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moogingIt led to me writing this, which is quite probably the porniest thing I have ever written and will be totally knocked out of any remote plausibility on Saturday, but I really don't care, because it was so much
Title: Above Them, The Sky Is Burning
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: High R (I don't know what constitutes an NC17, but, er, there's porn here)
Pairing: Master/Doctor/Jack
Word Count: 2565
Disclaimer: No characters are mine, or DW would be on a lot later at night. The BBC > me.
Summary: Set after SoD (hee hee, 'sod'omy. LOOK LOOK CANON GAY SEX.). Sexings. Slightly dark. Dom/sub/sub-ish. Ish to the extreme, in fact. Jack and the Doctor are put in neighbouring cells.
It is surprisingly lenient of the Master (Mr. Saxon, Jack reminds himself, because dominance within one's own head becomes all important when one is locked away) but Jack and the Doctor are put in neighbouring cells. There is a thin iron prison-bar grate between them: they can see each other, can easily converse.
Not that the Doctor wants to do a lot of conversing. Pacing, yes. Silent, frantic, harried pacing, yes, but not conversing, and Jack hasn't pushed the matter. He did, once, when the keys were first turned and they were first left alone (although Jack has no doubt that they are being watched), said something meaningless to lessen the knot in his chest, but the Doctor had turned and looked at him from old man's eyes; they are matched now by the age of his face, and Jack still can't get past that.
So they don't talk.
Jack passes the days in watching the Doctor, sitting on the side of his cell that isn't shared with the Doctor's bars and watching him. It is voyeuristic in all but the pleasurable way. He loses track of time after the first few hours and he daren't ask the Doctor. He's so desperately old now.
Saxon comes down to see them. He stares for a long moment, simpering wife latched girlishly and territorially onto his arm; they both look so smug, thinks Jack, and he is so angry. Saxon orders the guard that accompanies him to open the cell on the left - the Doctor's cell - and he steps inside, and pulls the Doctor away by the arm.
Jack leaps to his feet, seizes the bars at the front of his cell and shouts, "Where are you taking him?"
The Doctor quells him with a finger to his lips, and Jack does as the Doctor wants, because he always does what the Doctor wants.
To keep himself from going crazy in the sudden solitude, Jack runs his fingers over the wall at the back of the cell and traces the lines where metal welds onto a new sheet of metal. It is mind-numbingly dull, but it is something to think about and the something isn't Martha, isn't the Doctor, isn't the plight of the earth, and Jack is grateful for it.
When the Doctor is brought back, he is young again - looks young again, Jack reminds himself - and Saxon isn't with him. He gazes at Jack all the time he is being escorted back into imprisonment, and Jack gazes back, and as soon as they are alone, Jack runs to the dividing bars.
"What --" he begins, but the Doctor stops him.
"Don't, Jack," he says, and Jack falls silent.
The Doctor comes over to the divide and sits down heavily, sideways on to Jack. He closes his eyes. There is a kind of grimace on his face, Jack notices.
"Martha --" says Jack, and the Doctor flinches, just a little, a subtle movement in his shoulders, and Jack takes a breath, " - she'll be okay. You've got to know she'll be okay."
"I know," says the Doctor, without opening his eyes. There is something in his voice - a little thing, barely there - and Jack wonders whether he was really thinking about Martha at all.
Jack sits down too, mirroring the Doctor. He crosses his legs and feels very, very young and more than a bit aged, all at once. It is frightening.
The Doctor reaches out through the bars, quite suddenly, and grips Jack's hand, squeezing on tight. Jack squeezes back; the Doctor doesn't move.
This is not a one-time occurrence; it happens again. Saxon arrives at the cells. He takes the Doctor away, leaving Jack behind and alone, and there is never a word spoken. When the Doctor is returned, he is pale and his face is drawn, and he sits on his hard bed with his face in his hands for a long time. When he looks up, Jack can't read the expression on his face. They don't talk. The Doctor won't talk.
Jack starts to wonder if he's gone deaf: the silence is absolute.
It becomes like a routine. It happens once a day, maybe once every few days, Jack isn't sure, and every time the Doctor looks a little more ill when he returns. Then he starts looking tired. Then resigned.
Then it changes.
This time, Saxon arrives alone and when the Doctor's cell is opened, he steps inside. He dismisses the guard. The Doctor gets to his feet. In the neighbouring cell, Jack does the same.
The Doctor and Saxon stand with a distance of a few feet between them, and still no-one says anything. Jack thinks it would be distinctly unfair if Time Lords were telepathic. Out of the blue, the Doctor jumps as if shot.
"No," he says. "Please."
His voice, the simple sound of his voice makes Jack want to tear through the bars, knock out Saxon and cling onto the Doctor like he can't let go, because he's talking, and Jack is so tired of silence.
Saxon laughs. "So this is what it takes to make you beg."
"Don't," says the Doctor, and he doesn't sound right. There's less authority there, less power. Jack shivers.
Saxon turns to look at Jack through the bars. "Listen to me, and do it now. You will stay where you are. You will not move. You will not speak. You will not intervene. You may not be able to die, but there are worse things than death for a man to experience." There is a pause, and when he speaks again, he sounds absurdly cheerful (psychosis, thinks Jack, is a marvelous thing). "Anyway, we mustn't dilly dally - ooh, but that does sound like fun - things to do, people to...well, let's say 'dill'."
And then he snatches hold of the Doctor and throws him against the bars that separate his cell from Jack's. The Doctor winces, and Jack cries out, storming across to touch him, to sooth him, but Saxon interrupts.
"Ah ah, I don't think that's what we agreed." His voice goes stony cold. "Sit down, and shut up, and do it now."
Jack doesn't move.
"Jack..." says the Doctor, and Jack is already backing away from the look in his eyes alone. He hits his bed with a jarring scrape of his heels on the wooden legs: his knees are knocked out from under him and he buckles clumsily onto the covers. He feels vaguely sick.
Saxon is all pressed up at the Doctor's back, forcing him into the bars, and Jack's mind is so dazed, struggling to think through reels of confusion, that he doesn't realise what Saxon intends to do until he hears the sound of a zipper and sees the Doctor convulse all through his body. It is then he sees the Doctor's trousers being eased slowly down, and he wonders bleakly how he failed to notice before. It's not something he'd usually miss.
The Doctor's hands tighten around the cool iron bars and he is pushed into them with every thrust that Saxon makes. Saxon's hands are on the Doctor's hips, digging in hard against the bone, and the Doctor's trousers are crumpled down to his knees, and the Doctor is half-naked (Jack remembers with a bitter twinge of fondness how the Doctor never wore underwear, and how he'd teased him when he'd first found this out, before he'd put his mouth to better use), and the Doctor is hard.
He wants this.
Jack makes a noise in his throat like betrayal, and he's closed his eyes before he's realised he's upset. In the dark world behind his eyelids, the sound of sex intensifies: Saxon is eager and half-laughing and vocal; the Doctor's body makes a soft thump as it hits the bars; the worst is the Doctor's breath catching. Jack remembers that sound. He used to like that sound.
"Oh, this won't do at all," says Saxon, and despite everything he sounds almost insulted. "You're still not behaving, Mr. Harkness. Look at me. Look at me now."
Jack clenches his eyes more tightly shut.
"Open your eyes!" yells Saxon, and Jack starts counting in prime numbers in his head to try and ignore everything, every tiny, horrible, intense little detail, and block out the world.
For a while, nothing happens, and Jack concentrates on not listening to the whine building from the Doctor's mouth.
Then: "Please," gasps the Doctor, and Jack's eyes fly open, and the Doctor is looking straight at him with a mixture of shame and guilt and lust in his eyes, and Saxon is smiling terribly behind him.
The Doctor's knuckles are white where he's gripping the bars, his thighs are straining as if he's fighting to stay upright, and Jack doesn't know whether he was pleading with Saxon or with him.
Saxon is thrusting into the Doctor more erratically now. They are both sweating. Jack feels strangely detached, and very cold.
Jack stands up; the Doctor is still watching him with dark, sex-dimmed eyes, and Saxon doesn't say anything this time. The Doctor looks serious and wistful and utterly debauched, quivering and, God, keening like Jack used to be able to make him do, and right now Jack has never wanted him more.
Jack crosses the cell in four quick strides, and, with two pairs of eyes fixed upon him, he drops to his knees on the hard cell floor and takes the Doctor's cock in his mouth.
The Doctor bucks his hips sharply, swears in a language Jack doesn't understand, and it's awkward and difficult because whichever way Jack tries to turn his head, the cell bars press unforgivingly into his cheekbones, but the Doctor is babbling nonsense and it's Jack that's making him fall, Jack, not Saxon, and Jack is sure of that, damn sure.
And above him, he hears Saxon bite back a groan. He looks up through his eyelashes to see Saxon bury his face in the crook of the Doctor's neck and murmur, "I want you to say my name when you come."
Jack has one hand on the bars to keep him steady and the other resting on the Doctor's bare thigh. His knees hurt. He is making the Doctor whimper through wet lips, and he keeps his eyes on the Doctor's face. He needs to see this, needs to see him. The rhythm is difficult too; Saxon has passed any kind of control and is now merely rutting towards climax, pushing at the Doctor and the Doctor is rocking himself, hips jutting involuntarily through force and pleasure, but Jack has given more than his share of awkward blowjobs in his time, and it isn't that much of a problem.
Saxon sounds guttural when he comes, moans and shouts himself hoarse, and he jerks and shakes and lies hot and damp at the Doctor's back, grinning perversely, and whispers, "You will say my name."
And Jack knows the Doctor is close, knows from the shuddering thigh-muscle under his palm, the pitch to his voice, the quake of his hips, and he brings the Doctor to the brink in only a few more seconds, and the Doctor is panting hard, and Saxon grabs the Doctor's face, twists it to the side and screams, "Say my name," in his ear.
The Doctor mewls, wanton and carnal, and Jack recalls how he once thought that the Doctor at orgasm was the most erotic sight of his life, and the Doctor gasps out, "Mast...Mas..." and Jack curls his tongue like that, and the Doctor tips forwards into the bars and sobs out, "Jack."
He always comes with utter abandon (and Jack swallows, because he's Captain Jack Harkness, of course he swallows), and Jack watches his eyes squeeze shut and his face empty of all sin, and then he sees the Doctor flood back into himself, and he looks so trapped.
Saxon wrenches away: the Doctor screws up his face, and Jack tightens his hand on the Doctor's thigh for an instant before pulling away too. Saxon doesn't bother with niceties, because they are prisoners after all, and when he turns back with trousers fastened and shirt tucked back in, his face is all twisted up in fury.
Jack watches as he heaves the Doctor away from the bars. He tugs the Doctor's trousers back into place, without attempting to clean him up in any way, and it's just the wrong side of tender, and there's so much rage in every line of the Master as he fastens the Doctor's trousers and drags him to the door of the cell.
Jack can't help but think of him as the Master now.
The Master is moving fast and angrily: he calls the guard back with a bark of a demand, brings the Doctor out of his cell, gets Jack's cell open and pushes the Doctor inside. The door clangs noisily shut again, and the Master grips the bars of the door and narrows his eyes.
"I don't believe either of you are co-operating with my most reasonable requests," he hisses. Jack is unnerved: a sense of real threat is pervading through the air. The Master's face contorts almost out of recognition. "Do enjoy each other," he spits. "There might not be much else left to enjoy."
He leaves, shoes clicking loud and obnoxious on the grilled floor, and the guard follows.
The Doctor is still standing just inside the door. Jack is still kneeling by the bars on the right. Neither of them have moved, nor spoken. Time seems to stutter for a moment, and then the Doctor brings his head up and looks directly at Jack, and Jack is on his feet and running to him in a flash.
He grabs the Doctor, throws his arms around him and clutches on tight. He feels the Doctor's arms come up to grasp at his back, and he feels him trembling and it's so not the Doctor that Jack unconsciously holds on tighter and the Doctor holds on too, clinging in close, and they stay there, and Jack feels grotesquely alive.
He can't tell if the Doctor is crying, but he doesn't think he would allow it of himself. He kisses his neck anyway, comforting and warm and there, and they sway, gently, from side to side.
"We'll be okay," says Jack, quietly. He thinks he might be lying.
He thinks he might be telling the truth.
The Doctor nods into Jack's shirt.
And above them the sky is burning, and below them the world could be ending, and between them they could be breaking, but they're still there and Jack knows that he cares now, and so does the Doctor.
So that's enough.
That'll be enough to save them.
*Is it Saturday yet?
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no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 11:12 pm (UTC)I DIED HERE. It's just so perfect.
Maddie's already quoted all of the bits I wanted to quote (damn her eyes), but I just wanted to say that this was fantastic - dark and sort of horrible but wonderful and just, lol adjectives, oh dear - and ilu. The hand-holding and the hug were ever so moving, it was just terribly clever of you to have little bits of tender contact in amongst all the shoving and the sex and things. What am I talking about? I don't know. Sssh me.
Anyway: WIN. :D
no subject
Date: 2007-07-01 05:14 pm (UTC)I am very glad that the Master's ramblings (which I wrote kind of squinting at the keyboard, going 'WHY CAN I NOT WRITE CRAZY MEN') is a thing which you liked, because, er, notyaye-insecurity.
Er, er, how are you supposed to respond to fic-comments? Er, I'm glad you liked the hand-holding at the hug (this is clearly me going 'TENNANT-BARROWMAN TOUCHING TOUCHING NOT AT THE COCK/MOUTH TOUCH PRETTY MEN TOUCH' - why yes, I do tend to think of myself as thinking a lot in allcaps when DW is concerned), because I liked the idea of those bits and then flailed a lot about writing them, because, er, idk, insecurity some more.