This is a parting gift, isn’t it? Tomorrow you’ll leave me behind without another word, so I’ll be damned to look for your shadow at every corner for another hundred years.
These are the words on his tongue, ready to leave and turn into sound, into a question demanding an answer that will make it real. The words are ready to leave but they can’t, for the Doctor’s lips close over Jack’s and his tongue pushes them back into his throat. They are swallowed and forgotten in favour of the long, slender fingers holding his face and the body moving against his as Jack pushes the Doctor’s shirt off his light frame.
They have to break the kiss for him to pull the t-shirt over the Time Lord’s head, but there’s barely time enough for him to breathe, least think of anything to say.
The Doctor is eager to distract him before the words come back.
The lights are dim, but still bright enough for Jack to see every detail of the other’s body — the freckles, the ribs, and all the little things that are ever so slightly off, not quite as they are supposed to be, and remind Jack that he’s holding an alien. Suddenly he wants this to stop, because it’s wrong, it shouldn’t happen, and he fears the price he’ll have to pay for this will be too high.
Yet again, the worlds are lost, as are any thoughts and actions when the Doctor touches him just there, and presses against Jack even closer, and Jack, regardless of sense and reason, wants this so much it hurts.
The Doctor’s skin beneath his hands is cool, as Jack knew it would be. He’s joked, once, when this was still in the realms of daydreams and fairytales, that touching the Time Lord, like this, would be like intimacy with a corpse, but he was wrong. Now that this is real and happening, he can feel the Doctor’s life beneath his fingertips, contained by warming skin and moving muscles.
Jack’s body is heating up as well, like a flame, and all the blood is going to his groin. But this is wrong, the ignored part of him whispers, and because it’s wrong it feels wrong even if the Doctor won’t let him listen to himself, and Jack tries to control himself like he’s learned so many years ago, to keep his body from going too far.
Memories flash before his eyes: the Doctor’s blank stare following Jack’s sexual innuendo, the Time Lord hopping enthusiastically to the next problem when Jack’s just been touching him all too casually in a way that would drive any human crazy. The Doctor, oblivious and clueless in a way that made this a game played only by Jack, harmless because he knew it could never go anywhere. Jack looks at the Doctor now, flushed and willing against him and the images won’t overlap, do not fit.
So he defeats himself and takes hold of the Doctor’s shoulders, to still him and push him away. “Doctor,” he says, his voice firmer, he hopes, than it sound to his own ears. And he wants to add, I don’t know what it is you are apologizing for, but whatever you are going to do to me, I will not allow you to give up your identity for my sake. But the Doctor is quicker than his words, is quicker once again, and he leans against Jack so that they are barely touching — his bare skin brushing against Jack’s almost accidentally, more a promise of touch than actual contact — and brings his lips close to Jack’s ear, and breathes “Take me!”
Jack is lost.
Minutes later he is moving inside the Time Lord, the Doctor gasping and moaning beneath him, trapped between Jack and the sheets. And whenever Jack thinks that the other has to put on a show for him, doubts he is really enjoying this, the Doctor moans just a little louder and gasps his name. His hands seem to be searching for something, until Jack wishes they would touch him just there, do just that again, and they do, led by his desire.
He’s inside my head, Jack thinks, distantly. Hell, the bastard is inside my head, reading my mind!
He’s inside my head and I don’t want him to ever leave there.
Joining with the Doctor’s cool, living body moving beneath him in exactly the right way, Jack has never been so aroused in his life. The fact that this is the Doctor, in his bed, would have been enough to make him go blind with desire, and perhaps he would have forgotten all reason anyway, and done this even without encouragement. (He’d like to think he wouldn’t, but right in this moment, it is hard for him to believe.) And still, he tries not to come, not to let this be over and let their bodies cool down, not to put an end to (everything) this.
He tries not to fall asleep and let the Doctor slip away unseen.
In the morning, he tries not to open his eyes.
May 20, 2009
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