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Tuesday, June 8th, 2010 12:05 am
By: [livejournal.com profile] loveslashangst
Fandoms: Torchwood
Pairings: Captain John Hart/Agent Johnson
Kinks: Written to the kink_bingo prompt “bloodplay”, but rated XXX for mature content, language, sexually suggestive behaviour, use of knives and bladed weapons, violent sex, BDSM, some DubCon, and violence.
Title: On the Edge
Summary: Agent Johnson’s a ruthless bitch. Captain John Hart’s a kinky bastard. It’s a match made in heaven (or hell.) Takes place post “Children of Earth”.
Content Notes: Honestly, this is one of my fave pairings of all time: The Time Agency’s very own omnisexual violent top and UNIT’s cold-as-steel dominatrix. Few things are more fun than letting two unapologetic alpha wolves have at each other, literally and sexually.

So John Hart’s on the edge of a roof, eating fried chicken from one of those wonderful paper buckets the Americans of the late twentieth century have invented. The Deep South is a long way to go for wings-and-thighs, but the Brits make such a soggy, tasteless mess of fried chicken that it’s well worth the blatant abuse of his wrist strap. ‘Sides, now that Jack’s off world and his playmates are a shambles (or dead, which is a waste, poor Eye Candy), who’s around to stop him from doing as he pleases?

He tucks another clean-picked bone into the bucket. Licks his fingers, watching the UNIT goons cluster around the Cardiff Rift. No doubt that group of Keystone Cops are waiting for something really interesting to fall through. Too bad they don’t have his tech, or they’d know this is just an inter-dimensional hiccough. Boring, minor Rift spike. No easy pickings today. No such luck.

He pulls another piece from the bucket. Today promises to be far more interesting than this fool’s errand.

See, what really interests him is not the goons in their body armour and black uniforms (though the red berets really are quite fetching.) No. He’s far more taken with their lovely commander. Agent Johnson, if his intel is to be believed. Cold-hearted little bitch with long black hair and the kind of cold, cold voice that makes a man dream of six-inch stilettos and corsets.

Flagellian cat-o-nine would be nice too. Or even a half-decent bullwhip.

Point is, she seems bound and determined to pick right up where Jack and his crew left off. Nosing about. Catching stray stuff. Generally being in his way and taking what he’d rightfully planned to steal. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care, but if that curator is telling the truth about two thousand years from now, something entirely too good to pass up should be falling through any day.

He prizes the last untouched piece from among the leavings. Devours it in a few messy mouthfuls. Lovely. Spicing’s just perfect and divinely crisp on the breading. He drops the bone in the bucket and looks down.

Every cur within a five block radius looks up, tails wagging and tongues lolling. The tiniest mutt even sits up and begs. He grins down at them. Drops the bucket.

The three-storey plummet causes a fountain of chicken bones. The dogs go mad. A feeding frenzy ensues.

UNIT goons perk up at the sudden ruckus. The lovely Bitch Johnson signals a team. Goes back to her readings.

By the time the goons get here, he’ll be long gone.


“Agent Johnson.”

She starts at the voice. Whirls, hand on gun.

A man in a red cavalier coat lounges, half in shadow. He’s cleaning his nails with a very sharp-looking dagger.

He looks up, all wavy brown hair and quite amazing cheekbones. “Nice night for it.”

The detector at her belt goes off. Non-contemporaneous time signature. She stares, then recovers herself. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“The first is not important, but the second is a very good question,” he says. “One I’ve asked myself frequently. I want to be rich. Free. Well-fucked. Stoned out of my mind. And someplace the law doesn’t reach.”

“When are you from?” she says.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he grins at her. Pares his nail in a way that emphasizes his fine control of the blade.

That’s when she notices the wrist strap. Same as Captain Harkness’s. Alien tech. Fifty-first century. “Where did you get that?”

“Same place he did,” says the man. “And for the same reason.”

“I need to find him,” she says, then regrets the words. She should have teased that out longer.

“Do you?” He uncurls from his spot, lithe and dangerous and more than a little fuckable. “That’s interesting.”

“You know where he is.” It’s not a question. She tries hard not to react when he comes closer. He reeks of spices and cinnamon and sex.

“Maybe.” He circles around behind her. “And if I did, could you make it worth my while?”

She stiffens. “I don’t negotiate with criminals.” She opens her mouth to call for her bodyguards.

“They’re out,” he says. He bends close enough that his breath brushes her ear. “The lucky ones are chasing dogs.”

“You’ve got balls,” she says.

“Got a nice cock too.” He stands in front of her. “Point is, I have something you want. And now the fun part: negotiating to make sure that both of us get what we need.”

Enough of this sexually-charged bullshit. “Prove that you can produce Captain Harkness or fuck off.”

He moves so quickly she has no time to react. Pins her against a wall, that fine blade to her throat. His lithe body presses hers. Muscle. Bone. Steel. Her breath is heavy in her throat. He bends close, teasing and dangerous. Barely brushes her lips with his. “Be very careful whom you tell to fuck off, Agent Johnson.” The blade bites at her throat. “Someone might mistake your intentions.”

With a desperate force of will, she controls the shiver of fear-laden lust. Presses her neck harder against the blade, daring him. Fixes him with her coldest glare, even as a trickle of blood tickles its way down her throat. “What could possibly make you think I give a shit about your intentions?”

He grins, very slowly. Very dangerously. “Jack’s an old flame of mine. Time was, we used to fuck like Antarean energy bunnies. Means I know him inside and out, in both the literal and metaphysical senses. If anyone in the universe can find him, it’s me.”

She presses the point of her own blade a little deeper between his ribs. He shivers, more delighted than threatened. “And when you find him?” she says.

“I fuck him, fight him, or finagle him into returning to Earth,” says the man. He fixes her with a cool blue-grey stare. Grinds against her, cock hot and hard even through the clothing between them. “In return, you and your bully-boys fuck off from monitoring the Cardiff Rift for the next forty-eight hours.”

She is not about to be bullied. Digs the point of her blade in until she’s sure she’s broken skin. “Everything that falls through the Rift--“

“Is not yours either,” he interrupts. “So don’t get high and mighty. We’re all thieves here.” He traces the blade down her throat, scratching but not breaking the skin. “But not without some honour? Or -- at the very least -- practicality.”

She fights down the twinge of lust, but can’t help arching up a little into that cold, sharp caress. “Stop talking in circles.”

He wrenches her dagger away from his ribs. Forces her hand up to his mouth. Dips his tongue to taste his blood on her blade. “Jack in exchange for two days off for you and your team,” he says, visibly savouring the flavour. “Do we have a deal?”

The man’s insane and unstable and probably homicidal. The thought thrills her, tightening nipples and stirring her groin. “I don’t trust you,” she says.

“Good.” A brief, dazzling grin. “Means you’re not stupid.”

She kisses him. Tastes the coppery tang on his tongue. He licks into her mouth, tasting back. Pulls away. Licks up her throat. Laps at the place where his dagger drew blood. Sucks. She arches into his arms. Throws her own arms around him. Nicks his cheek by accident.

He smiles. Touches the wound. Looks at the dark smear on his fingers. Smiles, a dangerous curve of kissable lips. Licks his fingers clean.

“I have something you need,” he says. “And you have something I want.”

“Where are my men?” she says with the last sane part of her mind.

“Gone,” he says. “Most of them will be back.” He begins to back away. “By then, I’ll be gone.”

She grabs his wrist. “Like hell, you will.”

He stares at her hand on his arm. Looks up, neutral as a wolf trying to decide if it should attack or depart.

“Try to detain me,” he says conversationally, “and I’ll kill every man who lays hands on me.” He slides his coat off his gorgeously-sculpted arms. “Unless you can think of more entertaining ways to keep me here.”

She slashes him across his other cheek.


The laugh boils out of him. So she will mark him after all, given ample provocation. What sport this will be! Hart strips out of his cavalier jacket. Tosses it aside. Palms his twin hyper-titanium blades. Circles and dodges out of Johnson’s reach. Have to admit, the girl’s quick on her attack. Feisty and slightly bitchy -- just what the doctor ordered.

Parry. Thrust. Block. Yeah, her training’s half-decent -- in fact, for this time period it’s spectacular. She doesn’t have the body mods, though. Lacks his speed and control. He lets her play with him for a while. Dodges narrowly so she’ll think she’s doing well. Enjoys the bladed breeze that is each attack. Counters with ones of his own. Slices through the straps of the body armour. Pulls it over her head in one smooth motion. (She does get a good deep cut across his ribs for that one. Have to give her points there.) He slowly cuts her shirt to ribbons. Keeps the wounds superficial, though. Just enough to let her know what kind of tiger’s tail she’s pulling. He even slices her wrist (just a little, enough to smart but no real threat). Catches her hand. Laps a wet kiss to the coppery tang at her pulse point.

She backhands him hard enough that he sees stars. Bliss!

That’s the best thing about this one -- after the initial shock, this pretty thing’s not the least bit scared of him. No, she’s focussed by anger. Tightly-controlled rage. Oh, it is a beautiful thing to behold. He lets her fight him toward a wall. Even takes a good nick to the arm. She pins him, one blade to his throat, the other just below the ribcage on the left. If she thrusts up, it’s straight to the heart -- a killing stroke.

He now has steel of a different kind in his pants. “Ooh. You ARE fun!” Adrenaline is a red-voiced song in his veins. He moistens his lips. “Now what?”

She clearly hasn’t thought that far. Not like her, near as he can tell. He takes her lack of Plan B as a compliment.

“Kill me,” he says, “and you don’t get what you want.”

He could die happily in those cold, cold eyes. “So what do you propose?” she says.

He drops his weapons. Presses the backs of his hands to the wall in surrender. “Let me show you.”

It’s torture to wait until she relaxes her guard, but he hasn’t survived this long by being impatient at inopportune moments. He waits for her to blink. To stand down just that first slight bit. He snatches the one blade away. Sends the other skittering over cobblestones. Grabs her by the throat. Rides her down to the ground. (Not too rough. Wouldn’t do to bruise the goods.) Straddles her chest, pinning arms and body in one neat motion.

“You are so delicious to play with,” he says.

Furious, she writhes and arches beneath him. Can’t clear the ground. No leverage.

He leans his arms across her chest, peering down at her. “All right, that was fun. But why go for the knives when there are other… offers… that might interest me enough to detain me?”

He caresses the lovely white skin of her cheek with the stolen blade. She’s breathing hard. Her narrowed eyes begin to relax. He caresses her lower lip with the tip of the blade. Nicks it, just a little. Bends to lick the bead of blood. She doesn’t react at first, still and holding her breath. He suckles her lower lip. Her eyes roll closed for a moment. She’s holding back, trying so hard not to respond. He persists, sucking harder. He presses into her mouth. Kisses her. Lets her taste the salty decadence on his tongue -- a mix of her blood and his.

She moans into his mouth.

He smiles.

When he straightens, she pulls her own lip into her mouth. Sucks it.

He slides slowly down her body. Uses his knees to keep her arms tightly pinned to her sides. Breathless, she doesn’t fight him. Turns her head away, exposing the lovely line of her neck. He bends close. Breathes softly on that sensitive skin. Her breath’s moving faster now. Almost panting.

He’s straddling her waist now, knees pressing her arms tight to her hips. He puts the blade between her teeth. Lets it serve as a sharp-edged gag. Rips her ruined shirt open.

She cries out, cringing as the blade nicks the corner of her mouth.

He retrieves the blade. Slides the flat of it down her throat. Over her collar bone. Just a fine slice there. Not even enough to scar. He cuts one bra strap. The other. Changes his grip. Slides the blade straight down between her breasts. With one quick jerk, he severs the centre strap on her bra.

He buries her protests in a kiss. Licks. Laps. Drives his tongue deep into her mouth. Passionate little minx that she is, she drives up into his. Fights him, even with her kiss.

She gasps in pleasure when he nicks her nipple with the blade’s sharp tip. Moans when he draws as much of her delicious tit as he can handle into his mouth. Sucks hard.

He slides lower. Slashes through her belt. Carves open the flies of her trousers. Slices off the slim little panties.

She surges up. Snatches her blade back. Drives the butt of it hard into his cheek. Knocks him, face-first, to the ground. Straddles him.

And for a delicious minute, he fancies that she considers killing him. The point of the dagger is at his back. Just in the right place to slide between his ribs.

She slices through his shirt instead, a long cut down the centre of his back. It’s a finely-edged line of pain and pleasure. She rips his shirt open. Licks up his back. And the thought of his blood on her tongue has him so hot and hard he’s almost humping the paving stones beneath him.

She turns him over. Pins his shoulders and chest to the ground with her knees. Her cunt’s just a few centimetres away from his mouth, hot and alive and fragrant. She presses the knife to his mouth. Obediently, he licks the blade clean.

She kneels up. Presses the tip of the dagger to her clit. Nicks herself. A dark drop glistens.

His mouth goes wet. “Oh, yes. Please.”

She lowers herself onto his mouth. Slowly. Slowly. Taking her time with the tease.

He eats her like a starving man tasting food for the first time in months. She tastes of life and sex and need. She comes hard, shuddering and silent.

And though his shoulders are pinned, his hands are free to undo his own flies. He’s in no hurry to end this, though, as she’s delicious and wanton, grinding her cunt harder and harder into his face. Riding his tongue.

She arches, crying out. Flooding him with her wetness. He slides up between her legs. Pulls her into his lap. Slides into her, her cunt just as hot as his cock. She thrusts down as he thrusts up.

She tucks the dagger under his chin, point sharp and sweet. Rides him fiercely. Shudders around him with a ragged exhale of breath.

He throws her off of him. Snatches the dagger from her hand. Grabs her by the hair. She’s on hands and knees. Easy access. He slaps the flat of the blade against the curve of her arse. Once. Twice. Three times. Draws it carefully up between her lovely legs so it’ll slide against her lovely half-fucked cunt.

She makes the most divine mewling noise.

He slides into her again, rougher this time. Fucks her. Hard. Slow. Drives his cock as deep as it’ll go. Puts the blade back between her teeth. Lets her hair go. Thrusts. Slow. Hard. Every one a shock. Every one deep.

She comes so hard her velvet vice of a cunt makes him gasp.

He fucks into her. Faster now. Need to finish. They’ve taken too long as it is. He takes her, rough and hard and loving the thought of that blade, biting fresh into the corners of her mouth. Building. Building. Not long now.

He empties into her with a deep groan. Jets again and again. Heaven.

For several blissful moments, there is only the sound of their breathing, loud in the silence of the street.

In the distance, he can hear the march of annoyed-sounding boots. Her goons, returning from their fool’s errand. He pulls out, tucking himself quickly back into his trousers. Retrieves his (mercifully) untouched coat. Picks up one of his neglected daggers. After a moment’s hesitation, he leaves the other.

The way he figures, it’ll be like a hotter version of Cinderella’s shoe.

So while he’s mostly only lost a very replaceable t-shirt, Johnson is pretty much naked. He turns her over. Takes the blade from her teeth. Kisses her, lingering as long as he dares. No idea how she’ll explain this one, but fortunately, that’s not his problem.

“Two days,” he murmurs.

“Jack Harkness,” she agrees.

Much more cheerful, he disappears back into the night.

He keeps her dagger.

She keeps his.

Crossposted to [livejournal.com profile] torchwoodslash, [livejournal.com profile] guns_n_poodles