Title: By Moonlight
Author: Aeshna
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: NC-17, slash
Word count: 719
Characters: Jack Harkness, real!Jack Harkness
Summary: Tomorrow can wait. This is about now.
Spoilers: TW1.12, Captain Jack Harkness
Disclaimer: Not mine, no matter how many DVDs and toys I buy! Everything here belongs to RTD and to Auntie Beeb, who already has my licence fee.
Archive: Sure, whoever wants it – just let me know where it ends up!
Notes: It occurs to me that this is the first piece of actual slash I've posted in this fandom, so – just to prove that I do, can and will write it! – here's a smutty little AU aside set during TW1.12, Captain Jack Harkness. This was intended for oxoniensis's Porn Battle V, prompt "Jack/real!Jack, moon". However, the Porn Battle happened to take place in a week where I was pretty much constantly travelling, so this didn't get finished in time! It did get finished eventually, however... (and yes, it would fit – just! – into a comment field, as per PB rules)

Many thanks to mimarie and jwaneeta for looking this over for me. Feedback of any variety is very much appreciated but not compulsory – I'll post anyway! I've suffered for my art, now it's your turn....

Moonlight filters through the peeling paint of a blacked-out window, illuminating dust motes and sliding silver across blue serge. Two strong bodies move together in the darkness of the dancehall's storage loft, old playbills and posters scuffing underfoot as they dance out of time to the music from below, the frantic choreography of hands and lips and breath all that matters in this moment. Too much, too little, and there's no time for all that he wants, that he needs to do and to say–

And so he seizes what he can and grinds himself against his unwitting namesake, letting actions speak where fragile words cannot.

A waltzing sidestep and the shadowed corner of a crate conspire to send pain lancing through a hip, sharp and fierce and swiftly forgotten as a hot mouth takes advantage of the distraction and fastens on his throat. Teeth graze hard across his pulse and he hisses his eager response as his back hits the wall. The shock of impact leaves him gasping, laughing, and he arches into the challenge, growling as a thigh insinuates itself firmly between his own. They're both hard, both hungry, and it won't be long, can't be long before the others miss them. Hell, Toshiko is probably already looking.

The mouth pulls away, leaving damp skin tingling at its loss. He swallows convulsively, panting as callused fingers stroke across his cheek and into sweat-stiff hair, dropping his own hands to grope at the tautly-covered behind. He wants to remember this, each fleeting second, each broken moan; every last detail of the rugged, moon-limned features and shining eyes before him...

Kiss-swollen lips curve into a smile equal parts arousal and uncertainty, and he takes the lead, sliding his hands up the broad back as he moves back in. Whiskey-scented breath ghosts warm against his skin and–

"James..."

That sobers him, reminds him of who this man is... and of who he isn't. Reminds him that they have only these few stolen moments, that tomorrow–

Tomorrow can wait. This is about now.

Below them, the tempo suddenly shifts – faster, more upbeat – and he borrows its urgency as he pushes away from the wall. Step and turn and then they're at the balcony rail and he's dropping to his knees, tugging cloth aside to reach his goal, drinking in the musky scent and glorious solidity of blood-heavy flesh. He's fighting with his belt, his braces, freeing himself as he engulfs his prize, working with throat and tongue and savage impatience. Blunt fingers scrabble at his head, wanting and needing and–

He breaks away, drooling, to look up into dark, lust-glazed eyes.

"Fuck me?"

A bright flash of teeth in the moonlight and then they're in frantic motion, hands and mouths sliding against overheated skin as constricting cloth is pushed aside. No time for thought or regret or guilt now, only sensation and something painfully like love. He grunts as he's bent over the balustrade, pushing back into the hands that spread him wide, the thumbs that press roughly into him. His fingers wrap, white-knuckled, around a smooth curve of wood and he hisses at the saliva-slick burn, spine arching as he's filled, as he's covered, strong arms wrapping tight around him as hot breath gusts against his ear. He bucks, testing his captivity, and is answered with a moan and a fierce, possessive thrust that drives him into the rail, leaves him groaning, gasping for air as he's impaled time and again, all protest lost in the sweat-sharp slap of skin on skin, the sensation of heavy balls beating time against his own. Teeth close on his nape as something deep inside him flares –

– and he's coming hard, pale strands reflecting silver as they twist and vanish into the darkness of the stairwell beneath. He chokes on his cry, head dropping, clinging to the rail as his knees threaten to buckle beneath him and hands snatch at his hips, fingers biting, bruising; rhythm breaking before the desperate instinct to sink deep, sink deeper, to take and to tame and to mark and to fill...

...an instant of breathless, quivering stillness, of silent and perfect understanding...

The moment breaks and he's left empty, exposed in the moonlight, mourning for something that never really was.

Tomorrow can wait.

Just not for much longer.

~ fin ~