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TITLE: Singularity
AUTHOR: Kita
RATING: NC-17
PAIRING: Jack/John
AUTHOR NOTES: "Torchwood" Fandom
Singularity
The fist to his face is not unexpected.
Hard knuckles against soft flesh, unyielding thump of bone; just as
solid and satisfying as the teeth in his bottom lip, as the cock
pressing into his thigh. An interlude, a string of moments in silver
and glass, where Jack is very nearly alive.
It ends with Jack ass up over the bar.
Tick
It begins with Jack ass up over the bed.
On his elbows and knees, muscles trembling to stay upright while John
runs the flat of his tongue over the back of Jack’s thighs and
then just keeps going.
It's the only time John is ever quiet.
When that damned tongue is busy, doing something other than listing
every filthy detail splayed out in front of him; a pornographic
commentary about the size and shape of Jack's dick, or how greedy Jack
looks now, naked and spread open, curling both of his fists into the
sheets.
When John is quiet, it makes Jack nervous.
He twists his head around, craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle.
John smiles - all of his teeth bare and white, like the moment before a Rift opens, before everything changes again.
"Aw, Jack,” he says, tilting his head. “Don't you trust
me?" He has eyelashes that mimic innocence the way a crocodile mimics
tears.
"Hm. No," Jack grunts, just as two fingers pry him wide. John’s
tongue presses against the inside of his own cheek, an obscene tell for
what he is about to do to Jack.
"Guess you'll just have to keep one eye on me then," he says. And he's still smiling as he bends his head.
He fucks the same as he fights, all big guns and manly swagger, too
much and never quite enough. He holds Jack open and drags the tip of
his tongue across secret, pink skin, he makes hungry sounds like
devouring ripe fruit, he holds Jack still, in place and time, on the
axis of his hands.
By the time he shoves his cock inside, Jack can’t hold his head
up; he presses his cheek against the curve of his arm, and mutters
curses there.
John laughs, snakes and sweet, sweet syrup. “What would those
pretty little children say, if they could only see you now, do you
think?”
Jack thinks instead of the sound John will make when he next hits him,
that gasp, harsh and surprised. He imagines the way John will fall,
kneeling at Jack’s feet.
He comes across John’s fist, the sheets, the pillows, his own stomach. He even cries John’s name.
Tick
“You always looked so pretty on your knees, Johnny,” Jack
tells him. He rubs the head of his dick across the sharp slash of
cheekbones, leaves wet, shiny trails he can follow later with his own
tongue. Every time he brushes across John’s lips, they part,
trying to draw him inside.
Jack tries each time not to gasp.
He holds John’s head still with a handful of curls. “There
was a scientist in the 19th century, Freud his name was. Had this whole
theory about oral fetishes.”
John quirks an eyebrow at him. “That so?” he says, and Jack nods.
“If you come on my face, Jack, l will bite your dick off.”
Jack crooks his thumb in the corner of John’s mouth, pulls his
jaw open. The quick hot slide around his cock makes his eyes want to
close. John takes him to the back of his throat, sucks in a breath, and
swallows once.
Jack nearly shouts. Their weapons lay in a careful heap by the door. He’s never been able to resist a challenge.
Tick
They pass a bottle of Scotch between them, sheets torn and tangled
around their ankles. The bed is completely destroyed. John traces a
bruise the color of his waistcoat along Jack’s thigh.
Jack is still in possession of his dick.
John takes a swallow of liquor; watches Jack watch his throat move.
“Remember,” he asks, “in Madrid, that little
stairwell behind a school? It was winter time, and all the icicles on
the roof shook when I fucked you?”
“No, I remember winter in Madrid, a little stairwell, and I was fucking you.”
“Details, details.” John hands him the bottle with a grin. “Got you off, didn’t I?”
“Sure,” Jack says, touching the tip of the bottle to the
tip of John’s nose. “That was never the problem.”
Tick
“You’re afraid they won’t love you, aren’t you?
If they know,” John says. He digs his thumbs into Jack’s
hipbones, leaves more badges for morning’s light, as he licks
drops of scotch off his stomach. Jack’s skin goose pimples
beneath John’s palm. “All the cruel, nasty things
you’ve done. Things I’ve seen you do.”
Jack doesn’t answer.
“Which one of them is it, then?” John asks; he sounds
almost bored now. “The one with the big eyes or the one with big
tits?”
Jack sits up, knocks his knee against John’s chin only partially
by accident. “Shut it,” he says, warning flares in his
voice older and more heated than them both. “You don’t know
anything about me, not anymore.”
“I know everything you don’t want them to know, and that’s really all that matters, isn’t it?”
John’s jaw is already turning yellow and blue. Jack can still
feel the shift of his ribs where John landed his best punch back at the
bar. And they’re both a little too drunk.
This fight lasts only half as long as the first. It ends nearly the
same. They’re panting inside a puddle of spilled liquor, only
this time John is on his back.
Tick
John, on his back with Jack’s cock high inside of him; smiling
and shining, stinking like sex. His legs are thrown over Jack’s
shoulders, his eyes are squeezed shut. His bottom lip is still
bleeding. Jack can not stop staring at it.
John blinks open his eyes, frowns. “What?”
“Nothing, I-“
“Well come on then, damn you,” he snarls, digging his heels
in, arching his hips up, dragging a gasp from Jack’s belly.
“I’m not some skinny boy in a cheap suit. Make me feel
it.”
He pulls back on John’s frustrated whine, grabbing John’s
ass in both hands, lifting him higher off the bed, shoving himself
deeper inside. And he makes John feel it: every year, every memory,
every hurt and loss, every godamned fucking inch of him, slow and
painful and certain. Until John twists and shoves back; and the long
line of John’s body unfolds beneath him, white, endless, and
familiar as snow.
Then Jack has to close his eyes, because Johnny has always been able to
make him come so hard, he can almost imagine he’s lost track of
time. He falls forward like something inevitable, like gravity or
death, but Jack is not a part of any of those things anymore, and he
never does forget that.
He lies there for a while, crushing the breath from John’s lungs.
After, John is a damp bit of chaos draped across his chest, finger
painting crude symbols in his sweat. “Why Jack,” he says,
his voice slurred around a grin, “If I didn’t know any
better, I’d say you were still cross with me.”
Tick
They’ve finished the scotch. Jack sets the bottle carefully on
the floor, but it rolls away from him anyway, with a clanging that
sounds like bells.
John stands, stretches his arms over his head, and begins to tug on his
pants. Jack doesn’t move, just watches as John straps the holster
over his hips. He comes back to bed without a shirt, stares down for a
moment into Jack’s face. He looks almost vulnerable when he leans
in, but Jack knows. Hooded eyes can mean either a kiss or a snakebite.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” John whispers,
against Jack’s lips. He’s sweet like malt and salty like
come. Jack opens his mouth, and lets himself be kissed.
“Yea, it does,” Jack says, just as quietly, when he finally pulls away.
The fist to his face is not unexpected.
-end
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