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wintercompanion2011-02-28 10:34 pm
wojelah.livejournal.com) wrote in wintercompanion2011-02-28 10:34 pm
Entry tags:
Wojelah: Time and Silence (Ten/Jack) [R]
Title: Time and Silence
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wojelah
Challenge: Sixth Sense
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ten/Jack
Spoilers/Warnings: Blindfold and a gag.
Summary: “I bet you never stop talking,” Jack had teased. “I think it’s a physiological impossibility. I bet you couldn’t not talk if you tried
Notes: A REALLY LONG TIME AGO, I promisedtrobadora a fic about Ten and sex and a gag. It finally happened. Sort of. There is no plot here.
---
He feels the slightest movement in the air and shivers.
There’s a feeling of laughter, tingling and ginger-flavored, and it buzzes over his skin. He clenches his hands against the bedsheet. The blindfold over his eyes is cool and smooth against his skin. He feels more laughter - licks his lips to try and catch the taste of it - and tastes cotton, remembers the band of fabric covering his mouth.
“I bet you never stop talking,” Jack had teased. “I think it’s a physiological impossibility. I bet you couldn’t not talk if you tried.”
He really, really should know better than to make a bet with Jack Harkness. At least when it comes to sex.
Fingers brush lightly along his ribs and over a nipple, and he arches, biting down on cloth just in time to keep back the noise he wants to make.
“I can do anything I set my mind to,” he had shot back, grinning.
“Funny,” Jack had drawled. “I can do anyone.”
You’re supposed to be paying attention, Jack says, that same taste of amusement still filtering through. I must not be doing my job.
He doesn’t send anything back but the mental equivalent of an eye roll.
There’s a puff of air that must be a laugh, but he’s guessing. The soft little earplugs Jack had produced are remarkably effective.
It’s just him and Jack. No sight, no sound, just bodies and minds and touch.
And Time. Always Time.
He’s not sure Jack understands. He’s tried to explain it to every companion he’s ever had. The vast moving field of past and present and future and maybes and might haves and could bes, circling and eddying and rising and falling constantly, like the blood in his veins, like the beat of his hearts. He can’t not feel it. He can’t not process what it tells him.
“A bet,” Jack had proposed.
He’d raised an eyebrow.
“I bet,” Jack had grinned, “that I can make you talk.” And that was all the challenge he’d needed.
Hey, Jack sends, and this time it’s apple-crisp with exasperation, a tiny nip. A little focus, here?
You’re the one who’s got a job to do, he sends back, and immediately loses the thread of the conversation as clever, clever hands find the arch of his foot and lean on the pressure point. He shudders.
More laughter, and the red wine taste of desire. Jack doesn’t actually say anything, just continues the massage, fingers and hands finding and seeking every erogenous zone he’s got as if following a map. All of them except his cock, which is hard against his belly as Jack moves up his sides, over hips and ribs and chest, until he’s finished, until he strokes firmly down the Doctor’s chest and steps away. He can feel every inch of his own skin, sensitized and tingling and waiting for more, and what he can’t tell Jack - what he doesn’t have words for, even if he had the ability to speak - what he can’t say is that now, right now, he can see everything.
In some universe, Jack goes down on him. In some universe, the next thing he feels is the cool slick of lube. In some universe, he feels the weight of Jack on his thighs and Jack’s hand on his cock. Somewhere, he opens his mouth and takes Jack in. Somewhere, a finger presses gently against his ass. Somewhere, anything can and does happen and he can see it all, can feel it all, or at least the possibility of it all, and it’s overwhelming, here, on this bed, with no words and no sounds and nothing but thought and possibility tethering him to what’s happening now, right now. They’re not enough to hold him down, and the electric arousal that’s firing every nerve is almost too much.
Suddenly Jack’s there, warm, human body covering every inch of his own, and the shock of it makes him buck, his hands clutching Jack’s shoulders, frantic and aching and needing more, needing focus, and he can’t stop himself from tearing the fabric away from his mouth.
He has to talk, his own voice a little wild in his head, words spilling over and around each other, trying to explain, as Jack moves with him, against him, just what it is that he can see. Jack kisses him, swallows the sounds he’s making, sending nothing now but need and affection and a little desperation of his own, spicy-sweet with faintly bitter edges, as the possibilities merge and narrow and coalesce until, in the blinding surety of a singularity, he comes.
Some time much, much later, Jack stirs next to him. There’s a faint vibration against his palm. “Earplugs,” he slurs.
I said, Jack replies, and the Doctor laughs at the buttery satisfaction that comes across, you could have just told me you had a kink. When can we do that again?
He lies in the bed, Jack curled next to him, and feels Time curving around them. “Any time,” he says aloud, and knows that if he takes the sum of all the possibilities, it’s a universal truth.
Author:
wojelahChallenge: Sixth Sense
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ten/Jack
Spoilers/Warnings: Blindfold and a gag.
Summary: “I bet you never stop talking,” Jack had teased. “I think it’s a physiological impossibility. I bet you couldn’t not talk if you tried
Notes: A REALLY LONG TIME AGO, I promised
trobadora a fic about Ten and sex and a gag. It finally happened. Sort of. There is no plot here.---
He feels the slightest movement in the air and shivers.
There’s a feeling of laughter, tingling and ginger-flavored, and it buzzes over his skin. He clenches his hands against the bedsheet. The blindfold over his eyes is cool and smooth against his skin. He feels more laughter - licks his lips to try and catch the taste of it - and tastes cotton, remembers the band of fabric covering his mouth.
“I bet you never stop talking,” Jack had teased. “I think it’s a physiological impossibility. I bet you couldn’t not talk if you tried.”
He really, really should know better than to make a bet with Jack Harkness. At least when it comes to sex.
Fingers brush lightly along his ribs and over a nipple, and he arches, biting down on cloth just in time to keep back the noise he wants to make.
“I can do anything I set my mind to,” he had shot back, grinning.
“Funny,” Jack had drawled. “I can do anyone.”
You’re supposed to be paying attention, Jack says, that same taste of amusement still filtering through. I must not be doing my job.
He doesn’t send anything back but the mental equivalent of an eye roll.
There’s a puff of air that must be a laugh, but he’s guessing. The soft little earplugs Jack had produced are remarkably effective.
It’s just him and Jack. No sight, no sound, just bodies and minds and touch.
And Time. Always Time.
He’s not sure Jack understands. He’s tried to explain it to every companion he’s ever had. The vast moving field of past and present and future and maybes and might haves and could bes, circling and eddying and rising and falling constantly, like the blood in his veins, like the beat of his hearts. He can’t not feel it. He can’t not process what it tells him.
“A bet,” Jack had proposed.
He’d raised an eyebrow.
“I bet,” Jack had grinned, “that I can make you talk.” And that was all the challenge he’d needed.
Hey, Jack sends, and this time it’s apple-crisp with exasperation, a tiny nip. A little focus, here?
You’re the one who’s got a job to do, he sends back, and immediately loses the thread of the conversation as clever, clever hands find the arch of his foot and lean on the pressure point. He shudders.
More laughter, and the red wine taste of desire. Jack doesn’t actually say anything, just continues the massage, fingers and hands finding and seeking every erogenous zone he’s got as if following a map. All of them except his cock, which is hard against his belly as Jack moves up his sides, over hips and ribs and chest, until he’s finished, until he strokes firmly down the Doctor’s chest and steps away. He can feel every inch of his own skin, sensitized and tingling and waiting for more, and what he can’t tell Jack - what he doesn’t have words for, even if he had the ability to speak - what he can’t say is that now, right now, he can see everything.
In some universe, Jack goes down on him. In some universe, the next thing he feels is the cool slick of lube. In some universe, he feels the weight of Jack on his thighs and Jack’s hand on his cock. Somewhere, he opens his mouth and takes Jack in. Somewhere, a finger presses gently against his ass. Somewhere, anything can and does happen and he can see it all, can feel it all, or at least the possibility of it all, and it’s overwhelming, here, on this bed, with no words and no sounds and nothing but thought and possibility tethering him to what’s happening now, right now. They’re not enough to hold him down, and the electric arousal that’s firing every nerve is almost too much.
Suddenly Jack’s there, warm, human body covering every inch of his own, and the shock of it makes him buck, his hands clutching Jack’s shoulders, frantic and aching and needing more, needing focus, and he can’t stop himself from tearing the fabric away from his mouth.
He has to talk, his own voice a little wild in his head, words spilling over and around each other, trying to explain, as Jack moves with him, against him, just what it is that he can see. Jack kisses him, swallows the sounds he’s making, sending nothing now but need and affection and a little desperation of his own, spicy-sweet with faintly bitter edges, as the possibilities merge and narrow and coalesce until, in the blinding surety of a singularity, he comes.
Some time much, much later, Jack stirs next to him. There’s a faint vibration against his palm. “Earplugs,” he slurs.
I said, Jack replies, and the Doctor laughs at the buttery satisfaction that comes across, you could have just told me you had a kink. When can we do that again?
He lies in the bed, Jack curled next to him, and feels Time curving around them. “Any time,” he says aloud, and knows that if he takes the sum of all the possibilities, it’s a universal truth.