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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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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"I have no plans to die at all," he says.
They can multitask.
(All night long, possibly.)
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His hand, quite innocently, drifts lower by a few crucial centimeters.
"Not even but a little one?"
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He was always taught that puns, however clever, are for the lower classes.
That, or poets; and there's no helping some people.
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And he bends his head again to Havelock's neck, mouthing gently over the lines of muscle. His fingers spread almost speculatively, as if searching; then, with certainty, they close.
If any of those freaking zombies bust in here, he'll re-kill them.
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(It can be a joint effort.)