, again and bites at Jack's lip until Jack opens his mouth.

More friction, the Doctor's skin warms up, Jack's cools off and it's not shocking anymore; it's just movement. It's just them. Hearts pounding -- all three of them-- shallow, irregular breathing, and the slide of skin against skin. The burning sting of sweat in shallow scratches, and the ache of building arousal and bruises.

It's pain. It's hurt and want and need and desperation. It's them. It's them fighting, for each other and for themselves.

Unless something -or someone- gives, they're going to keep clawing at each other, fighting, hurting each other and struggling, without ever actually coming together, Jack realizes in a breathless moment of dizzy understanding.

So, Jack does. He does what the Doctor can't, and gives.

He lets his hands fall away from the Doctor's shoulders to the mattress, fingers curled into loose fists. Lets the tight arch of his spine relax, lifts both his knees so the Doctor is pressed more firmly against him, cock to cock, stops shoving against the Doctor and moves with him.

For a split second the Doctor seems to falter and starts to straighten.

Jack's not going to let that become a hesitation. Jack lifts his hips, his cock dragging along the Doctor's. The Doctor stops backing away and, with a barely audible gasp, falls forward and into Jack. He catches himself with his hands on Jack's wrists.

Jack can feel his pulse against the Doctor's palms, and is surprised and relieved to realize that not only does he not mind the illusion of restraint, right now it's good. Damn good. It's then that he decides it's going to be okay.

He exhales a shuddering breath he hadn't realized he'd be holding, closes his eyes and lifts his hips again in a not so subtle reminder that they're busy here. The Doctor doesn't need more encouragement and starts to move again.

It's different this time. Subtle changes, to be sure, but there and important. The Doctor's rhythm is still not quite rhythmic, and he's still moving hard enough that Jack's sure both their hips are going to be bruised. The fingers around Jack's wrists are gripping hard enough that his hands are tingling.

Jack's less aware of the discomfort now, though. More aware of the slick slide, more aware of the need and less aware of the desperation. More willing to let himself be pushed, more willing to just let himself feel. He might be willing to believe that all the differences are in him, if not for the fact that the Doctor is all but sobbing for breath above him, and Jack knows it's not because the Doctor needs the air.

He opens his eyes and the Doctor's looking down into his face with an intensity that makes Jack shiver again, sensation right up his spine. Another hard thrust from the Doctor and Jack's eyes start to close again, with a low moan.

"Don't close your eyes," the Doctor says, and it sounds as much pleading as demanding, tight and strained as the Doctor's voice is.

Jack wonders if the Doctor is actually stupid enough to believe, even for an instant, that Jack could be thinking of someone else, and he can't focus with sweat sliding into his eyes, arousal building higher and his balls drawing up, but he opens his eyes.

He opens his eyes, keeps them open and uses every bit of leverage he's got to keep meeting the Doctor's body and every bit of willpower to keep meeting his eyes.

Right up until the instant the fragile balance tips from not enough to too much, and he's coming.

In the grip of climax, with his muscles locked, eyes open but unseeing, sensation tearing through his body, deep and pulsing and hot, aware of every bite, every bruise, every breath and every beat of his heart, Jack is exactly where he wants to be. He's lost in feeling and undeniably, inescapably, painfully, alive.

The Doctor's still moving when Jack starts to come back to himself. It's slicker now, but Jack's so oversensitive that every move the Doctor makes is jolting up his spine, pleasure turned pain now, instead of the other way around. He doesn't flinch away from it, though, and he doesn't look away.

He can't look away.

When the Doctor's hands on Jack's wrists tighten so far that Jack can feel nails biting into skin, Jack winces. When the Doctor's already erratic rhythm turns more ragged, Jack lifts into him and gives him more friction, ignoring the painful intensity of the sensation. When the Doctor stops breathing, Jack finds himself holding his own breath.

And when the Doctor's face twists into a grimace that looks pained, and heat flares in his eyes, bright enough to drive away some of the shadows, Jack knows that the Doctor's where he needs to be, if not exactly where he wants to be.

He's so lost in watching the Doctor's face that if the come against his stomach hadn't been cold, he almost wouldn't have noticed. Even then he doesn't move, just keeps watching as the tense grimace eases and fades. In its wake, the Doctor looks depleted. Old, and tired, but strangely innocent.

When the Doctor doesn't look like he's going to move any time soon, Jack tugs at his wrists. The Doctor grimaces again, in a way that looks chagrined, lets go and sits up. He opens his mouth and he's going to apologize. Jack doesn't just see it coming, he knows it's coming.

He pushes up on one elbow so he can reach the Doctor, wraps one hand around the back of his neck and kisses him to shut him up. There are a lot of things he wants to hear from the Doctor, but right now an apology isn't one of them. Even if he'd mean it this time. Especially if he'd mean it.

Jack keeps the kiss gentle, in deference to the fact they're both sore, but he doesn't pull away and doesn't let the Doctor pull away, until he feels the corded muscle under his hand relax and he's reasonably sure the Doctor's given up the need to say he's sorry.

When he pulls out of the kiss, the Doctor's looking at him a little warily. "Better?" Jack asks.

The Doctor clears his throat and hesitates. Jack narrows his eyes just enough to for the look to be a dare.

"Yeah," the Doctor answers, sounding a little surprised and a lot rough.

Jack has no idea if the Doctor's surprised by not taking Jack's dare or that he feels better, and Jack doesn't much care. "Good," he says, matter of factly, wraps an arm around the Doctor's waist and rolls them both onto their sides.

"What are you doing?" the Doctor asks, incredulous and maybe even a little offended, nose inches from Jack's.

"Going to sleep." He has to sit up to grab the edge of the blanket and pull it up, but he keeps one hand firmly on the Doctor while he does. They're sticky, with come and sweat and blood, but Jack's not going to even think about cleaning up. If he lets the Doctor go, the Doctor's going to go "And so are you."

"Jack...," the Doctor starts to protest, as Jack drops an arm across him.

Jack still very much isn't in the mood for his bullshit, and cuts him off again. "Light on or off?" It's the only choice he's prepared to give the Doctor.

The Doctor looks at Jack, and for long moments Jack thinks he's in for a telling off. Jack doesn't look away, doesn't back down.

Finally the Doctor says, "On," and that's that.

______________________________________________

When Jack wakes, the Doctor's still sleeping.

Jack's not surprised. Time Lord or not, it's been an exhausting year, and the past few days in particular have been brutal.

He slides out of bed and away from the Doctor, as carefully as he can. He needn't have bothered. The Doctor only stirs to roll the rest of the way onto his stomach, face pressed into the pillow.

In the soft light, the Doctor looks delicate - like some alien sculpture, composed entirely of sharp angles, shadow and scratches. It would be easy to mistake that for fragility, but it's not a mistake Jack can make. Not with the burn and ache of bruises, strained muscles, and countless shallow wounds to remind him of just how much strength is packed into that thin frame.

He turns away from the bed to find clothes, knowing damn well that he should clean up and knowing just as well that he's not going to. He wants a cup of coffee and he needs to eat more than he needs another shower right now.

He pulls on the first pair jeans and T-shirt he finds in drawers he hasn't opened in 150 years, throws a second, long-sleeved shirt over the first for warmth. He doesn't take the time to find socks, and he doesn't bother with his boots.

He doesn't want to risk waking the Doctor up, and shoes aren't necessary right now. He'll deal with them when he deals with the clothes he's spent the last year wearing. As he leaves, closes the door carefully behind him, he thinks that maybe the solution there is to burn them.

He won't do it, of course, but it's a nice thought, and a good diversion on his way to the kitchen.

He notices that there's coffee made before he notices Martha. He's not surprised to see her sitting at the table, hands curled around her own cup. For just a second he's acutely aware of what he must look like - swollen mouth, bite marks at his throat, mussed hair and bare feet - and he hesitates. He's not stupid; he knows damn well how Martha feels, or felt, about the Doctor.

Then he shakes it off, flashes her a grin and heads into the room and for the cupboards. After he's opened two, she speaks up and comes to his rescue.

"Second on your left."

Jack opens the cabinet, second his left, and finds the mugs. He looks over to his shoulder and finds Martha smiling at him, over the rim of her cup.

"Thanks," he tells her, and returns her smile with a grin.

"There's donuts just there," she tells him, with a nod in the appropriate direction.

He looks to where she's indicating, spots the green and white box and moves the whole thing to the table. "Thanks again. Been out?"

"Just for a bit. Not a lot of food in here after the last year."

Jack can feel her eyes on his back as he finally fills his cup, but doesn't answer until he's done, and until he can look her in the eye to answer. "I hadn't even thought of it," he admitted. "I doubt the Doctor did, either. Did you get any sleep?" His voice is light and so are his words. Most of his message is in the steady eye-contact: he doesn't want to talk about it.

She holds his eyes for another moment, takes another sip of her coffee and then laughs. Lets him get away with avoiding. "Oh, loads. Woke up ready to gnaw my own arm off."

Jack takes a gulp of his coffee, heedless of the nearly scalding liquid, pulls a chair out with his ankle and sits. "I relate," he tells her, as he's flipping the box open. "I really relate."

"Mm. I'll bet you do. Looks like someone's been gnawing on you. Don't think you managed to do that to yourself," she says, head tilting to the side a to get a better look at Jack's neck.

Jack's got half a donut shoved in his mouth. He chews twice and swallows the entire thing with another drink of coffee so he can respond He doesn't miss her slightly bewildered expression at his lack of table manners. "Are you sure that's something you want me to answer?" He really doesn't want to upset her, and he's not going to gloat. It's just not his style.

She pivots the box around and picks out a donut, while he watches, stays quiet and waits on her answer. When she's got it, she nudges the box back toward him, and meets his eyes squarely, in a way that impresses Jack almost more than what she's accomplished in the past year, but surprises him not at all. "How is he?"

"He's going to be okay," he promises.

He's rewarded by a beautiful, beautiful smile. "Good."

Jack watches her, and thinks that the Doctor's not the only one who's going to be all right. They all are.

His smile turns into a grin, he takes another donut and leans forward. "So, Miss Jones, it's a beautiful day and the world's waiting. What are we going to do with it?"

bhoadley@gmail.com — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 10:48:32 GMT

Title: Alive
Author: becky_h
Character(s): Captain Jack
Genre: Gen
Rating: R, probably, for language and theme.
Spoilers Nope
Warnings: Um. Not really.
Word Count: 100
Beta: No.
Prompt: set2music Prompt 34: I'm alive again
Summary: He is alive.
Author's Note: It's random. It's stylistically peculiar. It's out of my head, though, which is happy making.
Author's Note 2: Posted to set2music only.

Frantic motion. Breath catching, heart racing, eyes stinging and skin slick with sweat.

One more, final thrust in and held deep.

Muscles lock. Hands clutch and arms support.

Sensation builds, crests, peaks.

Time stops.

One endless, timeless moment of perfect, shared intimacy.

The little death isn't an accident of translation. Jack hasn't always known, but he knows now. He believes.

In that knife-edged instant, poised on a stuttering heartbeat, it doesn't matter if it's a moment shared with his lover or his murderer, if he's falling into darkness or flying into ecstasy.

He is alive, and he is not alone.

bhoadley@gmail.com — Sat, 12 Apr 2008 22:04:35 GMT

Title: What It Is
Author: becky_h
Character(s): Captain Jack Harkness, Captain John Hart.
Genre: PWP, Slash.
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers S2 E1, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.
Warnings: Very mild BDSM themes, if you squint.
Word Count: About 2,500
Beta: matsujo9
Prompt: set2music Prompt 38: This is me pretending this is all I need
Summary: John's not a considerate lover. Wall!Sex.
Author's Note: This was written before the last episode of TW S2 aired. It doesn't contradict canon, but it doesn't deal with the episode at all, either.

John's not a considerate lover. The only person he's concerned about is himself. That's okay. Jack can take care of himself and he's here to fuck, not make love.

Jack's back hits the wall, hard, and there are sharp teeth at his lower lip, biting and prying and demanding. Hard fingers digging into his upper arms and fighting to get through layers of cloth to skin. Scratching, pinching, bruising. He can taste blood and there's a knee jammed into his thigh. It's not comfortable; it's exactly what he wants.

It's almost exactly what he wants.

He grabs John by the shoulders and shoves him away. "Calm down," he says firmly. John grins at him, lips shiny and wet with spit and Jack's blood, teeth flashing white in contrast. That's hot. That's really, really hot.

Jack groans and -- with a hard pivot, twist and another push -- slams John into the wall. All the air leaves John's lungs with a rush, but there's laughter there too, even as his hands fall on Jack's shoulders, gripping hard enough to ache.

"Tsk, love. Weren't you just saying something about calming down?" His voice, like his laugh, is breathless, hard-edged and mocking. Jack could not possibly care less because the flush across John's cheeks tells him just how turned on John is.

Jack grabs John's belt and yanks. Leather slips tighter before the fastening comes undone and whatever breath John's got back he loses again. "Bloody hell," he murmurs in a low, strained voice.

"Shut up," Jack snaps.

John shuts up.

Jack makes short work of getting John's pants opened the rest of the way, then leans in close to John and bites at his jaw, hard and sharp enough to raise a bruise. "Don't even think about moving," he warns.

"And if I do?" John asks, like he has to know.

He probably does, Jack realizes. "Then I'm going to be really pissed off -- and you're not going to come." He adds a little weight to his threat -- promise, really -- by slipping his hand inside John's pants and curling his fingers around John's cock. He's hard in Jack's hand, hot and leaking.

John moans, closes his eyes and thumps his head against the wall. He loosens his grip on Jack's shoulders and in the next instant -- the very next breath -– he presses them, fisted, against the wall.

"Good boy," Jack tells him.

John opens his eyes to glare at Jack, lips curled back from his teeth. It's more snarl than grin and the sound is a lot more growl than groan.

That look goes straight to Jack's cock. It makes his breath catch, his skin flush, his heart pound and his pants uncomfortably tight. He tightens his grip around John's cock, just a fraction. Pushes down, pulls the foreskin back and slides his thumb across the pre-come slick head.

Jack can see the flare of heat in John's eyes, wild and unrestrained. "Do you want to come?" he asks. His voice is low and firm, his eyes stay on John's and his thumb doesn't stop moving.

"What?" John squawks. He thumps Jack on the shoulder with one fisted hand. "Of course I want to come, you daft.…" His bitching comes to an abrupt stop when Jack tugs his cock. Deliberate. Short. Rough.

"Unfasten my pants." When Jack makes the demand he can see the look in John's eyes fade from want and confusion to banked heat and sullen resistance. "John," he warns. This threat really is one and he backs it up by loosening his hand around John's cock.

John's hard swallow and the fading defiance in his eyes tell Jack he's won -- this round, anyway -- even before John's muttered "fine." The hand on his belt is no surprise, pulling tighter and harder than is necessary, a bit of revenge.

"Thanks," Jack says in a conversational tone and with a pleasant smile, utterly ignoring the discomfort.

"You're welcome, you bloody fucking bastard," John grinds out through clenched teeth as he yanks Jack's pants open.

"Careful there," Jack cautions and pulls his hand free of John's pants.

John protests the loss of the hand with another snarl. "Turn around," Jack tells him before the protest can turn into speech.

John doesn't have to be told twice. If he's got a problem with things not going as planned -- or with being fucked -- he doesn't say anything about it. Just closes his mouth, spins around and puts his hands against the wall to brace himself.

Jack steps back to appreciate the view: John spread out and waiting to be fucked. He gets the lube out of his pocket with one hand, and uses the other to ease John's pants down past his hips. He can't resist asking, "Who's the wife now?"

"Oh, shut up, you wanker," John snarls over his shoulder.

Jack swats John's ass hard enough to sting and make his skin turn pink but not hard enough to really hurt. "You sure you want to insult me now?" he asks. He doesn't even sound angry, just amused.

John yelps when he’s smacked, but that yelp turns into a reluctant groan when Jack hand curls around his hip. "I always insult you. Just get on with it, would you? I'm dying here."

"Sure you are," Jack says pleasantly. He takes his time unscrewing the lube and slicking two of his fingers, just to be contrary.

John looks over his shoulder and gives Jack a slightly feral grin. He's flushed, his pupils are blown to hell. Probably just arousal and endorphins, but Jack wouldn't be surprised if John had found a way to take something while his head was down, either. "You calling me a liar?"

"You are a liar," Jack reminds him as he pushes two fingers into him, and twists.

"Whatever," John growl-groans, drops his head back down and pushes back onto Jack's fingers.

It's a strong, fluid move that makes Jack moan. The hot grip around his fingers makes his cock ache in sympathy. John doesn't need the prep; it's certainly not the first time he's been fucked.

Even against a wall.

Even against a wall by Jack.

Suddenly Jack doesn't want to wait. He just wants to be inside John, and the tease is frustrating him at least as much as it is John. He pushes his fingers deeper and then pulls out, fast, reversing his earlier twist.

He drags his fingers over John's prostate on the way out, a little rough and definitely not long enough to do more than force a yelp and shuddering moan out of John's throat and past his teeth. "Bastard," he accuses, breathless and panting.

"Leave my mother out of this," Jack says tersely as he slicks his cock with light, careful strokes.

"Kinky bastard," John amends.

Jack shuts him up by biting the back of his neck. Not a nip this time, but teeth in, hard enough to leave intentions and to bruise.

It's effective. John yelps again and tries to get his legs spread further apart. When his pants stop him he makes a low, frustrated sound and smacks the heel of his hand against the wall. "Jack...." It's not begging, it's not pleading. John just sounds irritated as anything.

Jack would grin if he weren't busy holding John in place with his teeth. Instead he grabs the hand John was flailing around, flattens it against the wall and holds it there with a low, soft, warning growl.

John subsides almost immediately, breathing hard enough for Jack to feel the rise and fall of it. It's loud in the enclosed space. It sounds more desperate than anything Jack's heard from either of them tonight, and it sends another wave of heat to his cock.

Jack is done waiting. He uses his free hand to position himself against John, then to pin John's second hand to the wall. There's no more prep than that, no warm up or easing into it. He just shoves his dick into John and John into the wall.

Just the way they both want it.

John fights being shoved into the wall, but not Jack's grip on his hands, much less Jack's cock in his ass. In fact, it’s just the opposite. The tension and push back that protects John's face pushes him onto Jack's cock, and tightens his ass around it.

Jack feels that familiar grip like a punch to the gut, and it knocks the breath out of him. For a second his vision blurs and his heart beats loud in his ears. He lets go of John's neck to catch a gasping breath, and, as much as he wants to say something witty, he doesn't have a thought left in his head.

Jack doesn't move, not right away. Not until he can be sure he can move without coming. Surprisingly enough John doesn't say anything and accepts the pause. His thin body is strung tight with need under Jack's -- trembling with it -- but he lets Jack have his second to gather his wits. It's that more than any familiar sensation that reminds Jack that John knows him at least as well as he knows John.

Probably better; John's memories are more recent.

Jack gathers his scattered wits and, more importantly, control. He pulls back slowly, adjusts his angle and slams back into John.

It's fast and hard. It's brutal and demanding. John meets him, thrust for stroke, tight and hot and forcing himself back into Jack and away from the wall. It's a struggle and a fight, and there's no way to mistake it for anything but what it is.

It's fucking.

It's fucking and it goes on until Jack's lungs are burning and his heart pounding. Until sweat stings his eyes and slicks John's skin.

Until John starts fighting to free one of his hands from Jack's grip. Jack doesn't catch on right away. His hand tightens around John's, he snarls, and the next thrust is brutal. John growls and shoves right back, taking the punishing thrust and shoving back against Jack just as hard. Hard enough to make Jack's hips ache.

It breaks Jack's momentum, his rhythm, and the haze of heat blanketing his brain. Not completely, but enough. "Fuck," Jack gasps, faltering and breathless.

John takes advantage and yanks his hand free from Jack's. "You fuck," he says, voice strained almost to the point of breaking. "I'll wank."

Jack wants to laugh at that, but when John gets his hand down and wrapped around his cock, he shudders, and that shiver and response is something Jack can feel around his dick. The only sound Jack actually manages to make is a moan. "Your wish...."

Jack holds John's shoulder with his newly freed hand, and that's the grip and leverage he needs to change his angle so his cock hits John's prostate more directly with every stroke.

"Is your command," John finishes for Jack, words forced out in time with the heavy, deep thrusts.

Jack's reluctantly impressed that John's still talking, but he's not surprised. It takes more than being shagged through a wall to shut the guy up. "I thought," Jack says, as best he can, "you wanted to come." Jack's fight to hold back and not be the first one over that edge is apparent in his voice as irritation, even to his own ears.

"Do," John manages somehow.

John's breathing heavily and Jack can see the tension in his shoulders, the flush that's creeping up the back of his neck, the clench of his jaw. Jack doesn't slow down, doesn't pause or hesitate or let up even the slightest bit, even though his thighs are starting to ache almost as much as his balls, the lube's getting sticky and the friction's just about too much to be good.

He doesn’t slow because Jack knows from the way John feels around him, from the taut fragility of John's voice, that he is right there.

Jack leans into his next thrust and bites down on John's neck again -- holding him there hard enough that his jaw aches and he knows it's got to be hurting John -- and growls.

The extra bit of stimulation is enough, because John stops moving. Stops fighting to meet Jack's movement and just takes it. He stiffens and tightens and cries out, strangled and wordless and without any kind of inhibition at all, even pride.

It's a beautiful sound, a beautiful reaction that grabs Jack by the heart and balls at the same time and twists. Jack inhales, thrusts into the gripping heat of John's body one more time, and curls his fingers down over John's.

In the fading aftershocks of John's climax and the building intensity of his own, there's a moment where it's all turned upside down. He's not forcing John down, John's keeping him up. He's not pinning John's hand to the wall, John's holding his.

It's just a moment -- a single instant -- that's barely there before it's gone. But that moment is intimacy and being with someone, being all the way with them. It's partnership, if only in the pursuit of mutual pleasure. It's a second, a breath, a heartbeat, a wave of heartbreakingly intense feeling that takes everything and leaves no room for lies.

It's over all too soon, slipping away like water through his fingers.

It leaves him shattered and breathless, heartbeat loud in his ears. He lets go of John's neck and presses his forehead where his teeth have been, catching his breath and waiting to properly come to his senses.

As Jack pulls out he can feel the shift and move of muscle as John wipes his hand clean and fastens his pants, one handed, but doesn't move away. John doesn't ask him to, and Jack squeezes the hand that he's still holding -- or that's holding his? He can't tell -- in silent gratitude. His grip is returned with a little more pressure than is strictly comfortable, but it tells Jack what he needs to know: Message received and sentiment returned.

They pull away from each other at the same time.

John releases Jack's hand; Jack steps back. He has to glance down to do up his pants and when he looks up again, John's looking at back him. He's already put himself together except for the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the flush across his cheeks. Jack doesn't feel anywhere near that composed.

John opens his mouth to say something, but Jack cuts him with an uplifted hand and shake of his head. "Just go," he says, tilting his head toward the door.

John lifts one eyebrow into an arch that's downright challenging but Jack doesn't rise to the bait. He just repeats the nod toward the door. "Go," he says more firmly.

John concedes. He flips Jack a sloppy salute that conveys more sarcasm than respect and leaves.

Leaves Jack alone.

When the door closes Jack takes a slow breath and closes his eyes.

John's not a considerate lover. It doesn't matter because Jack is. He doesn't know how to be anything else. He doesn't know how to leave his heart out of fucking, either. Thinking back on the whole thing he decides that's one lesson he doesn't want to learn.

bhoadley@gmail.com — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 20:01:33 GMT

So, I haven't been writing.

But I did make something, thanks to an AU!Ten-Muse, not a little enabling from _medley_, matsujo9 and skipthedemon, and a song.

Since I made it, and that's what this journal is for, I'm shoving it over here.

There are children standing here,
Arms outstretched into the sky,
Tears drying on their face.
He has been here.
Brothers lie in shallow graves.
Fathers lost without a trace.
A nation blind to their disgrace,
Since he's been here.

And I see no bravery,
No bravery in your eyes anymore.
Only sadness.

Houses burnt beyond repair.
The smell of death is in the air.
A woman weeping in despair says,
He has been here.
Tracer lighting up the sky.
It's another family's turn to die.
A child afraid to even cry out says,
He has been here.

And I see no bravery,
No bravery in your eyes anymore.
Only sadness.

There are children standing here,
Arms outstretched into the sky,
But no one asks the question why,
He has been here.
Old men kneel and accept their fate.
Wives and daughters cut and raped.
A generation drenched in hate.
Yes, he has been here.

And I see no bravery,
No bravery in your eyes anymore.
Only sadness.

bhoadley@gmail.com — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 00:54:02 GMT

Title: Tactical Distraction
Author: becky_h
Character(s): Tony DiNozzo/Tim McGee
Genre: Slash.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bondage.
Word Count: 2,600-ish.
Beta: matsujo9
Prompt: Sweet Charity fic. Written for simplelyric who asked for Tim/Tony, semi-public, semi-clothed sex with handcuffs.
Summary: Missing scene from 3X10: Probie. Tony manages to get Tim out of his apartment. They don't go to a club and Tony doesn't so much cheer Tim up as give him something else to worry about -- for a little while, at least.
Author's Notes: I originally planned for this to be Very Serious Porn. It didn't happen that way. If simplelyric would like me to try again, she is so very entitled.

When he was finished eating, Tony flipped pizza box closed, stood up and said, "Come on."

"What? Where are we going?" Tim heaved a sigh and pushed to his feet.

Tony rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and headed back toward Tim's bedroom. "Do you ever actually listen? You must sometime, right? Try to keep up, would you? Out. We're going out."

Tim followed him, lagging a couple of steps behind. "Haven't we gone over this? About how I don't want to go out?"

"Yep," Tony said, and rifled through the closet for a pair of pants that would meet his standards.

"And you said you understood..." Tim said with forced patience and a vague hand gesture to continue that Tony, head and shoulders in Tim's closet, couldn't see.

"I did, and I do." Tony emerged with a pair of generic khakis and threw them at Tim. "That's why we're going out."

The pants hit Tim in the face but he managed to catch them before they hit the floor. "I think you're missing the point here, Tony." He sounded more resigned than hopeful. A lot more resigned.

"And I think you're still not listening. I never said we weren't going out. Now, as I see it," Tony went on as he propped himself against the wall, leaning on one shoulder, "You've got two choices."

"Oh yeah?" Tim asked cautiously.

"Yeah." Tony said and smiled. "You can put on your pants or you can go out in your skivvies. Which I really wouldn't recommend. I mean, they're nice and all, but." He looked pointedly at Tim's shorts. "Cold flatters no man."

Tim looked at Tony. Tony folded his arms across his chest, looked back and continued to smile. Tim put on his pants.

______________________________________________

Tony didn't take Tim clubbing, just out for a drink.

"Why are you doing this, Tony?" Tim asked once they were seated at the bar with drinks in front of them.

"Believe it or not, McGee, I'm doing it because I like you."

The look of disbelief Tim gave Tony spoke louder than words.

"All right, all right." Tony took a drink of his beer. "I'm doing it because I didn't want to leave you alone with the Elf Lord in your head. I was afraid he'd tell you to go out murdering gnomes or.... Well, whatever it is he does."

"Tony," Tim said his voice low and warning.

"And I wanted a drink." Tony smiled disarmingly, lifted his glass and took a drink to illustrate.

Tim ran his hand over his face with a heavy sigh, picked up his own glass and took a large swallow.

Tony nudged his shoulder into Tim's. "Hey, I've been there, remember? Wasn't even all that long ago and believe-you-me, the last place you want to be is locked up alone, talking to yourself."

Tim studied Tony for a long moment before he picked his glass up again, with an almost imperceptible nod of acceptance.

_____________________________________________

The handcuff closed around Tim's wrist with a soft metallic slide and click.

Tim glanced down at his wrist and then back up at Tony with a look of blatant surprise and confusion. "Where did you get those?"

Tony returned Tim's startled look with a withering one.

"Never mind, stupid question." He paused and frowned. "So what are we...."

Tony cut him off by standing and tugging on his wrist. "Get up."

Tim slid off his stool and stood rather than let himself be dragged. "Tony, what...." He tried again.

Tony pulled Tim's other arm behind his back and, before Tim had recovered enough wits to resist, snapped the other cuff around his wrist.

"You're arresting me?" Tim kind of squawked his question, but he didn't sound as surprised as could have.

Tony smacked Tim hard in the back of the head. "Don't be stupid. If I wanted to arrest you, I wouldn't have gotten you liquored up first."

Tim sighed. Again. "All right, so when are you going to tell me what you are doing?"

Tony took Tim by the upper arm and started leading him out of the bar, just rough enough that Tim stopped talking. "Taking you for a walk. Walks are good for you, Tim. They clear the head, aid digestion. Get rid of colic."

"I think colic's a baby thing, Tony," Tim said, his voice heavy with resignation.

"Well, if you're going to act like a big baby..." He pushed the door open and led Tim through. "Beats aroma therapy though, doesn't it?" He smiled over at Tim, eyes crinkled at the corners and smug as hell.

"You've been talking to Abby," Tim realized and accused all at once.

"I've been talking to Abby." Tony's smile didn't waiver.

Tim flushed and he stopped walking. "You take these cuffs off me right now, Tony," he growled.

"I don't think so," Tony said pleasantly. His smile, if anything, had gotten broader. Tony jerked Tim's arm, just enough that Tim had to take a step or fall on his face.

Tim chose to take the step.

"Why not?" He tried to make it a demand; he didn't quite succeed.

"Because you're not going to hit me and you're not going to run away. You're really not going to call Abby and chew her out for being worried about you. In fact, the only thing you're really going to do is trust me, and keep walking."

Tim kept walking.

_____________________________________________

Tony walked Tim to a public park, pivoted him around in front of a bench and -- with the help of an ankle sweep and his hand on Tim's shoulder -- pushed him down onto it. "Sit, Boo-boo, sit. Good dog."

Tim cocked his head to the side and looked up at Tony. "Was that really necessary?" His forehead was wrinkled in confusion but he sounded legitimately offended.

"Probably not," Tony admitted. He hiked his pants up and dropped to his knees in front of Tim, comfortable and casual. He didn't stop talking. "But it was funny." Something in his voice was a little steadier and a lot more gentle than usual, and his eyes stayed on Tim's.

"Are you going to..." Tim started. He broke off when Tony's hands settled on his knees and then slid up his thighs, thumbs dragging along the inside seam of his pants. He swallowed hard and pressed on. "...Tell me what you're doing yet?" He didn't quite squeak but it was a near thing.

"Sure." Tony pressed one hand down against Tim's thigh and used the other to jerk Tim's belt loose. "I'm distracting you." He looked up at Tim, forehead slightly furrowed. "What? You didn't notice?"

"Uh." Tim blinked a few times, his head bent to look at Tony. "We're in a park, Tony." Tim sounded every bit as stunned as he looked. His voice was heavy, thick and confused.

"Better not loiter then." Tony grinned and shifted so his knees were pressed against the insides of Tim's legs, holding them in place -– and open -- before turning his attention back to getting Tim's pants undone.

At the brush of Tony's fingers, Tim's stomach muscles tightened. His breath caught, his fingers curled into fists behind his back and his shoulders tensed. A flush spread up his throat, across his cheeks and the back of his neck. "I'm handcuffed." He didn't sound confused anymore, his voice was strained and rough.

Tony stilled his hands and looked up with an exasperated sigh. "Anyone ever told you that you've got a real gift for stating the obvious?" He went uncharacteristically quiet and studied Tim's face. "Hey," he said, even more uncharacteristically gentle. "Yeah, OK, you're cuffed, but you're not tied. You want to stop this, all you've got to do is stand up."

Tim stayed silent for long moments, his expression thoughtful. Then he let out the breath he'd apparently been holding, nodded slightly and leaned back as best he could with his hands still cuffed behind him.

Another pause where nothing moved and Tony's eyes stayed on Tim's. "All right." Tony mirrored Tim's nod, tugged the snap open and pulled just enough to get the zipper lowered. He slid his hand inside the loosened fabric and curled his fingers around Tim's cock.

Tim's eyes closed tightly, his flushed deepened and his breath caught and held again before he released it in a low hiss through clenched teeth. "Tony."

Tony was staring up at Tim, hand still inside the fabric of Tim's pants, wide-eyed. "You are hung."

Tim opened his eyes very slowly and tipped his head down so he could look at Tony through narrowed eyes. "Didn't you say something about not loitering?"

"No, yeah, absolutely. It just. Wow. Tim, I never would have guessed. Hope you're not taking that probie thing too literally," Tony babbled, his thumb stroking over the head of Tim's cock.

Tim's expression shifted from arousal to one of horrified disbelief, even as he gasped. "Tony," he said as pointedly as he could manage. "We're in a park."

"So?" Tony asked with a slight shake of his head, thumb still moving.

"So, maybe you could...." He broke off abruptly, shuddering.

Tony's expression cleared. "Oh. Oh, right. Yeah, sure." He tugged Tim's cock free of his pants, took a deep breath and blew it out and then glanced back up at Tim's face. "Just. You know. Try to be still."

Tim gave him another disbelieving look. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Right." He looked back at Tim's cock, up at his eyes one more time. "You just... keep doing that."

"Being sti...." Tim cut off abruptly when Tony's hand tightened around his cock and Tony's mouth closed just over the head. Whatever remark he'd been about to make was swallowed by his groan.

Tony pulled back slowly, eyes on Tim's face again. "As you're so fond of reminding me: we're in public. Try to tone it down. Unless you're into the prison thing. In which case I'm going to need some warning so I can plan my getaway."

"Tony," Tim growled, frustration and exasperation clear in even that single word. "Would you please stop talking.”

Tony smiled, one of those infuriating smiles that missed innocent by miles, and found something better to do with his mouth. He kept his hand around the base of Tim's cock, and after a couple of uncomfortable minutes, found a rhythm and depth he could maintain without gagging, choking, or drooling all over himself.

Tim did his part by staying still, letting Tony work it out and keeping his jaw clenched to muffle the sounds that the slide of Tony's hand and pull and heat of his mouth wrung out of him. He tensed up, his breath went ragged and behind his back, his fingers curled into fists tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

Tony sped up a bit as he got more comfortable, hand and mouth moving in unison over Tim's cock. Stroke, pull, slide of tongue and heat, searing in contrast to the cold air. Free hand gripping down on the top of Tim's thigh, breathing loud in the near silence of the dark, still park.

Tim's breathing quickened to meet the change in Tony's, steady increments of sensation building, and somewhere nearby, the flickering of a light just about to go. He continued to tighten and tense, shoulders and arms and stomach and thighs. His breath coming in erratic, short bursts that fogged the air, nails cutting into his palms as his grip on nothing tightened.

When he came, Tim didn't make a sound. Even his breathing stopped. He didn't move, every muscle locked tight to the point of shaking.

Tony, on the other hand, squawked softly and jumped. He didn't pull back right away but his eyes flew up to Tim's face, comically wide and blatantly startled. He choked and nearly gagged before he managed to swallow and pull back, still coughing.

Tim opened his eyes when Tony pulled back and managed, with effort, to maneuver himself a bit more upright on the bench. "What's the matter?" His eyes were wide and glassy, his voice low and breathless. He looked and sounded very well fucked. Blissed out.

Tony kept coughing and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. He let his hand fall and gave Tim an accusing -- and more than half-annoyed -- look. "You couldn't have warned me?" he asked between hacking, painful-sounding coughs.

"You told me to be quiet," Tim reminded Tony with a dopey, sweet and completely disingenuous smile that was, actually, a lot like Tony's.

Tony pushed himself up to his feet, still coughing. "Park. Handcuffs. Your dick hanging out. You might want to be nice to me, if you don't want to be left like that." Even as he made the threat, Tony gestured for Tim to turn around so he could reach the handcuffs, and dug the key out of his pocket.

Voices drifted through the darkness, followed by the sound of a dog barking. Distant but getting closer.

Tim turned around, quickly if not gracefully, to give Tony access to his bound hands. "You all right?" he asked, voice warm with real concern. His frown wasn't visible but it was close to audible.

"Yeah. I just inhaled about a gallon of come. No big deal. What's the worst that can happen?" He had to sit down on the bench to get the key into the lock and unfasten the cuffs.

"Aspiration pneumonia," Tim replied with alacrity as he pivoted forward again. He refastened his pants and belt, then leaned his elbows on his thighs and rubbed his wrists.

Tony stared, choked, spluttered and started to cough so hard that he went red in the face and that tears started to stream from his eyes.

"But probably not," Tim offered as he patted Tony helpfully on the back.

"Probably not? Real reassuring." Tony wheezed when he could breathe again. "And you realize that was a rhetorical question? That means I didn't really want an answer. How can you not know that? Doesn't being an Elf-Geek come with some kind of--."

"Tony." Tim stopped patting and rubbed Tony's back instead.

Tony, for once, didn't talk over him. Just looked to Tim and cocked his head to the side.

"Thanks," he said, very simple and very earnest.

Tony nodded his acknowledgment, stood and stuffed the handcuffs into his pocket. "Come on. Now I really need a drink. Or maybe my mouth sandblasted. Remind me to tell you about the effects of diet on the taste of...."

"You think I don't already know?" Tim interrupted him, one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth raised as he stood.

"In that case," Tony said as they retraced their steps out of the park. "Eat less meat and more pineapple. Oh, and McGee?"

Tim fell into step beside Tony. He opened his mouth to protest, but was derailed by Tony's question and his own curiosity. "Yeah?"

He had to wait until they passed the couple with the dog and were nearly back at the car, to get his answer.

Tony leaned in and said in a voice low enough to be menacing and not carry. "If you ever tell anyone about this, I really will slap you."

bhoadley@gmail.com — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 03:19:48 GMT

Title: Every One Of Them.
Author: becky_h
Character(s): Jack, mostly.
Rating: R, for language.
Spoilers Very mild ones for TW S2.
Prompt: set2music 37: Thank you for loving me.
Summary: He gets something from all of them.

He gets something from all of them.

Every person he's ever loved.

Every person he's ever fucked.

Every person he's ever let in.

It's got nothing to do with loving more, or loving most. It's just loving and being loved.

It's Gwen's softness and strength, Ianto's humor and pain. It's Tosh's hope and Owen's need. It's John's cruelty, Estelle's wonder and Jack's honor.

They let him be strong, let him be weak, let him need and be needed. They show him the world through new eyes; they show him himself, through a lens of desire.

Every single one of them.

bhoadley@gmail.com — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 00:58:44 GMT

baffledking did a Valentine's Day exchange. I got matsujo9, whom most of you will realize is my primary beta-reader of pure awesome. So, making stuff for her? More than my pleasure.

bhoadley@gmail.com — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 20:22:37 GMT

un_love_you - Best idea, ever.

01.	You were right about me.	02.	I was wrong about you.	03.	This cancels out the hurt.
04.	I need to want you.	05.	You can be like me.	06.	I want to need you.
07.	Prove it.	08.	I'm cruel.	09.	Always wondered what this'd be like.
10.	I'm broken.	11.	Thought I needed this.	12.	I'm drunk.
13.	I want to hurt you.	14.	I'm awake and you're breathing.	15.	This is my desperation in action.
16.	I want to break you.	17.	Wish I didn't love you.	18.	I pity you.
19.	This isn't about you at all.	20.	I hate you, you bitch.	21.	You'll do.
22.	I hate myself.	23.	You remind me of me.	24.	I want you to hate me.
25.	You remind me of someone.	26.	I can be like you.	27.	Author's Choice.
28.	Author's Choice.	29.	Author's Choice.	30.	Author's Choice.

bhoadley@gmail.com — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 19:32:19 GMT

Teeny tiny icon post - not going to bother cross-posting anywhere (except homelessicons) but if anyone wants any of them, knock yourselves out.

bhoadley@gmail.com — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 01:20:03 GMT

Title: Making Memories
Author: becky_h
Character(s): Jack/Himself.
Genre: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers None, really.
Warnings: Nope.
Word Count: 1300-ish
Beta: matsujo9
Summary: Accounting for those two missing years.
Author's Note: Written for itinerant_vae's Write a fic, leave a prompt game.

He's spent just about two years with this kid who's going to become him, someday. This kid barely a year into working for the Agency, still using his own name, in love with the job, the universe, and everything in it. Jack had been surprised by how much he'd liked himself.

Innocence and faith and hope and all those things he'd thought he'd lost hadn't really been lost after all. He'd seen them in the younger, less tarnished and weathered reflection of himself and then he'd found them inside himself again.

It's been a wonderful two years, spent laughing and loving and making love. They've gone from one end of space to the other. They've talked and played, fucked and fought and pushed against each other, both of them stronger for the contest.

But nothing lasts forever, and this isn't the exception. The past two years have been a moment, the blink of an eye where the road they've traveled looped on itself, crossed over for an instant. It's inevitable that it straighten, leaving them separated by time and space, and walking alone.

Brant's beside Jack, sprawled against him, drowsy and naked and sated. The last thing Jack wants to do is leave the warmth of the bed and skin against his, but it's time. It's past time.

"Hey," he says, jostling Brant lightly. "How about a drink?"

Brant doesn't answer, just groans and tightens his arm around Jack. He's sleepy, he doesn't want to move and he'd rather stay put than drink. Jack doesn't blame him; he'd rather stay put, too.

He returns the light pressure, presses a kiss against the top of Brant's hair and then removes himself. Brant responds with a faint, protesting growl, but Jack gets free. When he's out of the bed, Brant rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the pillow.

Jack stands still for a minute, just watching Brant. He watches his breathing even out and deepen, watches the muscles across his shoulders and back relax, watches him drift toward sleep. He's done a good job wearing the kid out. It will make the rest easier.

He pulls his clothes on, quick and quiet. T-shirt, pants, boots. The rest can wait until after.

Once he's dressed, he prepares Brant's drink. His hand is steady as he pours, but he doesn't have to deliberate for long before he pours a second. He doesn't drink a lot, and his hands may not need to be steadied, but his nerves do.

By the time he has crossed the short distance back to the bed, he's finished half of his own drink. He nudges Brant's shoulder with the back of his hand, and Brant rolls over. He nods and holds the glass out to him. Brant yawns, but he takes the glass.

"To good friends and good times," Jack says as he clinks his glass against Brant's.

"That sounds like a eulogy."

He's not wrong, Jack thinks as he sips and watches Brant drink. The younger man's face flushes and his eyes water. It's stronger than the stuff he's used to drinking - a lot stronger - and that's not an accident.

Jack puts his glass down on the night-stand. When Brant starts to do the same, Jack stops him. "Finish it," he says softly.

"What?" Brant asks, shaking his head. "Why?"

This is not a conversation Jack wants to have. "You trust me, don't you? Finish it."

There must be something in his voice or his expression because he's asked Brant to do things a lot harder than finishing a strong drink -- and with even less explanation than he's giving the boy now -- but he's not doing it. He looks at Jack for long moments and then shakes his head again and says, "No."

That's not that answer he wanted. It hits him like a punch in the gut, because he doesn't want to be doing this at all. He certainly doesn't want doing it to be any harder than absolutely necessary, on either one of them. He nods, leans forward and kisses Brant.

It's slow and sweet. All the heat comes from the lingering traces of alcohol shared between them. It’s not about sex, but about comfort and affection and, even if Brant doesn't know it yet, good-bye. Jack lifts a hand to Brant's hair and strokes.

The kiss goes on until Brant stops trying to figure out what Jack's up to and relaxes.

That's the moment Jack has been waiting for, but he still lingers in the kiss. Letting himself feel, and taste and touch and remember. Making himself remember that Brant is him, no matter how much, how hard or how often he's denied it these past several months. This has to be done, and he has to do it.

Then, just when Brant starts to pull away but before he can tense up again, Jack tightens his hand in Brant's hair, and pulls both himself and Brant's head back. He knows damned well there's going to be a fight and Brant doesn't disappoint him. It takes everything he's got to push Brant down, climb on top and get his arms down.

Once he's settled - still pulling Brant's neck back at an angle that has to hurt, trapping his arms against his sides and ignoring the glare he’d rather not think about - Jack grabs the abandoned glass from the night-stand.

He doesn't apologize; he doesn't say anything at all. An apology would be hollow, because this isn't going to stop, and anything else would be an insult not only to the time they've spent together, but to the man he used to be and that Brant already is.

He twists his hand in Brant's hair, hurting him and hating himself for it, to make him gasp. When his mouth opens, he forces the rim of the glass between Brant's teeth. Jack can see the moment Brant realizes his mistake in his eyes and feel it in the reverberation of glass against his hand when Brant bites down. Can hear it in the frustrated snarl.

But the snarl is muted when Jack tips the glass. He's careful to make sure he's not going so fast that Brant's in danger of choking, but he can't go slowly enough to stop. It makes a mess, as much of the potent drink soaking into the sheets as going down Brant's throat, but that's okay. The drink's strong enough - retcon and alcohol- that it won't make any difference.

That it won't make any difference - that nothing Brant can do can stop this - is enough to make Jack's heart feel like it's breaking. He'd empathize, even if he was doing it to someone he'd never been.

Brant chokes, splutters, glares and fights. The alcohol and sedatives take effect before the retcon and by the time the glass is empty, Brant's eyes are glazing.

Jack sets the glass aside without looking away from Brant, and carefully releases him. The second his arms are free, Brant swings at Jack. It's uncoordinated and Jack deflects it easily, and stands.

He could leave now. Brant's going to pass out, sleep and wake without remembering meeting himself. He's going to wake with a headache and his stomach trying to crawl up his throat, and he's going to blame the Time Agency for it.

He's going to turn bitter and cynical, and run half way across the universe to find his answers.

He's going to live, and die and keep right on running and looking until he's 815 years old and he meets a beautiful, bright boy, from a backwater planet who is a reminder of his past, his mortality and his own innocence.

Then he'll stop looking for his memories, because he'll be making them. He could leave now; it's all going to happen as it's meant to.

He could, but he doesn't. Not yet.

bhoadley@gmail.com — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 19:07:38 GMT

Title: Buzz
Author: becky_h
Character(s): Tenth Doctor, Jack
Rating: R, for language.
Spoilers None
Warnings: None
Word Count: 100, exactly.
Prompt: set2music Prompt 33: All I ask for is one fuckin' hour
Summary: Ten's getting on Jack's nerves.
Author's Notes: God, someone take away my cold meds.

"I will kill you." Jack's tone meant business, and his look was deadly enough to make the Doctor pause, mid-bounce.

"What?" he asked, face wrinkled up in self-righteous protest. "What? I'm not doing anything!"

"The hell you aren't," Jack growled. "You've been fidgeting like a Catholic school boy with a hard-on for a nun, for the past half-hour. "

The Doctor let himself down off his toes, where he'd paused, and rocked back onto his heels. "Well. Now that you mention it-"

"I will kill you," Jack repeated, menacingly.

The Doctor laughed at him. Hard.