Baby, Your Gaze Gets Me Hard as Granite
Dec. 11th, 2012 12:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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dwfictionTitle: Baby, Your Gaze Gets Me Hard as Granite
Author:tenlittlebullets
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Characters/pairings: (That would be telling! Highlight to read) Jack Harkness/Weeping Angel
Summary: Okay, internet, you wanted a weeping angel falling in love with a human and tragically sending them back in time by accident? Your wish is my command.
Notes: Crack. CRACK. I have absolutely no excuse for this one-way ticket to the special hell, but the post that inspired it is here.
A gentleman who fought a duel in a cemetery was intriguing. A gentleman who arrived two hours early, unaccompanied by his seconds, to sit there contemplating mortality, and who cast the occasional appreciative glance upon the statues... that was gratifying. A poet, probably, or an aesthete. A nice refined meal.
She had always been one to play with her food, and so she circled him for hours, waiting to see how long it would be before he noticed her drawing nearer. At last, as the first glow of dawn began to light the sky and the clatter of a carriage approached down the cemetery drive, he stood up and jammed his top hat back on. He said quite distinctly to himself, “It never seems fair, but then again, I have no idea whether it will just stop working one day.” Time to strike.
She was so close—inches from the kill—when he turned around and saw her. She froze, not that she had much choice. Oh, the delayed gratification was such delicious torture. Would he scream? It was so much fun when they screamed. Some of them even came up and touched her of their own volition, to make sure she wasn’t a prankster in a costume. But this man... he winked at her. “Give me your sculptor’s card sometime,” he said, “because I can’t remember the last time I saw such perfectly-formed shoulders.”
She was smitten. She let him go.
The gentlemen assembled for their duel, and if any of them noticed that one of the solemn stone angels covered its eyes when the pistols went off, they soon had more important matters to attend to, because both combatants’ aim was true. And the graveyard was full of statues, so none of them batted an eye (luckily for them) at her weeping under the willow where they dragged him after the doctor pronounced him dead.
Overwhelmed by her sudden grief, she cupped his handsome face in her hand the instant his friends’ backs were turned. Her touch would do nothing to a corpse, of course. She contemplated him mutely, this first man to ever pay her a compliment, and stroked her thumb along his lips...
...which suddenly parted in a convulsive gasp for air. His eyes flew open, freezing her into stone, but it was too late. He vanished, and his life energy slammed into her, at once overwhelming and utterly undigestible.
The next day, an old widow wandering through the most secluded part of the cemetery drew herself up short and sniffed in disapproval, wondering who could have the unimaginable bad taste to sculpt a beautiful angel retching into the brook.
The angel, for her part, put it down to true love. Surely (the immortal assassin from the early depths of time concluded, in the fashion of an infatuated fourteen-year-old) even her ineffable body recoiled from the idea of using this man’s life for sustenance. She became a permanent feature on the tombstone his friends erected for him even in the absence of a body to bury, and each of them thought one of the others had commissioned the weeping angel statue in secret.
One year later to the day, somebody tapped her on the shoulder.
“Hey,” said a voice she had only heard once before but would never forget, “thanks for that. People were starting to ask awkward questions about why I never aged, and I wasn’t looking forward to having to fake my own death.”
He blinked, and she was no longer weeping but staring up at him, her lips parted in wonder.
“Besides,” he continued, “you’ve got great taste. Early Belle Epoque Paris? I couldn’t have asked for better.”
Another blink. Her hand was now reaching out longingly, inches from his face.
He threw his hands up and stepped back, adding hastily, “Not that I’m asking for a return trip! I mean, I might run into myself, and I don’t know if the risk of blowing a hole in the spacetime continuum would be enough to make me keep my hands off.”
She wished she could react, but he was staring at her intently—so, so intently. If stone could blush, she would’ve. And then his face cracked into a grin and he said, “But hey, I figure I owe you a favor, or at least a thank-you kiss. May I?” And oh—onto her outstretched fingers he rolled an elbow-length opera glove. He closed his eyes as he bent to offer a gallant kiss to the back of her hand, and she tremblingly raised a finger to his lips.
He straightened up and winked at her again—winked where he could’ve blinked, the cheeky bastard. “More where that came from, angel.” Next chance she got, she made her move, and he found himself dragged forward until only the tombstone reading “Jack Harkness - 1860-1906” separated them, his shirt collar caught in a grip of granite and his face inches from her lips, which were parted in clear invitation.
He chuckled. “Lucky for you, I brought protection. And a little something extra for your benefit.” From his briefcase he pulled two rolls of cloth: the first was a thick, full-length mourning veil. And the second, she realized with delight, was a blindfold.
Author:
tenlittlebulletsFandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG
Characters/pairings: (That would be telling! Highlight to read) Jack Harkness/Weeping Angel
Summary: Okay, internet, you wanted a weeping angel falling in love with a human and tragically sending them back in time by accident? Your wish is my command.
Notes: Crack. CRACK. I have absolutely no excuse for this one-way ticket to the special hell, but the post that inspired it is here.
A gentleman who fought a duel in a cemetery was intriguing. A gentleman who arrived two hours early, unaccompanied by his seconds, to sit there contemplating mortality, and who cast the occasional appreciative glance upon the statues... that was gratifying. A poet, probably, or an aesthete. A nice refined meal.
She had always been one to play with her food, and so she circled him for hours, waiting to see how long it would be before he noticed her drawing nearer. At last, as the first glow of dawn began to light the sky and the clatter of a carriage approached down the cemetery drive, he stood up and jammed his top hat back on. He said quite distinctly to himself, “It never seems fair, but then again, I have no idea whether it will just stop working one day.” Time to strike.
She was so close—inches from the kill—when he turned around and saw her. She froze, not that she had much choice. Oh, the delayed gratification was such delicious torture. Would he scream? It was so much fun when they screamed. Some of them even came up and touched her of their own volition, to make sure she wasn’t a prankster in a costume. But this man... he winked at her. “Give me your sculptor’s card sometime,” he said, “because I can’t remember the last time I saw such perfectly-formed shoulders.”
She was smitten. She let him go.
The gentlemen assembled for their duel, and if any of them noticed that one of the solemn stone angels covered its eyes when the pistols went off, they soon had more important matters to attend to, because both combatants’ aim was true. And the graveyard was full of statues, so none of them batted an eye (luckily for them) at her weeping under the willow where they dragged him after the doctor pronounced him dead.
Overwhelmed by her sudden grief, she cupped his handsome face in her hand the instant his friends’ backs were turned. Her touch would do nothing to a corpse, of course. She contemplated him mutely, this first man to ever pay her a compliment, and stroked her thumb along his lips...
...which suddenly parted in a convulsive gasp for air. His eyes flew open, freezing her into stone, but it was too late. He vanished, and his life energy slammed into her, at once overwhelming and utterly undigestible.
The next day, an old widow wandering through the most secluded part of the cemetery drew herself up short and sniffed in disapproval, wondering who could have the unimaginable bad taste to sculpt a beautiful angel retching into the brook.
The angel, for her part, put it down to true love. Surely (the immortal assassin from the early depths of time concluded, in the fashion of an infatuated fourteen-year-old) even her ineffable body recoiled from the idea of using this man’s life for sustenance. She became a permanent feature on the tombstone his friends erected for him even in the absence of a body to bury, and each of them thought one of the others had commissioned the weeping angel statue in secret.
One year later to the day, somebody tapped her on the shoulder.
“Hey,” said a voice she had only heard once before but would never forget, “thanks for that. People were starting to ask awkward questions about why I never aged, and I wasn’t looking forward to having to fake my own death.”
He blinked, and she was no longer weeping but staring up at him, her lips parted in wonder.
“Besides,” he continued, “you’ve got great taste. Early Belle Epoque Paris? I couldn’t have asked for better.”
Another blink. Her hand was now reaching out longingly, inches from his face.
He threw his hands up and stepped back, adding hastily, “Not that I’m asking for a return trip! I mean, I might run into myself, and I don’t know if the risk of blowing a hole in the spacetime continuum would be enough to make me keep my hands off.”
She wished she could react, but he was staring at her intently—so, so intently. If stone could blush, she would’ve. And then his face cracked into a grin and he said, “But hey, I figure I owe you a favor, or at least a thank-you kiss. May I?” And oh—onto her outstretched fingers he rolled an elbow-length opera glove. He closed his eyes as he bent to offer a gallant kiss to the back of her hand, and she tremblingly raised a finger to his lips.
He straightened up and winked at her again—winked where he could’ve blinked, the cheeky bastard. “More where that came from, angel.” Next chance she got, she made her move, and he found himself dragged forward until only the tombstone reading “Jack Harkness - 1860-1906” separated them, his shirt collar caught in a grip of granite and his face inches from her lips, which were parted in clear invitation.
He chuckled. “Lucky for you, I brought protection. And a little something extra for your benefit.” From his briefcase he pulled two rolls of cloth: the first was a thick, full-length mourning veil. And the second, she realized with delight, was a blindfold.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-12-11 02:23 pm (UTC)