Dangerous Games
Title: Dangerous Games
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Captain Jack/The Master/Ten
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1,415
Setting: The bowels of The Valiant, during the dark year between the end of The Sound of Drums and the beginning of Last of the Time Lords
Warnings: Darkfic / Bondage / Torture / Blood / Voyeurism / M/M Slash / Non-Con (or is it?)
Jack wakes up with a start, his chin resting wearily on his chest, his knees buckled. His neck is stiff, his arms numb. That familiar sharp cramp in the base of his spine is starting up again. The chains attached to the manacles around Jack's wrists rattle as he flexes and stretches out his body, trying to work out the knots. He always seems to fall asleep at this time in the evening, although Jack's sleep pattern these days consists of slipping into unconsciousness out of pure exhaustion.
Jack knows what has woken him. The familiar squeak, squeak, squeak of chair wheels and the padding of footsteps approaching, the same sounds he hears every night. He tosses his head back, takes a deep breath to prepare himself. Jack usually greets his nightly visitors by way of a loud, cheerful and facetious remark, but he hasn't got the energy tonight.
The part of the ship where Jack spends his life shackled alone is dim at this time of night, dim enough so that all he can really see are the dark silhouettes of the two men entering his cell. The constant hum of machinery around them and the stifling heat that makes the sweat constantly run down his back in grime-streaked rivulets is all Jack concentrates on hearing and feeling as he tries to empty his mind.
The wheels of the chair give a final shrill squeak as the chair is comes to rest. It's been pushed in the same corner of the cell as always, facing Jack and in a good spot so that its occupant can see everything that happens. Jack's breath quickens slightly as the other, upright figure approaches silently and slips behind him, the warmth of another body so close making his back prickle.
Trembling hands reach around Jack's front, slipping under his stained and bullet-holed t-shirt and coming to rest flat on his stomach, fingers caressing his flesh as he is embraced. A sudden desperate thrust of hardness against his backside makes Jack's breath exhale in a gasp. The figure behind him moans, oh-so-softly, and the hands retreat. Jack's head is tugged back, neck muscles cramping as the blindfold is slipped over his eyes. Then his head is roughly pushed forwards as the black fabric is tied tightly at the back, the material becoming entangled with his hair. The warm breath on his neck suddenly causes Jack to shiver in the heat.
Now the hands are back on him, soft but firm hands tugging upwards at his clothing. Air cools the sweat on Jack's skin as it is uncovered, his back still scabbed over from last night's assault, despite his ability to heal quicker than mortal men. His ruined blue shirt is roughly pulled over his shoulders and tucked out of the way, the once-white t-shirt tugged upwards and bunched under his arms. Jack's eyes close under the blindfold as the hands stop tantalisingly for a moment, one on either side of his ribcage. The hands slide down slowly, oh-so-slowly, and his chin is pushed down into his chest as hot lips begin to nuzzle the hairline at the nape of his neck. Jack flinches as teeth bite into the flesh at the top of his spine. The hands finally reach the waistband of his trousers, and the fastenings are soon dealt with. His trousers are pushed down to his knees, the momentum making the teeth slip away from his skin with a painful nip. No underwear is present to push downwards. Jack has never believed in underwear.
Touch leaves him again, and Jack stands trembling, in a cold sweat now, his torso exposed from armpits to knees. This is how the Master likes him. Disarrayed and dirty, blinded and helpless. Not completely naked, but like this; his clothes wrenched aside like he is a half-unwrapped package of meat.
There is a shifting of movement from the chair in the corner and Jack bites his lip. That's something else the Master likes. For the whole ordeal to be watched. He likes to think it hurts Jack more that way.
Jack struggles to keep his breathing regular as at last, the soft touch of fingertips trails slowly down his spine. The fingers are moved away and a second later, taking Jack completely by surprise, the palm of a hand makes sharp contact with his right buttock. The sound of the flesh slapping flesh is surprisingly loud and Jack can't stop himself from crying out. The skin of his buttock immediately begins to sting viciously. The hand runs briefly across the site of the blow, soothingly, just for a second, but is swiftly moved away as though the touch of comfort is to be kept a secret from their observer.
The hand runs over Jack's buttocks again, and the second blow, when it arrives on his left cheek, is anticipated. This blow was harder though, and Jack hisses in breath through clenched teeth.
There's a pause. Jack can hardly breathe. The next blow, his body held steady with one hand gripping his left hip, is made by the leather strap. Jack lets out a yelp.
Another six, seven, eight blows. Nine.... ten... and now Jack's heartbeat is pounding in his ears so loudly he hears nothing else; certainly not his own screams.
Yesterday's wounds on his back and buttocks have been torn open again, he realises dimly. Warm blood mixes with cooling sweat as it trickles down his back and thighs. His flesh is burning white-hot, and... Jack is not surprised to realise... his cock is hard and throbbing.
Jack lets out a groan. He has to keep up the pretence of being in anguish. The Master can't know that secretly, Jack wants all of this, needs it, craves it.
The manacles on his wrists are being fumbled open, and as soon as the first is undone, Jack collapses on to his knees. His left wrist is still fastened, and his shoulder wrenches painfully, taking the full weight of his body until the second manacle is released. Jack's breath is exhaled as short sobs as he pitches forwards. The circulation rushes back into his arms, and the sudden onset of pins and needles in his limbs makes him twitch.
The man, now knelt behind him, snakes an arm around Jack's chest and pulls him gently back on to his knees and then backwards, as he supports Jack with his own body. As Jack's head falls back on to his tormentor's chest, warm breath tickles his ear as words are whispered to him.
"I'm sorry about this... I'm so sorry, Jack." The Doctor's voice is soft in his ear, full of sorrow and regret.
The blindfold is removed and Jack is gently pushed forwards onto the ground, his face rubbing against the dirt. Grit grazes his cheek, unnoticed. Jack moans softly as the Doctor slides into him.
Jack looks up through a blur of tears as the Master sits forward eagerly in his favourite black leather office chair, not wanting to miss any of Jack's final humiliation of the night. A single beam of light illuminates the look of cruel amusement on his face. This nightly defilement is Jack's punishment for not staying dead when he kills him; the Doctor's punishment for possessing so much righteousness.
The Doctor thrusts into Jack hard and fast, not through desire, but to get the whole ordeal over and done with quickly. Jack is still hard and would like to be touched, but he knows it can't happen, not when the Master is watching them so carefully.
Jack buries his face in the dirt as the Doctor comes inside him with a muffled cry of... what? Pleasure? Anguish? Frustration? Jack can never tell. Jack hopes it’s pleasure, but doubts it. All he knows is that in his old life, none of this would have happened, no matter how hard he might have wished for it. In his old life, Jack would have given all of this to the Doctor willingly, but he knows that the Doctor would not have taken it.
Jack's real torment is knowing that time's up, and all of this is over for another night. Now the Master will take his beloved Doctor away from him, take back the youth he restores to him every evening so that his body will be strong enough for the three of them to play this game.
A game in which Jack... secretly... has always been the real winner.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Characters: Captain Jack/The Master/Ten
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1,415
Setting: The bowels of The Valiant, during the dark year between the end of The Sound of Drums and the beginning of Last of the Time Lords
Warnings: Darkfic / Bondage / Torture / Blood / Voyeurism / M/M Slash / Non-Con (or is it?)
Jack wakes up with a start, his chin resting wearily on his chest, his knees buckled. His neck is stiff, his arms numb. That familiar sharp cramp in the base of his spine is starting up again. The chains attached to the manacles around Jack's wrists rattle as he flexes and stretches out his body, trying to work out the knots. He always seems to fall asleep at this time in the evening, although Jack's sleep pattern these days consists of slipping into unconsciousness out of pure exhaustion.
Jack knows what has woken him. The familiar squeak, squeak, squeak of chair wheels and the padding of footsteps approaching, the same sounds he hears every night. He tosses his head back, takes a deep breath to prepare himself. Jack usually greets his nightly visitors by way of a loud, cheerful and facetious remark, but he hasn't got the energy tonight.
The part of the ship where Jack spends his life shackled alone is dim at this time of night, dim enough so that all he can really see are the dark silhouettes of the two men entering his cell. The constant hum of machinery around them and the stifling heat that makes the sweat constantly run down his back in grime-streaked rivulets is all Jack concentrates on hearing and feeling as he tries to empty his mind.
The wheels of the chair give a final shrill squeak as the chair is comes to rest. It's been pushed in the same corner of the cell as always, facing Jack and in a good spot so that its occupant can see everything that happens. Jack's breath quickens slightly as the other, upright figure approaches silently and slips behind him, the warmth of another body so close making his back prickle.
Trembling hands reach around Jack's front, slipping under his stained and bullet-holed t-shirt and coming to rest flat on his stomach, fingers caressing his flesh as he is embraced. A sudden desperate thrust of hardness against his backside makes Jack's breath exhale in a gasp. The figure behind him moans, oh-so-softly, and the hands retreat. Jack's head is tugged back, neck muscles cramping as the blindfold is slipped over his eyes. Then his head is roughly pushed forwards as the black fabric is tied tightly at the back, the material becoming entangled with his hair. The warm breath on his neck suddenly causes Jack to shiver in the heat.
Now the hands are back on him, soft but firm hands tugging upwards at his clothing. Air cools the sweat on Jack's skin as it is uncovered, his back still scabbed over from last night's assault, despite his ability to heal quicker than mortal men. His ruined blue shirt is roughly pulled over his shoulders and tucked out of the way, the once-white t-shirt tugged upwards and bunched under his arms. Jack's eyes close under the blindfold as the hands stop tantalisingly for a moment, one on either side of his ribcage. The hands slide down slowly, oh-so-slowly, and his chin is pushed down into his chest as hot lips begin to nuzzle the hairline at the nape of his neck. Jack flinches as teeth bite into the flesh at the top of his spine. The hands finally reach the waistband of his trousers, and the fastenings are soon dealt with. His trousers are pushed down to his knees, the momentum making the teeth slip away from his skin with a painful nip. No underwear is present to push downwards. Jack has never believed in underwear.
Touch leaves him again, and Jack stands trembling, in a cold sweat now, his torso exposed from armpits to knees. This is how the Master likes him. Disarrayed and dirty, blinded and helpless. Not completely naked, but like this; his clothes wrenched aside like he is a half-unwrapped package of meat.
There is a shifting of movement from the chair in the corner and Jack bites his lip. That's something else the Master likes. For the whole ordeal to be watched. He likes to think it hurts Jack more that way.
Jack struggles to keep his breathing regular as at last, the soft touch of fingertips trails slowly down his spine. The fingers are moved away and a second later, taking Jack completely by surprise, the palm of a hand makes sharp contact with his right buttock. The sound of the flesh slapping flesh is surprisingly loud and Jack can't stop himself from crying out. The skin of his buttock immediately begins to sting viciously. The hand runs briefly across the site of the blow, soothingly, just for a second, but is swiftly moved away as though the touch of comfort is to be kept a secret from their observer.
The hand runs over Jack's buttocks again, and the second blow, when it arrives on his left cheek, is anticipated. This blow was harder though, and Jack hisses in breath through clenched teeth.
There's a pause. Jack can hardly breathe. The next blow, his body held steady with one hand gripping his left hip, is made by the leather strap. Jack lets out a yelp.
Another six, seven, eight blows. Nine.... ten... and now Jack's heartbeat is pounding in his ears so loudly he hears nothing else; certainly not his own screams.
Yesterday's wounds on his back and buttocks have been torn open again, he realises dimly. Warm blood mixes with cooling sweat as it trickles down his back and thighs. His flesh is burning white-hot, and... Jack is not surprised to realise... his cock is hard and throbbing.
Jack lets out a groan. He has to keep up the pretence of being in anguish. The Master can't know that secretly, Jack wants all of this, needs it, craves it.
The manacles on his wrists are being fumbled open, and as soon as the first is undone, Jack collapses on to his knees. His left wrist is still fastened, and his shoulder wrenches painfully, taking the full weight of his body until the second manacle is released. Jack's breath is exhaled as short sobs as he pitches forwards. The circulation rushes back into his arms, and the sudden onset of pins and needles in his limbs makes him twitch.
The man, now knelt behind him, snakes an arm around Jack's chest and pulls him gently back on to his knees and then backwards, as he supports Jack with his own body. As Jack's head falls back on to his tormentor's chest, warm breath tickles his ear as words are whispered to him.
"I'm sorry about this... I'm so sorry, Jack." The Doctor's voice is soft in his ear, full of sorrow and regret.
The blindfold is removed and Jack is gently pushed forwards onto the ground, his face rubbing against the dirt. Grit grazes his cheek, unnoticed. Jack moans softly as the Doctor slides into him.
Jack looks up through a blur of tears as the Master sits forward eagerly in his favourite black leather office chair, not wanting to miss any of Jack's final humiliation of the night. A single beam of light illuminates the look of cruel amusement on his face. This nightly defilement is Jack's punishment for not staying dead when he kills him; the Doctor's punishment for possessing so much righteousness.
The Doctor thrusts into Jack hard and fast, not through desire, but to get the whole ordeal over and done with quickly. Jack is still hard and would like to be touched, but he knows it can't happen, not when the Master is watching them so carefully.
Jack buries his face in the dirt as the Doctor comes inside him with a muffled cry of... what? Pleasure? Anguish? Frustration? Jack can never tell. Jack hopes it’s pleasure, but doubts it. All he knows is that in his old life, none of this would have happened, no matter how hard he might have wished for it. In his old life, Jack would have given all of this to the Doctor willingly, but he knows that the Doctor would not have taken it.
Jack's real torment is knowing that time's up, and all of this is over for another night. Now the Master will take his beloved Doctor away from him, take back the youth he restores to him every evening so that his body will be strong enough for the three of them to play this game.
A game in which Jack... secretly... has always been the real winner.