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Title: A Personal Foible
Rating: 18/NC-17.  Graphic sex.  Lots of it.
Characters: Jack/Ten, mentioned Nine, Rose, Martha and Ianto
Spoilers: Torchwood series one; new Who series 1 & 2
Beta:  Read over by the lovely Zizi
Wordcount:  3,962

Comments and constructive criticism welcomed!

Summary: 
Martha is asleep in another room, and Jack and the Doctor have been left alone with several cans of Mamraxian Ruffberry Beer.  Something about the situation sends a little flurry of anxiety to Jack’s belly—something to do with past features of their relationship they’ve never discussed, something to do with sexual tension and betrayal and vast stretches of time—but he wouldn’t end it for the world.


*         *         *         *         *

Martha is asleep in another room, and Jack and the Doctor have been left alone with several cans of Mamraxian Ruffberry Beer.  Something about the situation sends a little flurry of anxiety to Jack’s belly—something to do with past features of their relationship they’ve never discussed, something to do with sexual tension and betrayal and vast stretches of time—but he wouldn’t end it for the world; just pops open another can, takes another sip.  After today’s near-catastrophe on Praellian Six, they deserve getting a little drunk.  It is slightly too warm in the control room of the TARDIS (the Doctor has discarded his jacket and loosened his tie; Jack’s shirt sleeves are rolled up); the whirring and shuffling of the machinery forms a pleasant backdrop, a soothing lullaby of sound.  Jack has been happy before, of course, but this—this is special.  This is being content, and Jack never wants it to end.  After weeks of next to no time alone—weeks of no physical contact and shameless flirtation—it’s good to have a night together.  Time to sort things out.

Where they are sitting, propped up against the central control panel, they are close enough together to touch from shoulder to thigh; Jack can feel the movement of the Doctor’s chest with his breathing, can almost believe that he feels the flutter of that double heartbeat.  Possibility hangs in the air, and for once Jack is happy to let it develop on its own, to let things happen or not happen as they will.  The Doctor himself is in the middle of some impossible story, waving his hands exuberantly, though Jack is not really listening: just taking in the sound of his voice, the faint trace of stubble over his jaw, the smell of his skin.  Just because he can the Doctor is wearing his 3-D glasses; as he finishes his story with a final laugh, reaches for the Mamraxian can again, Jack leans over and taps on the cardboard frame, feeling the Doctor’s warm breath slide over the skin of his wrist.

“I’ve got a pair of these.”

The Doctor looks at him, dark eyes wide, his lips formed into a theatrical, stylized ‘o’ that makes him look almost disturbingly like a woman (though perhaps that’s just memories of the crossdressing stunt they used to escape the Nphael prison last week).  “Really?  You kept something of mine, Captain Harkness?  Does that mean I have an admirer?”

Grinning, Jack leans back to take a look at him, taking his time as he does so: all things considered, the new body—now he’s getting used to it—isn’t that bad, lack of leather or no.  “Well, you did when you had the old ears.”

The Doctor snorts and pulls away dramatically, shuffling till there are a few feet between them and crossing his arms with a noise of disgust.  “Well at least I can dress now, thank you very much.  Geek chic’s the next big thing.  Mind you,” he adds, with a little frown that makes the muscles in Jack’s chest clench, “I'm disappointed at not being ginger.”

“I think I could get used to you just the way you are.”

Raising his eyebrow, the Doctor says slowly, carefully, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth: “oh really?  And how quickly do you think you could get used to it?  Since…” and he pauses, loosens his tie just a little more, “Martha’s not going to sleep forever.”

Jack’s stomach is suddenly full of butterflies and he is equally suddenly very, very hard.  He smiles wider than he has in months.  “Oh, pretty quickly.  Want me to show you?”

The Doctor slides the 3-D glasses down a little on his nose and grins the most devilishly playful smirk Jack has ever seen.  “Definitely.  In fact, I'd go so far as to say Doctor's orders.”

The first kiss is a bit of a failure, and hardly how Jack—or more accurately, his libido—had imagined it: they lean together too quickly, and pull back sharply, Jack raising a hand to his hurt lip.  The Doctor grins, just as wide as before, utterly unabashed.

“Sorry: new teeth.  Took me a while to get used to, too.  A second attempt?”

It’s right then that Jack realizes that sex with this Doctor is going to be different from sex with the Doctor he used to know.  He’d always been aware that the physicality would be different, of course: for one thing, he’s mistakenly walked in on this Doctor in the TARDIS’ lone shower, and the ginger pubic hair is most definitely a thing of the past.  What he hadn’t really anticipated was the difference of personality, of attitude: this is clearly not going to be one of the intense, near-silent fucks with the old Doctor, sex lightened to something less heavy only if Rose was there (and Jack does not want to think about her, can't bear it): sex with this Doctor is fun, and funny in the best possible way, not something to be taken too seriously, and Jack could definitely do with some of that.

Their next kiss works better: the Doctor’s lips are smooth contrasted to the faint scrape of his stubble, and even if they are determinedly, teasingly closed they are enough to make Jack feel slightly lightheaded, for his need to become a little more urgent.  As the Doctor leans forward into the kiss his tie trails over Jack’s hand in a way that is, for some reason, maddeningly arousing; a faint trace of silk over Jack’s skin which sends shivers down his spine.  He wants to pull the Doctor close and fuck him then and there, but the Doctor is playful and teasing: pulling back as Jack pushes forward, tilting his head to the side to evade deeper kisses, finally breaking the kiss entirely and opening his eyes only to flutter his lashes coquettishly.  “Why, Captain, it almost feels as if you’re trying to seduce me.”

“Don’t be coy,” Jack bites back, his voice harsher than he intends, and reaches up with one hand to push off the 3-D glasses, and with the other to grip the Doctor’s tie and pull him close with a jerk.  The moment before their lips touch, the Doctor laughs, and there’s something in the sound that makes Jack fall a little bit in love.

Then, finally, Jack gets to feel the Doctor’s tongue on his own and oh, he’s an even better kiss than before.  He tastes of the beer and something else, something a little thicker, but Jack really can’t tell if that’s even taste at all or just warm slick wetness, the taste of want and need and the certainty of sex to come.  There’s something so self-assured about this Doctor, something so far removed from the hesitancy his old body had: this Doctor kisses with a slow, easy surety that makes Jack’s cock ache.  If he’s taking his time, it’s only out of an absolute certainty of what’s coming next, rather than nerves; there’s nothing awkward or nervous in the way he kisses.

He kisses, to be frank, like he’s fucking Jack’s mouth.

At some point, during the kissing, they move together—perfectly in tandem, following some unspoken agreement—to lying down; the Doctor with his back against the hard floor of the TARDIS, and Jack on top of him, settling between his thighs and unable to stop himself grinding down once, briefly, against the Doctor’s hip where it juts sharply forward.

The Doctor pulls away from the kiss at that and laughs, sliding a hand down between them to grip Jack’s erection firmly, give it a teasing squeeze.  “Is that a Sonic Screwdriver in your pocket, Jack, or are you just very pleased to see me?”

Jack can’t help but grin.  “What can I say?  I’ve missed you.  Anyway,” he adds after a pause, rolling his hips once more against the Doctor’s body, “Sonic Screwdrivers don’t come this big.”

“Sonic Screwdrivers don’t come at all,” the Doctor corrects with a click of his tongue and a flick of his wrist that makes pleasure spark up Jack’s spine.  “I make a habit of not working with machinery that ejaculates.  Just a personal foible.”

Jack leans down to press a hard, needy kiss to the Doctor’s lips—but his heart is not in it and for a moment he is focused inside, instead: on the sudden anxiety-tight clench of his belly, on the old memories evoked by those words.  Just a personal foible, the old Doctor had said when he showered immediately after sex, every time: just a personal foible.

It’s strange, how different this is from the previous Doctor: the hum and throb of the TARDIS about them exactly the same, and even something deep down inside the Doctor the same too, even if it is almost obscured by everything else—but there has been so much change.  As Jack lets himself rest on top of the Doctor he feels the differences in his body, learns its new juts and curves, the places where his bones press against his skin: hips, ribs, collarbone.  There’s a boyish taut tightness to the Doctor’s body that is new and almost disorientating; when Jack rests between his legs they cross at a different point behind him, pull him close for a grind in a way that the old Doctor’s never did.  The heat of his mouth is different, too, the slow slick slide of his tongue; his breath on Jack’s skin catches at different times; his fingers twist almost too roughly in Jack’s hair, pull him down almost too savagely.  There is none of the gentleness there used to be, and there is something hard there, instead—and not what a dirty joke would suggest: something altogether less forgiving and more world-weary.  Something that gives no second chances.

Jack’s too turned on to resist when the Doctor rolls them over, straddles him, pulls his tie up over his head.  He’s distracted, anyhow: the weight of the Doctor is directly over his cock and he strains upward, grips the Doctor’s thighs so hard that he’s sure he’s leaving bruises, pulls him down with a jerk—and the Doctor hisses between his teeth, grinds himself down on Jack, reaches to undress him.  Where his fingers touch Jack’s skin it feels like they’re burning, and the sharp scratches of his nails send jolts of feeling straight to Jack’s groin.  Suddenly, there are no more joking comments, no more banter: there is just the Doctor’s mouth on his so hard that his lips feel puffy and bruised, and the Doctor’s teeth nipping sharply at his lip, and the Doctor’s nails scraping at his skin as he pushes off his shirt (Jack arching his body to facilitate the removal of the clothing, groaning as his cock is rubbed against the Doctor’s through a few flimsy layers of fabric), and the Doctor’s body so close, hot, near, ready

Sometime, as the Doctor is sliding down a little and unfastening the catches of Jack’s trousers, pulling them down over his thighs, Jack reappraises his earlier assessment: perhaps sex with this Doctor is not all fun, not all playful.  There is an urgency in the tugging of the Doctor’s fingers that is not at all flippant; a little frown between his eyebrows, now, that is not amused.  Perhaps there is more of the old Doctor in the new than he thought.  Perhaps underneath the chatter and the jokes and that cheeky grin there is something serious, too, something every bit as dedicated as the old Doctor.  Something—

And then that thought is pushed out of his head by lips on the tip of his cock, a soft warm slow exhalation of air with a faint tremble to it sliding over his skin.

“Oh, shalach nabarr!”

The Doctor’s laugh is spontaneous, from deep in his belly; he sits back on his heels between Jack’s legs, laughs.  “Gotta love a man who swears in Ancient Kabaal.”

Despite a sudden twinge of something, a sudden jarring at an accent no longer Northern, Jack can’t suppress a grin at that; raises himself up on his elbows to get a good look at the Doctor.  His cheeks are flushed, his lips slightly puffy and wet with saliva that is not entirely his own.   “I try my best.”

The Doctor—shirt hanging open to his belly, erection straining visibly against the confines of his pinstriped trousers—grins, ducks his head again to draw his tongue sinfully slow up the underside of Jack’s cock.  “Don’t we all.”

Jack thinks of Ianto, ever so briefly, as he watches the Doctor licking his cock.  There may even be the briefest twinge of regret, there, of longing—but it is soon gone, swamped under a thrill of pleasure that curls Jack’s toes, arches his back, forces a ragged moan from his lips.  Jack has never been one to dwell on the past.  He had forgotten how well a person can learn to give a blowjob when they’ve been alive for several centuries, but he is quickly reminded.  The Doctor has an amazing mouth and a very, very dirty tongue, and that’s not even mentioning his hands—skillful fingertips trailing fleeting touches over Jack’s nipples, belly, thighs—and the noises he makes: the faintest of moans, little whimpers.  That and, of course, the sight of him: the Doctor, back arched as he bends to take Jack’s cock into his mouth, lips around Jack’s skin, cheeks hollowed as he sucks—

Just before Jack orgasms—as he reaches down to twist his hands in the Doctor’s hair, pulls him close—the Doctor draws back with an infuriatingly perky smile.  “Well, can’t have this ending here, can we?  It’s been a pleasure, really, but I had hoped it’d go a little further—you know, between you, me, and the big fella.”  Briefly, he gives Jack’s cock a little pat.  Jack gawps.

“…You’re so different.”

The Doctor—continuing to unbutton his shirt, unconcerned—shrugs, grins in such a happy-go-lucky way that it makes Jack’s mouth dry with emotion.  “I know.  Thinner.  Sideburns.  And a mole.  Really, a mole.”  He twists his body to half-turn around; raises a hand to tap his back between his shoulder blades.  “And a bit of a thing—” and here his shirt hits the floor of the TARDIS with a faint thwumph—“for pinstripes.”

As he leans down for another kiss, Jack reaches up, and when their lips touch he swears that his body courses with electricity.  The Doctor’s back under his fingertips is smooth and hot, and if he touches right there he can feel it: the doublebeat of the Doctor’s hearts, pulsing under his skin.

They finish undressing in a tangle of limbs and heated kisses and gasps and desperate thrusts—the Doctor’s long thin fingers sliding Jack’s shoes and trousers down and off; the Doctor’s thighs under Jack’s hands as they finally get rid of the pinstripes (“no underwear?”  “What, is there a rulebook I didn’t read somewhere?  Rule 734, paragraph B: the Doctor must always wear knickers your gran would approve of?”)—and then there’s skin on skin, the Doctor’s cock hard and hot against Jack’s thigh, and Jack’s fingers scrabble over the Doctor’s sweat-sticky back as he tries to pull him closer down, always closer.

The Doctor pauses in trailing kisses down Jack’s neck to say, thoughtfully, “probably right about now that some lubrication would be useful, wouldn’t it?”  He doesn’t wait for Jack to agree before rolling off, padding over to the central control, thoughtfully beginning to whirl a small wooden ship’s wheel which Jack is sure he hasn’t seen there before.

Jack can’t help but steal a bit of a look.  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing that’s definitely better in this body.”

The Doctor turns his head, looking hopeful, and then laughs when he sees where Jack is staring.  “Always good to know that my rear end is appreciated, thanks.  Mind you, I can’t blame you.  It is rather perky.”  With an experimental wiggle that makes Jack feels as if he’s about to pass out the Doctor turns back to the control panel and twiddles with a few more buttons before, with a little noise of success, opening a sliding door and pulling out an unmistakable silver tube.  “Nothing,” he remarks with a grin, coming back to settle between Jack’s legs again, “like having a ship that anticipates your every need.  Though probably—” the sound of the cap being unscrewed is impossibly loud in Jack’s ears—“this isn’t what they meant when they said needs-sensitive, object-providing technology in the sales catalogue.”

“Probably not.”

Jack doesn’t remember having the how’re-we-gonna-do-this-exactly? conversation, but complaining is the furthest thing from his mind when he feels the Doctor’s knee nudging his thighs further apart, the Doctor’s lube-slick fingers sliding over his skin.  For a brief moment, he closes his eyes; takes a deep breath and relaxes, mentally preparing himself for one of the old Doctor’s marathon prep sessions—and then is shocked back to this Doctor by the sudden removal of fingers from his body, the Doctor’s voice warm against his ear, stubble faintly scratching Jack’s skin: “I wouldn’t be wrong in assuming that a several-hundred-year-old 51st century man wouldn’t need much of a warm-up, would I?”

Jack laughs, reaches up and twists his fingers in the Doctor’s hair as he pulls him down for a deep kiss, finally murmuring against his mouth: “you’d be right there.”  The Doctor’s lips on his are wet with Jack’s saliva, and as Jack opens his eyes he gets a vision of the Doctor which makes him even more impossibly hard: finger-tousled hair.  Arousal-pink flush over his cheeks.  Heavily dilated pupils.  Mouth slightly open, and breath jagged, shallow.  His Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, perhaps nervously—Jack can’t tell.

He smiles as he catches Jack looking.  “Well, then.  Better get on with it, hadn’t I?  I’ve got a reputation to keep.”

Jack grins, spreading his thighs a little wider.  “And a tough act to follow.”

The Doctor laughs, at that, has to pause in rearranging himself—hands braced against the floor of the TARDIS to either side of Jack’s chest, cock pressing against the inside of Jack’s left thigh—to catch his breath.  “Still got the same mind, though, haven’t I?” he responds with a grin.  “Means I still remember how to do that thing with my tongue.”

Jack doesn’t disagree with that: for one, he’s just been sucked—almost—off, and the tongue thing was definitely there; secondly, he’s a bit distracted by the Doctor pushing into him: that steady, confident thrust of the Doctor’s hips, the glide of the skin of their legs over each other, the hot press of the Doctor inside of him.

It’s been too long.

It seems that the actual act of sex is one of the few things that can shut the Doctor up: for the first time since that reunion hug at the TARDIS doorway, he’s free of jokes or puns or witty one-liners: instead he’s quiet, mostly, and in the quiet Jack finds a hundred tiny little sounds that make his chest ache: whimpers, moans, little gasps, the catch of air in the Doctor’s throat as he tips his head back and closes his eyes and is still, for just a moment, pressed deep inside Jack.  There’s a sudden vulnerability to his face that shocks Jack most of all: a faintly pained look to his expression as he frowns, clutches with fingernails digging into the skin of Jack’s shoulders, as his steady jerks of Jack’s cock lose their rhythm and become irregular, rapid.

Jack has had sex with a lot of life forms, and he’s still amazed at how different it is with each partner.  There are little things that strike you about a person that you simply can’t imagine before the fact, and they’re the little things that you know you’ll remember forever, that you’ll find yourself evoking on lonely nights in years to come.  With the old Doctor, it was his smile, the spread of his fingers on Jack’s back, his faint frown as he slept; with this Doctor Jack can feel memories forming already, feels a heartache at the tiny details of this Doctor’s body which are almost painfully real: the little trail of hair from his bellybutton down.  The way that he bites his lip, hard, as he approaches his orgasm.  His eyelashes.  The arch of his back as he thrusts, muscles over his buttocks and thighs tensing tight.

For a moment, as Jack orgasms—arching his body up against the Doctor’s even as his hands splay over the Doctor’s back, pulling him down; the muscles over his thighs and belly jerking with spasms; his mouth opening oh as he gasps for breath; his eyes briefly closing tight shut—the world seems to close to just this: warmth.  The metal of the TARDIS floor beneath his back.  The sound of the Doctor’s low grunt.  His thrusts, less controlled, less refined, rhythm gone entirely.  The warmth of his skin.  The moist rush of his breath on Jack’s collarbone.

He could definitely, definitely get used to this Doctor.

It takes another minute, perhaps another minute and a half, for the Doctor to come; Jack, suddenly overtaken by post-orgasmic lethargy, watches him from lowered eyes, files away this memory for later enjoyment: there is nothing quite like watching someone losing control, however momentarily.  The Doctor is stunningly, burningly beautiful as he comes: he arches and scratches and gasps, every muscle of his body tense and taut and thrumming with energy, his fingers at Jack’s shoulders trembling, his sweat-damp hair falling down over his face, his eyelashes fluttering, his skin glistening with sweat.

After, they lie beside each other, catching their breath.  The Doctor lies on his back, hands cupped behind his head; it only takes a few moments for his unstoppable grin to return and he tilts his head to Jack—cheeks flushed, hair tousled, pupils wide—, laughs once.

“So what do you think of the upgraded model?”

Jack pauses, a moment, before laughing; rolls to drape an arm lazily over the Doctor’s belly, brushes his fingers over the skin of the Doctor’s hip.  “I guess you’ll do.”

Grinning, the Doctor shrugs; a moment later the muscles over his belly tense as he sits up, moves away Jack’s hand, stands (swaying ever so slightly, rocking once on the balls of his feet).  He points a finger to the come on Jack’s belly.  “Wait a moment, I’ll get you something for that.  Can’t have any dripping on the TARDIS.  Makes her grumpy.  Understandable, really.  Awfully rude to get your sperm on unwilling recipients.  Anyway, Martha’s bright as a button—wouldn’t believe the shampoo excuse for a minute.”

As the Doctor goes over to the central control panel—reaches once more for the strange wheel, fiddles with a dial—Jack stretches, leisurely; arches his back with a yawn.  His fingertips brush something and, curious, he picks the something up; draws it into his line of sight.  The 3-D glasses have been slightly crushed at some point—they look as if they have been rolled on—and Jack has to squint to peer through them, first one lens, then the other.  The Doctor’s body flicks from blue to red and back again as Jack opens one eye and then the other.

When the Doctor speaks again, without turning around, his voice is suddenly low and serious.  “I can’t fix you, Jack.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

Jack closes his eyes, but he can’t clear the image of the Doctor seen through the glasses: blue and red, out of focus, alien.

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