Fic - The Mirror Crack'd (Hookerverse/Doctor Who)
TITLE: The Mirror Crack'd
AUTHOR: Andromeda
FANDOM: Doctor Who/Life on Mars
RATING: Red Cortina (NC-17)
SUMMARY: A sequel to Use My Name and Mirror Image by Fi. Spoilers for Season Three of Doctor Who, up to and including The Sound of Drums.
WORD COUNT: 1,760
EMAIL: fiandyfic@livejournal.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Beta'd by the wonderful darthfi. For duckyone who always likes to see more Hooker!Sam client!fic.
DISCLAIMER: Doctor Who is copyright BBC, Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
The Mirror Crack'd
Sam's client for the night is an American. Well, he thinks he's American. He's certainly strange enough to be American, but there's something indefinably Wrong about him.
Jack is all brilliant teeth and flashy smile. He towers over Sam in a kind of far-too-healthy-for-his-own-good, confident posture. He's too much and too fake all at once and that is intriguing for Sam who knows quite a bit about fakery by now.
Well, sure he's a fake. He's a time traveller, like Sam. Sam got that the first time they met. And he's sure that whatever time period Jack is from, it's a million light years from Sam's former home.
No, what intrigues Sam is why Jack has come back. The truth behind the easy lie.
Sipping from a bottle of beer, down at the Flamingo, Jack says "You're cute." But his eyes flash with something deep and dark. Like Sam is betraying him, though betraying him how, Sam doesn't know.
On the floor, ostensibly dancing with a pair of girls, Jack winks at Sam, his eyes roving all over his body. But his hands know what they are doing with the girl in front of him.
Sam moves close, whispers, "You can take the girl home instead, if you want."
Jack whispers back, "No, it's you I want," and he smiles. But the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.
They're walking back to Sam's flat, down by the canal. Sam hates the place. Well, it's understandable, considering. It's dark down there, very few people about, except Jack at his side of course. Fingers tangle in his hair, brushing against his neck, nails biting down for a moment and Sam jerks, looking up at the man beside him. Jack's face is unreadable as he puts his arm around Sam's shoulders.
"Didn't mean to frighten you."
Sam's not sure about the truth of that statement at all.
Then back at the flat. A glass of a good single malt poured for each of them. Jack pulls Sam close, a hand on the back of his head, kissing him with a passion that leaves even Sam wanting more.
"Sam," Jack breathes. But there's a pause before the name and Sam knows instinctively that another name belongs there instead.
Sam doesn't know why he does it, but he runs a forefinger down the side of Jack's face, slow and gentle. Jack shudders - a whole body shudder - and his eyelids flutter. The name, the name that belongs in the pauses and the silences, falls from lips still silent. But Sam doesn't see, staring as he is into Jack's eyes.
They strip each other, lingering touches over newly-exposed flesh. Teasing and tantalising, taking each step slow and steady; punctuating the striptease with more kissing, more touching until finally they are both naked.
They land with a tangle of limbs on Sam's bed. Still kissing furiously, stroking flesh. Sam reaches down to Jack's cock, only to find it limp and flaccid, the only part of Jack that doesn't seem to have got with the programme. Sam pulls back, a question in his eyes, and Jack lets him go, throwing his head back on the pillow with a groan.
"You don't…?" Sam asks.
Jack stares up at Sam and grimaces. "It's complicated."
And it's there. Whatever it is, lurking behind that façade. The truth of the matter. Sam now knows enough about the man that if this was just sex, in any and all of its flavours then that hesitation, that coyness would not be there. Jack is far too confident to be this hung up about sex. So what is it, that darkness, that hesitation?
He runs a hand down Jack's arm, still hot and flushed. "Whatever it is, I'm sure I can accommodate you." Sam's had too many clients looking for too many things, to not be sure about that now.
Jack bites his lip. Another incongruity. "You had a client, a while ago. He kept you blindfolded? We met the last time…?" Jack is hesitant, obviously not wanting to say this out loud at all.
Sam sucks in a breath. "The …"
But Jack cuts him off with a finger to his lips. "No names. I want… I want you to treat me the way he treated you." The last few words fly out at speed, a staccato rhythm with no reason for the emphasis misplaced.
The light dawns. "Role play?"
"In a manner of speaking."
Sam nods. "I can do that."
Jack heaves an audible sigh of relief. The indefinable darkness flares again in his eyes and Sam feels like he's standing on the precipice of a secret. One so large it could encompass the Universe.
But Sam doesn't question. Instead he clambers off the bed and roots in the wardrobe for a large black bag. His professional ‘tools' are inside. Some Sam knows about from all angles, some he wishes he didn't. He reaches inside and pulls out a number of lengths of soft rope. A blindfold. His fingers brush against a coil of leather and he hesitates before leaving the collar where it is. He has no loyalty, not Sam, not now, but that feels like betrayal. Just whom he'd be betraying, he's not sure, but nonetheless, it would be.
He sets the bag back in the wardrobe before picking up the ropes and blindfold and flashing them at Jack. "Will these do?"
Jack nods, again something indefinable in his features sharpen them and Sam shivers. "Chains would be better, but they're fine. But leave the blindfold."
With a frown, Sam sets to work, binding his wrists, tight, outstretched, to the bedposts.
Ankles next, above the wrists, folding the taller man almost in two, muscles pulled taut, Jack sinks into his bonds, which hold tight. Sam re-checks the knots and, finally satisfied, he scoots back to kneel on the bed, facing Jack.
"Is this okay?"
Jack grimaces, flexing his wrists in the bonds and nods. His breathing is heavier now, Sam notices.
"Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
Sam runs his hands down Jack's legs, over his buttocks. The man is toned, muscled. He scratches lightly at the skin, watching those muscles ripple.
He licks and strokes and caresses. Until he realises that Jack isn't moving at all. Sam looks up in confusion, meeting a pair of equally confused eyes.
"Is this what you want?" Sam asks.
"Not exactly," Jack admits. He tilts his head back, staring up into the ceiling, avoiding Sam's eyes. "You… you have me at your mercy. Use me."
"Oh." And that is just another hurdle to overcome for Sam tonight. But he's a professional, even if he's not too happy about that most of the time.
Sam bends down and carries on licking and stroking and caressing. But the touches are different, heavier, less about comfort than about possession. Sam's not so careful with his nails or teeth now and every time he catches Jack with either, Jack hisses.
Finally Sam decides they are both ready. Minimally lubed, he pushes in to Jack, inch by inch, trying to let Jack get used to the intrusion before continuing.
Jack sighs. "No, not like that. Harder. Don't hold back."
And Sam finally gets it. Understands what Jack is asking for. Not the why, of course, but the mechanism and the feeling behind the request. That he understands.
So he lets a little bit of that rage, usually locked down tight in his chest, unfurl, makes his actions that little bit more forceful, more about control. He presses his hands down on the bound man's chest, leaning his weight over, changing the angle of penetration and he doesn't hold back.
Sweat drips down his back and into his eyes as his hips slam into the body beneath again and again. Jack's eyes bore into his own as Sam presses down, fingers curled, nails scratching at the flesh beneath his fingertips. He gazes directly into Jack's eyes and his hands move of their own accord, sliding up the slick chest, over the collarbone, resting over the thin, fragile neck, fitting there perfectly as he keeps up the relentless rhythm.
Now one hand, the heel resting in the hollow of the neck takes his weight, cartilage and bone creaking beneath his palm, the fork between thumb and forefinger pressed up tight, cutting off Jack's supply of oxygen. The blood pounding in Sam's head reminds him of a rhythm, which in turn reminds him of The … other man. Trailing a finger up and down Jack's cheek, he taps the rhythm out on Jack's temple.
Jack's eyes fly open and he comes hard, blueing lips trying to form a word and failing.
Sam comes a moment later, and he collapses, exhausted, on the unmoving man beneath him.
Moments pass, and Sam finally extricates himself from Jack, starting to untie his legs, his wrists, he turns and says, jocularly, "Was it good for you too?" But the question dies on his lips as he takes in the sightless blue eyes staring back at him.
Oh, shit.
Sam hurriedly removes the other bonds from Jack, the ‘oh shit' bouncing around his brain as he tries to work out exactly what Gene and Phyllis are going to do to him for killing a paying customer.
As he bends over Jack to see whether or not CPR can be administered, Jack draws in a breath, shaking all over. It scares the hell out of Sam who trips, falling backwards on his arse.
"I thought you were dead!" he exclaims.
Jack sits up, shaking out the kinks in his muscles, and he winks. "So did I." He bustles around Sam's flat, retrieving clothes and sliding them on in silence.
Sam pulls on his trousers and tries to stay out of the way. Finally, Jack slides on his coat and Sam can't hold back any more.
"You're paid up for the night, you know," he comments, and then realises how desperate that sounds.
Jack laughs, "I know. But I got what I came for. Thanks." He holds out a hand and Sam shakes it.
It's only once he's closed the front door again and walked into the kitchen that Sam realises that Jack didn't quite meet his eyes once afterwards.
End
AUTHOR: Andromeda
FANDOM: Doctor Who/Life on Mars
RATING: Red Cortina (NC-17)
SUMMARY: A sequel to Use My Name and Mirror Image by Fi. Spoilers for Season Three of Doctor Who, up to and including The Sound of Drums.
WORD COUNT: 1,760
EMAIL: fiandyfic@livejournal.com
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Beta'd by the wonderful darthfi. For duckyone who always likes to see more Hooker!Sam client!fic.
DISCLAIMER: Doctor Who is copyright BBC, Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
The Mirror Crack'd
Sam's client for the night is an American. Well, he thinks he's American. He's certainly strange enough to be American, but there's something indefinably Wrong about him.
Jack is all brilliant teeth and flashy smile. He towers over Sam in a kind of far-too-healthy-for-his-own-good, confident posture. He's too much and too fake all at once and that is intriguing for Sam who knows quite a bit about fakery by now.
Well, sure he's a fake. He's a time traveller, like Sam. Sam got that the first time they met. And he's sure that whatever time period Jack is from, it's a million light years from Sam's former home.
No, what intrigues Sam is why Jack has come back. The truth behind the easy lie.
Sipping from a bottle of beer, down at the Flamingo, Jack says "You're cute." But his eyes flash with something deep and dark. Like Sam is betraying him, though betraying him how, Sam doesn't know.
On the floor, ostensibly dancing with a pair of girls, Jack winks at Sam, his eyes roving all over his body. But his hands know what they are doing with the girl in front of him.
Sam moves close, whispers, "You can take the girl home instead, if you want."
Jack whispers back, "No, it's you I want," and he smiles. But the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.
They're walking back to Sam's flat, down by the canal. Sam hates the place. Well, it's understandable, considering. It's dark down there, very few people about, except Jack at his side of course. Fingers tangle in his hair, brushing against his neck, nails biting down for a moment and Sam jerks, looking up at the man beside him. Jack's face is unreadable as he puts his arm around Sam's shoulders.
"Didn't mean to frighten you."
Sam's not sure about the truth of that statement at all.
Then back at the flat. A glass of a good single malt poured for each of them. Jack pulls Sam close, a hand on the back of his head, kissing him with a passion that leaves even Sam wanting more.
"Sam," Jack breathes. But there's a pause before the name and Sam knows instinctively that another name belongs there instead.
Sam doesn't know why he does it, but he runs a forefinger down the side of Jack's face, slow and gentle. Jack shudders - a whole body shudder - and his eyelids flutter. The name, the name that belongs in the pauses and the silences, falls from lips still silent. But Sam doesn't see, staring as he is into Jack's eyes.
They strip each other, lingering touches over newly-exposed flesh. Teasing and tantalising, taking each step slow and steady; punctuating the striptease with more kissing, more touching until finally they are both naked.
They land with a tangle of limbs on Sam's bed. Still kissing furiously, stroking flesh. Sam reaches down to Jack's cock, only to find it limp and flaccid, the only part of Jack that doesn't seem to have got with the programme. Sam pulls back, a question in his eyes, and Jack lets him go, throwing his head back on the pillow with a groan.
"You don't…?" Sam asks.
Jack stares up at Sam and grimaces. "It's complicated."
And it's there. Whatever it is, lurking behind that façade. The truth of the matter. Sam now knows enough about the man that if this was just sex, in any and all of its flavours then that hesitation, that coyness would not be there. Jack is far too confident to be this hung up about sex. So what is it, that darkness, that hesitation?
He runs a hand down Jack's arm, still hot and flushed. "Whatever it is, I'm sure I can accommodate you." Sam's had too many clients looking for too many things, to not be sure about that now.
Jack bites his lip. Another incongruity. "You had a client, a while ago. He kept you blindfolded? We met the last time…?" Jack is hesitant, obviously not wanting to say this out loud at all.
Sam sucks in a breath. "The …"
But Jack cuts him off with a finger to his lips. "No names. I want… I want you to treat me the way he treated you." The last few words fly out at speed, a staccato rhythm with no reason for the emphasis misplaced.
The light dawns. "Role play?"
"In a manner of speaking."
Sam nods. "I can do that."
Jack heaves an audible sigh of relief. The indefinable darkness flares again in his eyes and Sam feels like he's standing on the precipice of a secret. One so large it could encompass the Universe.
But Sam doesn't question. Instead he clambers off the bed and roots in the wardrobe for a large black bag. His professional ‘tools' are inside. Some Sam knows about from all angles, some he wishes he didn't. He reaches inside and pulls out a number of lengths of soft rope. A blindfold. His fingers brush against a coil of leather and he hesitates before leaving the collar where it is. He has no loyalty, not Sam, not now, but that feels like betrayal. Just whom he'd be betraying, he's not sure, but nonetheless, it would be.
He sets the bag back in the wardrobe before picking up the ropes and blindfold and flashing them at Jack. "Will these do?"
Jack nods, again something indefinable in his features sharpen them and Sam shivers. "Chains would be better, but they're fine. But leave the blindfold."
With a frown, Sam sets to work, binding his wrists, tight, outstretched, to the bedposts.
Ankles next, above the wrists, folding the taller man almost in two, muscles pulled taut, Jack sinks into his bonds, which hold tight. Sam re-checks the knots and, finally satisfied, he scoots back to kneel on the bed, facing Jack.
"Is this okay?"
Jack grimaces, flexing his wrists in the bonds and nods. His breathing is heavier now, Sam notices.
"Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
Sam runs his hands down Jack's legs, over his buttocks. The man is toned, muscled. He scratches lightly at the skin, watching those muscles ripple.
He licks and strokes and caresses. Until he realises that Jack isn't moving at all. Sam looks up in confusion, meeting a pair of equally confused eyes.
"Is this what you want?" Sam asks.
"Not exactly," Jack admits. He tilts his head back, staring up into the ceiling, avoiding Sam's eyes. "You… you have me at your mercy. Use me."
"Oh." And that is just another hurdle to overcome for Sam tonight. But he's a professional, even if he's not too happy about that most of the time.
Sam bends down and carries on licking and stroking and caressing. But the touches are different, heavier, less about comfort than about possession. Sam's not so careful with his nails or teeth now and every time he catches Jack with either, Jack hisses.
Finally Sam decides they are both ready. Minimally lubed, he pushes in to Jack, inch by inch, trying to let Jack get used to the intrusion before continuing.
Jack sighs. "No, not like that. Harder. Don't hold back."
And Sam finally gets it. Understands what Jack is asking for. Not the why, of course, but the mechanism and the feeling behind the request. That he understands.
So he lets a little bit of that rage, usually locked down tight in his chest, unfurl, makes his actions that little bit more forceful, more about control. He presses his hands down on the bound man's chest, leaning his weight over, changing the angle of penetration and he doesn't hold back.
Sweat drips down his back and into his eyes as his hips slam into the body beneath again and again. Jack's eyes bore into his own as Sam presses down, fingers curled, nails scratching at the flesh beneath his fingertips. He gazes directly into Jack's eyes and his hands move of their own accord, sliding up the slick chest, over the collarbone, resting over the thin, fragile neck, fitting there perfectly as he keeps up the relentless rhythm.
Now one hand, the heel resting in the hollow of the neck takes his weight, cartilage and bone creaking beneath his palm, the fork between thumb and forefinger pressed up tight, cutting off Jack's supply of oxygen. The blood pounding in Sam's head reminds him of a rhythm, which in turn reminds him of The … other man. Trailing a finger up and down Jack's cheek, he taps the rhythm out on Jack's temple.
Jack's eyes fly open and he comes hard, blueing lips trying to form a word and failing.
Sam comes a moment later, and he collapses, exhausted, on the unmoving man beneath him.
Moments pass, and Sam finally extricates himself from Jack, starting to untie his legs, his wrists, he turns and says, jocularly, "Was it good for you too?" But the question dies on his lips as he takes in the sightless blue eyes staring back at him.
Oh, shit.
Sam hurriedly removes the other bonds from Jack, the ‘oh shit' bouncing around his brain as he tries to work out exactly what Gene and Phyllis are going to do to him for killing a paying customer.
As he bends over Jack to see whether or not CPR can be administered, Jack draws in a breath, shaking all over. It scares the hell out of Sam who trips, falling backwards on his arse.
"I thought you were dead!" he exclaims.
Jack sits up, shaking out the kinks in his muscles, and he winks. "So did I." He bustles around Sam's flat, retrieving clothes and sliding them on in silence.
Sam pulls on his trousers and tries to stay out of the way. Finally, Jack slides on his coat and Sam can't hold back any more.
"You're paid up for the night, you know," he comments, and then realises how desperate that sounds.
Jack laughs, "I know. But I got what I came for. Thanks." He holds out a hand and Sam shakes it.
It's only once he's closed the front door again and walked into the kitchen that Sam realises that Jack didn't quite meet his eyes once afterwards.
End