othercaptjack (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
othercaptjack) wrote2011-06-15 09:48 pm
othercaptjack) wrote2011-06-15 09:48 pm
Jack Harkness' room :: Mid-2005 timewarp AU :: Milliways
Jack's room is mostly basic, it has to be said.
In fairness, he hasn't had much chance to make it his own - it has only been (ahem) somewhere private to go that is not the TARDIS for when he visits Milliways.
And since he is not Bound, for most of the time it stays empty, storing just some clean clothes and basic necessities (well - basic if you're Jack) and not much else.
There is this to be said for it, too:
The door may be locked, but it is not booby-trapped.
Lucky for some.
In fairness, he hasn't had much chance to make it his own - it has only been (ahem) somewhere private to go that is not the TARDIS for when he visits Milliways.
And since he is not Bound, for most of the time it stays empty, storing just some clean clothes and basic necessities (well - basic if you're Jack) and not much else.
There is this to be said for it, too:
The door may be locked, but it is not booby-trapped.
Lucky for some.
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"Then," he says, "I should because you are so able with a blade, and you set the mermaids to singing, and because in seventy times seven fortnights I should not find so goodly a falconer." His lashes dip. "And, of course, I took to sleep with the juice of a certain flow'r laid on o'er my eyes, and I must love the one who did the waking."
You asked for it, Vetinari.
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It's a fascinating contradiction, to be lied to quite so openly but with such sincere fluency.
"Very good," he says, solemnly approving.
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Light, "Do but bid me and I shall speak again."
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"Do just as you like," he says.
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"May I really."
Slowly, his hands ghost upward, almost as if they wish to go unobserved. The fairy's fingers curl into the fabric of Havelock's shirtfront and take hold.
"Perilous, mortal," he murmurs, but because he does not want to give Havelock any opportunity to change his mind before he sweetens the deal, he tilts his head up and uses his grip on Havelock's shirt as gently, but inexorably as he can, to pull him down.
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Were it so perilous, he is already considering, Puck would hardly need permission. It's to remind himself, as much as anything, that this is a very dangerous individual.
His reaction is not normally to let such people kiss him - or indeed to close the gap and kiss them himself, but for the moment, that seems to make perfect sense.
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On the other hand, he had intended to kiss a mortal, and a mortal is now kissing him.
Puck pulls him closer for a better taste.
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Fortunately, that means he is now intently focused on the matter at hand, careful and as if considering every move.
(Havelock embraces all learning experiences with curiosity and calculation, and this is no exception.)
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One thing he must admit, in the spirit of fairness*-- he had assumed the mortal might kiss like a statue or a fumbling boy, but he has the type of single-mindedness that seems to him at once to be so passionless as to be, itself, a type of passion.
He doesn't want to pull away; Havelock could come to his senses, abundant as they are. So when he must breathe, he lets up but doesn't quite let go. His lips remain close enough to the mortal's that, were he not waiting to see what reaction he has (if any), he could easily manage to kiss him again.
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This seems to be a particularly involved process, and more so when the driving force is impulse rather than design.* He certainly doesn't remember moving his hands to Puck's hips, but that apparently happened at some point.
The assassin takes a sensibly slow couple of breaths while he opens his eyes a little to study Puck's face from below his lashes.
* It may be that Havelock is losing his grip just a little on the spirit of disinterested experimentation here, but stopping him from thinking constantly is nigh impossible.
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Puck, surlily, is cognizant of the fact that Havelock has his hands on his hips (and doesn't it just fill one's mind with possibility), as well as the fact that his own retain their grip on his shirt. If he doesn't let go soon, he concedes, his fingers may become permanently hooked into claws.
He doesn't look away from Havelock, though he must look up. His eyes, unglittering and perfectly consistent in shade, are nevertheless a gleaming bright blue, and the expression in them is one of uncertainty.
The proximity dizzies him, and dizziness makes him restless. He unhands Havelock's shirt, in favor of sliding his fingertips to his shoulders and rising on tiptoe to press a kiss to his neck.
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Instead he swallows unconsciously, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment.
It's possibly the only - and if not, then certainly the strangest - leap of faith he's ever taken.
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Palpable, and really quite wonderful.
Mortals-- who knew? After craning, careful and carefuller, to get round the collar of Havelock's shirt, Puck kisses his neck again. This one lasts slightly longer.
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It's also good in a way he had not anticipated. He'd never thought of himself as a thrillseeker, given that his day job involves death-defying acts every night, but he's beginning to think it might be a character flaw.
His head tilts just a little so Puck doesn't have to crane too hard.
It may be the closest the faerie will ever get to written permission.
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(A word that here means: via perforation.)
In the meantime, these little movements, Havelock's hands on his hips-- he thinks he understands them quite well. His mouth lingers just below Havelock's jaw, before he kisses his way up to his ear.
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After a moment, Havelock reaches up very slowly to lightly brush his fingertips over the soft skin on Puck's throat, as if tracing where the faerie had kissed him and committing it to memory.
(This may in fact be exactly what he is doing.)
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But it's as soft and amused and contented as if it were one.
Puck's lips had closed lightly over the lobe of Havelock's ear. He nips down, just once-- then he pulls back cautiously, refraining from batting his eyelashes like a shepherdess but not by a whole lot.
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Instead he simply pauses, then turns just a little to meet Puck's gaze, narrow and steady.
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"You did grant me leave."
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Still, it's something.
"So I did."
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"Have I it still?"
He leans up again on tiptoe towards his ear, to impart a secret. "You shan't regret it."
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Havelock can think of a lot of situations he would end up regretting here.
(Most of them end with bloody death for one or more parties - never let it be said he is needlessly fatalistic; just overly imaginative.)
So it is with perhaps understandable tension that Havelock eventually concedes,
"Yes. You have it still."
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He nips at Havelock's ear again, his tongue darting out after, and lets his fingers drift down Havelock's chest.
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(Shh, it's completely a word.)
"This," he says, resigned, "Is not going to be helpful if those creatures make any serious assault on the doors."
He doesn't seem inclined to stop. But he felt the need to point it out.
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His fingers dip a little lower, pausing at Havelock's waistband.
"Or I suppose we might be quick."
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