Fic: Like Glue (For Broken Shards of Broken Hearts) (1/1)
Title: Like Glue (For Broken Shards of Broken Hearts)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Ianto/Ten
Word Count: 720
Summary: Whatever it is, he never wants it to end. For random_nexus, who requested “Jack/Ianto/Ten” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers through Torchwood: Children of Earth.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For random_nexus: I didn't realize how much I missed these characters until I started writing them again - so thank you, truly, for asking me to try.
Like Glue (For Broken Shards of Broken Hearts)
It’s a favor, a gift; penance, perhaps, for everything and nothing. Whatever it is, he’s grateful for it. Whatever it is, he never wants it to end.
In all the cosmos, in all the infinite possibilities of time and space, there is no mouth quite so perfect, no voice quite so lilted; no one says his name like Ianto Jones.
The Doctor, to Jack's surprise, bends his precious rules for this one human in all of history, retraces his steps and puts all of existence, created and uncreated, on the fault-line of destruction just to see him again, to spare a glimpse; and Jack knows, in that moment, that in their brief crossing of paths, one young Welshman, taken from life long before his time - because Jack was too selfish, too short-sighted, arrogant, because the Doctor himself was too preoccupied, too late - that single man had made an impression on the unimpressionable. And in seeing that, Jack’s not really so surprised, anymore.
Jack asks the Doctor to find him, in the space where Jack himself was gone, had left - knows it will save more heartbreak than it was ever worth, than Jack himself was ever worth; but the Doctor insists on discretion, on subtlety. He takes them back to just after Davros, when Ianto is alone cleaning the Hub, disassembling the innocuous Dalek tech littered like rain throughout their cavernous stronghold. His eyes widen to see Jack, his lips curve into the sort of exhausted smile that’s too often on that face, that’s the only smile Jack remembers anymore. He wants another smile, though; a better smile. Ianto deserves a better smile.
They take him into the TARDIS, and the Doctor facilitates, the Doctor provides; for the first time in a long time, Jack feels as if everything is right in the whole universe, if only for an instant. And for the first time in Jack's entire existence - long and drawn out beyond measure as it is, so far beyond what he's earned, far shorter than what he deserves - he's only focused on memory, on remembering forevermore. It's not about how he aches, how his cock strains hard against his thigh, trapped against cool sheets; its about wrapping his lips around the tip of Ianto's erection, of slowly swallowing him down to the base, of remembering how that shaft twitches in his throat when he hums, ancient songs he’d learned from the people who wrote them, that Ianto only knows the echoes of in his bones. It’s about watching the expression on Ianto’s face when the Doctor stretches him to breaking, thrusts inside him with the swirling knowledge of all the universe, all the never-ceasing possibilities of life burning through him like scorched earth against his pounding heart. It’s about long fingers that have held the hands of time dancing across Ianto’s hardened nipples while Jack teases at his hole, licks stripes from the cleft of him, up his scrotum, teasing the flesh as it tightens anew, too fast, too soon, too beautiful, and Jack mourns, even as he presses his lips to Ianto’s inner thighs; regrets, repents for all the opportunities he missed because he was too blind, too weak. Too foolish.
The taste of Ianto against his tongue is like holy wine, the nectar of the gods; no one before or since has tasted quite as sour, quite as sweet, lush and full like liquid gold; Ianto’s eyes, his gorgeous eyes flutter shut, the end of everything, and Jack catches the Doctor’s gaze in their stead, deep pools of infinity flooding with pity, now, with sorrow; they both know what it means to lose, have always known - but to lose so greatly, to lose so much: the loss of Ianto Jones is one the stars will lament.
And so as Ianto comes down from the heavens, falls again to wherever mere mortals must trod, as he reaches back to grasp around the Doctor’s neck, as he presses Jack’s forehead into his chest, against his heart; as he holds them steady, they bow into him, fall into him, cherish him in ways he’s never known, but always, always deserved.
They cherish this, whatever it is; whatever it isn’t.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Ianto/Ten
Word Count: 720
Summary: Whatever it is, he never wants it to end. For random_nexus, who requested “Jack/Ianto/Ten” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers through Torchwood: Children of Earth.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For random_nexus: I didn't realize how much I missed these characters until I started writing them again - so thank you, truly, for asking me to try.
Like Glue (For Broken Shards of Broken Hearts)
It’s a favor, a gift; penance, perhaps, for everything and nothing. Whatever it is, he’s grateful for it. Whatever it is, he never wants it to end.
In all the cosmos, in all the infinite possibilities of time and space, there is no mouth quite so perfect, no voice quite so lilted; no one says his name like Ianto Jones.
The Doctor, to Jack's surprise, bends his precious rules for this one human in all of history, retraces his steps and puts all of existence, created and uncreated, on the fault-line of destruction just to see him again, to spare a glimpse; and Jack knows, in that moment, that in their brief crossing of paths, one young Welshman, taken from life long before his time - because Jack was too selfish, too short-sighted, arrogant, because the Doctor himself was too preoccupied, too late - that single man had made an impression on the unimpressionable. And in seeing that, Jack’s not really so surprised, anymore.
Jack asks the Doctor to find him, in the space where Jack himself was gone, had left - knows it will save more heartbreak than it was ever worth, than Jack himself was ever worth; but the Doctor insists on discretion, on subtlety. He takes them back to just after Davros, when Ianto is alone cleaning the Hub, disassembling the innocuous Dalek tech littered like rain throughout their cavernous stronghold. His eyes widen to see Jack, his lips curve into the sort of exhausted smile that’s too often on that face, that’s the only smile Jack remembers anymore. He wants another smile, though; a better smile. Ianto deserves a better smile.
They take him into the TARDIS, and the Doctor facilitates, the Doctor provides; for the first time in a long time, Jack feels as if everything is right in the whole universe, if only for an instant. And for the first time in Jack's entire existence - long and drawn out beyond measure as it is, so far beyond what he's earned, far shorter than what he deserves - he's only focused on memory, on remembering forevermore. It's not about how he aches, how his cock strains hard against his thigh, trapped against cool sheets; its about wrapping his lips around the tip of Ianto's erection, of slowly swallowing him down to the base, of remembering how that shaft twitches in his throat when he hums, ancient songs he’d learned from the people who wrote them, that Ianto only knows the echoes of in his bones. It’s about watching the expression on Ianto’s face when the Doctor stretches him to breaking, thrusts inside him with the swirling knowledge of all the universe, all the never-ceasing possibilities of life burning through him like scorched earth against his pounding heart. It’s about long fingers that have held the hands of time dancing across Ianto’s hardened nipples while Jack teases at his hole, licks stripes from the cleft of him, up his scrotum, teasing the flesh as it tightens anew, too fast, too soon, too beautiful, and Jack mourns, even as he presses his lips to Ianto’s inner thighs; regrets, repents for all the opportunities he missed because he was too blind, too weak. Too foolish.
The taste of Ianto against his tongue is like holy wine, the nectar of the gods; no one before or since has tasted quite as sour, quite as sweet, lush and full like liquid gold; Ianto’s eyes, his gorgeous eyes flutter shut, the end of everything, and Jack catches the Doctor’s gaze in their stead, deep pools of infinity flooding with pity, now, with sorrow; they both know what it means to lose, have always known - but to lose so greatly, to lose so much: the loss of Ianto Jones is one the stars will lament.
And so as Ianto comes down from the heavens, falls again to wherever mere mortals must trod, as he reaches back to grasp around the Doctor’s neck, as he presses Jack’s forehead into his chest, against his heart; as he holds them steady, they bow into him, fall into him, cherish him in ways he’s never known, but always, always deserved.
They cherish this, whatever it is; whatever it isn’t.