FIC: Torchwood - "Future Shock"

[fajrdrako_fic]

Title: Future Shock
Author: fajrdrako
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Owen/Captain John Hart
Challenge: Inspired by the Anti Ship War Challenge posted by szm.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims, all property of the BBC.
Notes: General spoilers for Torchwood, especially the episode "Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang" (2x01). Heartfelt thanks to rivier for her insightful and helpful betaing on short notice. Cross-posted to my LJ, torchwoodslash, and to guns_n_poodles.


Future Shock

There was someone in Owen's flat. He could hear the television before he'd even reached the hallway outside his closed door.

Fuck. The last thing he needed, after a hard day's alien-hunting, was an intruder. He hadn't invited anyone over, and even if anyone had any business with him, they had none at two in the morning when he already had a headache. He hadn't given anyone a key. He never did. So -

He had his gun at the ready before he unlocked the door. He stepped through, kicking the door shut behind him, prepared for attack.

Captain John Hart was sprawled across the settee, watching a recorded episode of "Top Gear". His feet were on Owen's coffee table, and he was swigging Owen's best whisky. Owen grit his teeth: this bastard had once put a bullet through him. Did he think he had the right now to make himself at home?

Captain Jack had protected Hart, even after he had killed Jack. Tried to kill Jack. Not that Owen had any high moral ground in that regard. As much as Jack had denied having any remaining interest in his former partner, Owen could tell Jack wanted to keep him alive.

Hart lowered the bottle casually, smiling, as he clicked on the remote and the television went black. He took no notice of the barrel of Owen's gun leveled at his nose. "Hello, Pretty Boy. Isn't this where you say, 'Honey, I'm home?'"

"What the fuck do you want?" asked Owen, not lowering the gun. It was steady in his hands.

"Don't worry, I don't plan to kill you." Captain John Hart took a deep drink from the bottle at his elbow, tipping his head back, his Adam's apple prominent. He seemed perfectly unconcerned that there was a gun aimed at his head. Did he think Owen didn't want to shoot? He put down the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not unless you annoy me. Your booze is fine but your drugs are pathetic. So what does that leave for playtime? Sex. That's what I came here for. Wanna fuck, Pretty Boy?"

Owen's mother had sometimes called him "pretty boy". Not a happy memory. "Why me?" asked Owen, keeping the gun steady and aimed.

"Because you're Torchwood. Because you're his. Because I think you're cute."

Owen did not see Hart move. He wasn't sure what happened. He had been alert for any movement on the Captain's part, when suddenly the gun was kicked out of his hand and he was pinned to the wall with Hart's powerful hand encircling his throat. Hart's lips crushed his and for once in his life Owen pretended to fight off a kiss. He failed to escape it. He knew how to fight – Captain Jack had made sure of that – but Captain John Hart was way out of Owen's league. Strong. Powerful. And he knew all Jack's moves.

Fast. Incredibly fast. It must be the drugs. Speed-enhancing drugs from the future. Hart was wired. Owen was helpless. He stopped resisting.

Before Owen passed out from lack of air, Hart released his throat, holding him still against the wall with the force of his full body. And fuck, the kiss was good. Owen could probably have avoided it now, or could have tried to, just to make a show of resistance, a token display because this was a bastard he hated, but it was too good for that. How long was it since he'd been kissed by someone who wanted him? Too long. Way too long. Since...

Since Diane.

This was nothing like Diane. Captain John Hart was rough and masculine and sensuous in all the wrong ways. He tasted of booze and strangeness – was it the chemical concoctions in his bloodstream, or the flavour of a body from the future?

Owen wondered if he were getting a contact high. That would explain the way he pressed back against Hart's body, feeling and enjoying the hardness of Hart's cock against his own, kissing him with a fierceness he wouldn't even try to justify.

Hart spoke against his mouth. "Has he had you yet? Is Jack fucking you?"

"No," said Owen. Hart's hands explored his body, his face, his hair.

"Why not? Did you turn him down? Or doesn't he like you?"

"He won't touch us," said Owen. "We're his employees. Makes us off limits." He was sure that wasn't it, at all: he was almost certain Ianto had got under Jack's guard and into his bed, but Ianto hadn't said a thing to him and it was mostly guesswork. Not something he'd tell Hart about, anyway.

"He's lost his touch, then," said Hart, and laughed. "Maybe he cut it off. No, I know better than that – had myself a good grope when we kissed in the bar. No, Jack's still in good form." He smirked. "Ready to learn what you've been missing, Pretty Boy? See what it's like with a Time Agent?"

Jack, thought Owen, as he fell into the kiss. Was it like this to kiss Jack? He'd thought at first this was all about power and territory, but it wasn't. It was all about Jack. He shouldn't be surprised. Probably the timestream was littered with madmen obsessed with Jack. Only this one had the history to prove it. "Talk," said Owen aloud, mocking, when Hart's mouth released his. "All talk. Think you're so hot."

"Hot enough for Jack."

"He dumped you."

"No."

"'Sides," growled Owen, relishing the feel of those strong, dangerous hands on his throat, the alcohol-laden breath on his face, the heat of the body against his, "we both know Jack's a whore."

Hart froze. Owen held his breath. The moment of danger was druglike, exciting. Hart's roughness made Owen remember the time Captain John had shot him: the touch of death initially thrilling him, replaced almost at once with the exhilaration of survival - life, life, life at all costs, even with the rush of pain - remembering too the moment he had shot Jack himself, and shot him again, and again, and the sense of permanent loss, of sudden stillness in all the world. Then Jack had moved again.

Life at all costs. Hart dipped his head to suck and bite Owen's ear. "I'll show you, Torchwood. I'll show you what it's like with a Time Agent." He was pulling Owen's jacket off his arms, and Owen was helping him as they moved - together, apart, together again, his jacket tossed to the floor, kissing again and again, sucking and biting bits of exposed skin. "Show you. Better than you've ever had."

"Yeah, show me," muttered Owen. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, and Hart grabbed it from him, ripping the seam as he threw it into the corner. His belt, his jeans - all that powerful strength undressing him crudely and quickly, as if he were a doll. Hart mouthed his skin randomly, tearing cloth when he felt like it, throwing shoes, socks, underwear, aside. He shoved Owen's legs apart and fondled his balls with calloused fingers. Owen went on talking, keeping his voice low to keep it from shaking. "Show me how hot a Time Agent is. Show me what you used to do with Jack."

A harsh laugh. "Why should I? He got the best. You're nothing."

"Is that why he can't bear the sight of you now?" Bare-arsed, Owen clutched Hart's shoulders as he nuzzled Hart's throat, Hart's leg thrust between his. He was shivering, though not with cold - it was sheer bone-deep arousal. This rush of lust and fear and anger drowned out everything else, even self-preservation. "Did he betray the whole Time Agency, or did he just walk out on you?"

Hart stepped backwards, looking Owen over, eyes lingering appreciatively on his hard cock. "Mouthy but cute," he said. "I might let you live after all. Did Jack strip you naked for your job interview?"

"He used his x-ray specs," said Owen. His heart was pounding. This man had been Jack's lover, his - wife, of sorts, he'd said, his partner and colleague and fuck-buddy and nemesis. Far in the future. A man who wouldn't be born for centuries.

Hart gripped his wrist, pulling him closer. "You sure Jack hasn't touched any of you? Maybe he prefers the little Jap? The smartass cop? The eye candy? Not one of them? Not all of them?"

Owen shrugged. "Didn't tell me, if he did." Hart's hand on his jaw made it impossible to evade his eyes, boring into Owen's. "Maybe he had them all. Maybe I'm the only one he doesn't want. Maybe he wanted to leave me for you, like a gift." He pressed his hips against Hart's body, feeling the strength of muscle under cloth, the hard touch of the holster on his thigh. He couldn't even remember how many weapons Hart wore, but the thought of them quickened his pulse. Two guns, a boot-knife -

"But you're his, aren't you? He could have you with a word."

"God, yes."

"How does he do it? He holds you without even sex - or is it withholding sex that does it?" A twist of his hand forced Owen to his knees. Hart kept his hand on Owen's face, caressing it roughly. Owen caught Hart's thumb in his mouth and sucked it. Hart pulled it away. "Makes you his slave and gives you nothing."

Owen tried to find the fly in Hart's trousers, and failed. Ignoring the pain in his twisted wrist, where Hart's grip still bruised, he rubbed his face against Hart's crotch.

"We're Torchwood," said Owen. "We all belong to him. He once fired me. I thought I'd die. Where could I go, afterwards?"

Hart pulled him to his feet again, flinging him away so abruptly that Owen almost fell. "To the bed, Pretty Boy."

He shivered in anticipation and walked into the bedroom without looking back. The bedside lamp was turned on. He hadn't made his bed. He usually didn't.

He had told Toshiko he wasn't looking for casual sex these days. He wasn't. This wasn't casual. This was... something else.

After Diane left, there was no one he wanted - no one that he could have, anyway. No one who excited him. No one who meant anything. The others just weren't worth it. Mundane sex to pointless ends, the inevitable post-orgasmic letdown. Is that all?

This wasn't like that. This was Captain John Hart, who had once done - sexually - everything there was to do with Jack. And then some.

This was a man from the future. Fucked up, yes, but that made it all the better. Someone Jack had had over and over -

"Hands and knees," growled Hart, following him into the bedroom.

Hands and knees. On the bed, Owen kept his head down, submissive, his legs spread apart. He had been in this position before, a few times - not often, not nearly often enough. Never with anyone like Captain John Hart. Not that there was anyone like Hart, except Jack, the other Time Agent. The other Captain, the other mystery man from the future.

Owen looked over his shoulder to see if Hart was about to touch him. Hart had his cock out now, and was touching it with his hand, his trousers parted as if they had neither zip nor seam. That put a shiver up Owen's spine. The future.

"Lube and condoms in the drawer," said Owen, lowering his head again.

"Brought my own lube. You think I'd use your 21st century crap?" He touched Owen at last, hands on his arse, spreading his cheeks, so that Owen felt cold air followed quickly by warm breath. Then suddenly, a finger up his arse, lubed, rough, smooth, hot, mobile. Owen was groaning aloud and didn't care. He tightened and pushed back against the finger - fingers now - and Hart laughed. "Pretty hole, just waiting for me. Begging for me. You're a slut, aren't you, Torchwood?"

"Yeah," said Owen. He could hardly speak for the ache in his cock, and the delicious touch within him.

But it seemed Hart was interested in talk while his fingers probed. "You're begging for it."

"Yeah." With his weight on his hands, fingers clutching his sheets, Owen couldn't reach to touch his own cock, but he wanted to. He squirmed. "Yeah, begging. Hard. Captain. Please."

Hart leaned over his back, sucking on his shoulder, nibbling. Owen felt the tip of his cock against his arse, lightly, not enough to be anything more than a tease and a promise, just touching him. "Fuck! Do it."

"Why should I?" The Captain's breath was hot against his neck. The tongue licked Owen's nape. "Bad boy. You should be saving yourself for Jack."

"Did you?"

That earned him a slap on the arse. "Cheeky!" It stung. Owen tried to wiggle, but Hart held his hips still.

"A man can't wait forever," said Owen breathlessly.

"Forever is a long time."

Owen cursed again, under his breath, but at that point Hart thrust into him. Owen froze in shock, not just at the sudden entry, lube smooth as water, but at the sense of skin on skin - skin within skin - shock as he realized Hart didn't use a condom. Maybe in Hart's time there were no STDs, but for Owen - the sensation was new, exciting, the sense of risk and shock overwhelming. He was transgressing his own code. His moan was more like a wail. He didn't care. He'd never done it without protection, never thought he would.

Had Jack done this to John, over and over? Had John done this to Jack, caught in the spiral of their lust? He could feel Hart's boots against his calves, buckles adding to the stimulation, not pain but sensation; and the holster, occasionally hitting his thigh, and the smell of alcohol on Hart's breath, and the rough braiding on the jacket against his back. His brain kaleidescoped shapeless thoughts: Time Agents, time loops, time outlaws, and Jack was as bad as this one, only kinder and warmer and not as crazy. You might expect being fucked by a Time Agent from the future would be all genteel sensuality, but no, this was primal and tough and glorious. Hart put his fingers in Owen's mouth, pulling his head back. Owen sucked them hard. Arousal was building on arousal. How high could Hart take him?

Then Hart stopped thrusting, pushed so far into Owen that his balls pressed against him. Was Jack bigger than this? Owen grunted, his pulse racing. Hart's fingers left his mouth, gripping his shoulder.

Moving his mouth against Owen's ear, Hart murmurred, "You going to tell Jack about this, Slut-boy?"

"Yeah," said Owen, pressing back against the pressure within him.

"What will you tell him?"

Owen tried to move against Hart's body, but Hart's warning hand stopped him. He tightened his stretched arse; felt a response in Hart's cock, swelling still more inside him.

"What will you say?"

"I'll tell him... Tell him I wanted you."

"And?"

"I'll say I wanted you because you were a Time Agent."

"Time Agents make you hot?"

"Fuck, yeah. You're from the future. From beyond the stars." Owen was shaking now, his elbows wobbling. He wasn't sure how much longer they'd hold him up. No longer: his elbows buckled, and he fell face-down onto the bed, landing on elbows, arse up. Hart stayed on top of him, his weight holding Owen down.

"When Jack does this to you, and he will, tell him I was here first."

"You were here first," whispered Owen. He had no breath. He was shaking. At last Hart started thrusting again, faster now, and it was like falling out of the sky. Owen realized his groans had become howls, and he managed to force his own fist into his mouth to dull the sound. He could hear Hart's breath close to his ear.

Hart's fingers traced Owen's throat, delicately; then harder. Harder. No breath. No time to panic - Hart was climaxing inside him, moving his hand from Owen's throat to his cock. Owen gasped for breath, all his consciousness focussed on the sensation of hot come filling him inside, and shooting out of his own cock too, onto his bed and his body, over and over.

He came back to himself, lying on this side, his mind as blank as his body was boneless. Had he passed out? Hart had taken off his jacket, and had draped it over them both, cuddling against Owen in his soft T-shirt and soft, unfastened trousers - never mind the holster and the heavy boots. His head was against Owen's chest, as if looking for the comfort of a mother's embrace. His face was half-muffled against Owen's skin. "What else will you tell him? Will you tell him I raped you?"

"No. I'll say you were irresistible. I'll say I begged for more. I'll say I came hard, screaming his name."

"You didn't."

"I'll say I did."

Captain John chuckled. "Jack always could find the good ones." His voice softened, difficult to hear. "Want him so much it hurts."

"Me too," said Owen, but Hart had fallen asleep already. Owen looked at Hart - a wild creature, a killer, half-drunk, half-mad, on drugs, a traveller from the timelines - Owen felt something soften within him. Then Owen dropped off himself.

He woke some time later. Hart was standing over him, idly touching Owen's cock to wake him, holding him down with one gentle hand on his neck. Owen thought how large John's hands were, how strong he was. He blinked, confused, half asleep, half aroused. It was still dark outside, and his light was on. Captain John had dressed, or at least put on his jacket and fastened his trousers. Hart said, "I'm leaving now, Pretty Boy. Places to be, people to do. But tell me first. What's your name?"

"Owen," he answered, his eyes on Hart's: bleary, tired eyes, filled with burdened intelligence. "Doctor Owen Harper."

"Right, I remember. A doctor!" Hart found that funny. "Physician, heal thyself. Tell Jack - " He stopped as if changing his mind about the message. "Tell Jack I'll see him in hell." He tapped his wristband. In a flickering blue light, he disappeared.

Owen thought of Jack, the other Time Agent, except he was not a Time Agent any more, and hadn't been for a long time. Captain Jack Harkness, who ran Torchwood Three. A different kind of man entirely. Owen had no intention of telling Jack anything at all about this.

He smiled, stretching his strained and satiated body.

- end -