A/N: This is just a tiny little fic I wrote to help get over writers-block. R&R, and I'll send you happy thoughts. They keep you from falling out of the sky.
DISCLAIMER: All rights belong to RTD and the BBC. I make no profit off of this.
WARNINGS: J/I pairing. Sexual references.
Hot breath on his neck, and hands beneath his jacket, lips pressing on his pulse point. His own hands respond in kind, and his head snaps back hard enough to hit the wall he's being pushed against, but he doesn't mind.
And this does not mean what you think it does. This is not about give and take, or need and desire; this is about muscle memory. Mechanical gestures performed in response to the buttons being pushed. His name being whispered, urgent and harsh against his ear makes him shiver; gentle suction at his neck makes him moan, because this is what it's always done.
He is not in the moment, he is of it, and he is nothing but the chemicals that flood his system at any given time. He was something else a moment ago, and he will be different again come tomorrow, but for now he is lust, and taste, and fire. There are worse things to be, he reckons, things that hurt and suffer, and he knows he'll be those things again. But, that will come later.
Now, he focuses on strong hands, and soft lips, his mind uncoiling pleasantly. This does not mean what you think it does, because this is nothing. Just two machines that have lost their metal parts, pushing and reacting in the way they were designed.
He does not feel guilty to be in this position, even though she is so close, because time has had no consequence for a while now. It stopped short on that day, and would only begin again once he fixed her. Once he stripped away her metal parts, and brought her back to the level of the rest of them. Until then, nothing mattered and nothing counted, so he does not feel guilty for doing things he will not have done. This is nothing, and nothing can have no logic and no reason.
He is secure in this thinking, and presses closer to the man pinning him, enjoying the chemicals he is becoming. He can feel those strong, calloused hands fumbling with the button of his trousers, and he makes no move to help them. He is intoxicated with the anticipation, his blood carrying the fire from his brain to the rest of him, making him feel alive. He knows that that feeling will be fleeting, and he wants it to last, wants to ride it as long as he can, before he must transform back into agony.
That is what he is most of the time, nothing but dull, aching agony. It occurs to him that his brain must hate him to make him into that, since it is nothing but a signal. Then, he feels lips against his, and a hand against his bare flesh, stroking and squeezing exactly where he needs it, and his mind spins. He is now pleasure, simple and uncompromising.
There is something primal in this, something raw and fearful. His moans turn into screams, and he isn't sure if he's a man, a machine, or a God. He isn't sure if the man whose ear he is screaming into is real, or just a chemical reaction.
He feels his hands moving to touch, to reciprocate, because that seems like the thing to do, at a time like this. He can't remember if this has ever happened before, in quite this way. This could be the first time or the fiftieth; he wishes he knew, but feels it doesn't matter. He hears himself chanting 'Jack' like a litany, a prayer for answers and salvation, but the word means nothing to him. And there is nothing coherent after that. His thoughts spiral out, scattering until he can't place them, and for that he is grateful.
There is an unbalance in the after, a mixture of pain and bliss that makes him ill. He cannot be both; he cannot assimilate the two. It is like having two minds working at odds, both screaming that they are what he needs to be.
He stands shakily, pulling himself together, wanting nothing more than to become the agony he is used to being. He knows where he stands there, because that is what he's always been. As he heads for the door, lost in thought without meaning, he feels a hand grasp his arm.
He looks up into a face that is confused and stricken, and he wonders what button he pushed to get that reaction. It is an intellectual thought, curious but not caring. He smiles briefly, because that is what he's always done in these situations, and makes an excuse that he knows is shallow and unnecessary. They are just machines.
And this has meant nothing.