Prose : Purple Sheets
Rated NC-17.
Guns N' Roses knew what they were talking about when they wrote November Rain, thinks Ianto as he shivers in the bitter, cold drizzle. Carrying his shopping from the car boot to the house, he juggles keys and bags in one hand as he tries to open the front door. The sharp wind that accompanies the rain blows him and his shopping through the front door, whistling through the house and making the carpet near the front door wet through. Ianto uses his shoulder to shut the front door behind him before he stumbles through the small corridor which leads to his kitchen. He places the carrier bags on the kitchen counters and heaves a sigh of relief as he leans against the worktop and feels the tension in his arms and neck release.
The house is dark; the rain outside of the windows mixed with the hours of evening steal the sunlight easily. There is a pile of letters, which he didn’t notice as he came in, on a mat by the front door as he heads upstairs. The first couple are soaked, the ink running like black rain drops across the white. He rolls his eyes and tuts as he picks them up and jogs upstairs, toward his bedroom.
He strips off easily (there are no eyes to hide from any more) and wanders around his bedroom in search for a pair of jeans and large black hoodie which he quickly pulls on over a thin t-shirt. He rubs his hair with a towel from the bathroom, drying it of the raindrops, before hanging it over a rail and jogging back down to the kitchen again.
It’s strange, this house so large and empty of life. He’s a stranger to silence throughout his busy days, despite his own reserved nature towards life, and this complete solitude makes him feel more alone than ever as he puts his shopping away and pours a glass of orange juice for himself. He wanders into his living room, and even that is empty, the absence of homely mess and chaos adding to the feeling of being unlived in. It’s plain walls and solid lines, and there’s not even a newspaper or a magazine to clutter the spaces between sofa’s and walls, the gaps between armchair cushions and seats.
Ianto flicks through his mail and absently tosses the junk mail in a neat pile on one of the small side tables, smiling humourlessly. At least that makes the room look a little less pathetic. Ianto sits heavily in one of the over-stuffed brown armchairs and opens a few bills before switching on the television.
The flicking light of the telly makes it easy to feel a little more at home. The room is dark, darker still it seems with only the light of the television to illuminate the room, and slowly Ianto slips into sleep, his cheek resting on his hand as he drifts off.
He’s awoken abruptly by the harsh knocking of his front door. He jerks awake, cheek slipping off hand, and blinks his eyes furiously to read the clock over his small fireplace which reads nine o’clock, before stumbling out of the chair and heading for the front door. Opening it, he finds the rain and winds from earlier have far from subsided. Instead they seem even fiercer, and with their presence they bring another more sturdy character who blusters through the door heeding little regard for Ianto’s cream carpets.
“Every time you think you’re in control of things, the Welsh weather has to jump out and surprise you. God, I love how nature can always get the upper-hand on extra-terrestrials.”
The rustling of a raincoat is louder than it should be in the small confines of Ianto’s hall. Rain splatters everywhere as the dark-coated figure shakes himself and wanders off. Ianto looks as though he’s about to cry as he eyes the muddy footprints that lead through to the kitchen. A light flickers harshly as it’s switched on in the kitchen.
“I brought pizza!” calls a voice, followed by a sneeze.
“Oh... good.”
Jack’s head pokes around the kitchen door and grins widely. “Cheese and tomato. I would’ve got pepperoni, which I know is your favourite, but... I didn’t. You’re not in a suit. How odd. Do you have plates?”
Ianto stares blankly at Jack. He doesn’t know where to begin. “Hello,” is a conventional start, but he thinks that moment has come and gone, without him even having the chance to wave at it as it passed by.
“Of course I have plates. Top cupboard, left of the oven, next to your head.”
Jack tries to open the cupboard without knocking a fern that’s hanging awkwardly next to the kitchen door and goes to pull out two plates before shrugging and putting them back again.
“What are you--?” says Ianto who has just wandered into the kitchen.
“It’s more fun to eat from the box, don’t you think?”
Ianto doesn’t, but he shrugs anyway before slipping into the living room, ignoring the patches of mud on the hall carpet.
“Take your shoes and jacket off,” he says automatically, feeling Jack’s feet about to touch the clean cream of the living room carpet. Jack draws his foot back and kicks of his boots before padding into the living room, turning on another light as he goes and making the recently dark house now bright with light.
Ianto is not as surprised at Jack’s presence as he should be. The drowsiness of sleep still haunts him, eyes heavy as he sits down on the sofa and switches off the television. Jack sits next to him, long legs brushing Ianto’s with a closeness that’s not needed for a three-person settee, but Ianto doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry it’s so late but I thought, well, how much have you eaten today? A sandwich? If that?”
Ianto rubs his eyes again and peers blearily at Jack. “What... why, why are you... what?” He yawns. Nine o’clock and already shattered; he really is getting old.
“--And I figured that you’d be on your own and when you’re not in the hub you’re here, and I’m glad you are because driving in this weather is a nightmare! Even in the SUV. Hello? Are you listening?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Ianto says without thinking. His welsh accent is thick and low, roughened by the need for sleep. Jack looks at him as though he’s genuinely considering his answer.
“No. Not really.”
“Right...” Ianto sighs. “Right.”
Jack smiles and nudges the pizza box towards Ianto who smiles gratefully despite his tiredness and takes a slice.
“I’m surprised you remembered where I live.”
“Hard to forget really.”
Ianto doesn’t ask what Jack means. Jack doesn’t elaborate.
They sit together in peaceful silence, Ianto eating the pizza whilst Jack pours over the junk mail fliers for the local supermarkets. An eighteen pence jar of strawberry jam and a paper shredder catches his eye, but other than that his supermarket search turns out to be quite fruitless. It’s only when the pizza box is empty that Ianto realises that Jack’s only had about two slices of the pizza. He’d normally feel guilty, but the look in Jack’s eyes tells him that he’s not surprised and he doesn’t begrudge him one bit.
Leaning back into the sofa, now comfortably full, Ianto closes his eyes and smiles serenely. Jack’s body is warm against his side, comforting, a new source of light in his darkness, just like always. The feeling of no longer being alone is almost overwhelming as they sit there, Jack’s hands fiddling with the fliers as he makes small paper aeroplanes.
“I...” Ianto swallows. His eyes flick over Jack’s wet hair, his eyes shining brightly as they watch his fingers carefully, all the while creasing the paper with meticulous precision. “Stay the night,” he says, deeply, huskily, and it’s not a question, not even a plea. Jack nods with such definition that Ianto knows that this is why he came. He’s thankful for that. It’s not just Jack’s need to look after Ianto that brings him to his house when the world has gone dark, submissive to night. It is his need for company. It’s something that Ianto can do for Jack in return and Ianto’s grateful that he doesn’t owe Jack favours.
Ianto hand feels awkward as he slips it around the back of Jack’s neck and holds it there, hair damp under his fingers. His forehead touches Jack’s, and then his nose touches Jack’s nose, and then their lips are touching, tongues finding tongues, and all at once Ianto’s body is tight and aching, desperate to have contact with Jack’s.
His heart begins to race as Jack pulls him up from the settee, towards the stairs. “I didn’t come here for this,” Jack murmurs against Ianto’s neck, except they both know he’s lying. “I didn’t come here just for this,” he corrects, stumbling up the stairs with Ianto pushing him backward, their lips and teeth knocking. Ianto’s hoodie is missing by the time that Jack and he crash through his bedroom door, kisses becoming nips and bites, touches becoming bruises. Ianto and Jack roughly push Ianto’s duvet and throw onto the floor, brown and creams being peeled away to reveal rich, deep purple bed sheets.
Jack’s always said that Ianto was like his bed, always being the last two times that they’ve done this here: A regal, smart exterior being ripped away to reveal a sensual and attractive underlay. Lisa never liked this bedding, these browns and purples. Jack is beautiful against the deep lavender sheets as they ripple and fold around his body. Ianto pulls his shirt away to expose white skin to the harsh darkness of the sheets. The orange glow of the streetlamp outside is watery as it illuminates the room, giving barely enough light to see, giving touch and taste dominance over all other senses.
It doesn’t take a lot for Ianto to get hard around Jack these days. He straddles Jack without thinking, the need to rub against him overpowering. He exhales, and his breath out comes deep, from the center of his chest. He shakes involuntarily as Jack pulls him close, as he growls against his neck and then arches his own as Ianto’s fingers find the button’s on his trousers. Jack mirrors the action, causing them to both lose their trousers and pants at the same time. It’s a moment before Ianto pulls his t-shirt over his head, and then they’re both completely naked, warm skin pressing everywhere, heart beats merging as chests press against chests, as wrists are held commandingly.
Their hands start to explore.
Ianto feels Jack’s cock in his hand as he moves it lower and spreads his fingers around the hard length. Jack’s head is wet already, and he sucks in a breath of air when Ianto uses his thumb to trace the slit carefully. Ianto watches Jack as he moves his hand. Jack’s taught him this, taught him almost everything that he knows, but it doesn’t make any difference to the amount of pleasure that it gives him. Seeing Jack’s composure slowly ebb away makes Ianto even harder. His cock throbs against his stomach as it bobs in front of him.
There’s a strip of light that streaks in from the slight gap in the door where they’ve left it open. It’s bright when mixed with the dull amber tones from the window and Ianto watches the bars of colour that hit Jack with an interest that has too much fervour, too much wildness about it. Jack notices; he brings Ianto into the light, into the strips of white and yellow, even blue where the moonlight decides to join them.
His fingers absently trace the line of hair on Ianto’s stomach that leads from navel to prick, teasing him, making his prick jolt with interest. Ianto moans and squeezes Jack hard enough to make him stop. Jack laughs breathlessly, moves his lips to Ianto’s chin, to his jaw, to his lips, and then they’re kissing deeply, sweetly, until they have to draw back for air.
Ianto breathes out, deeply but slowly, eyes shut as he forces his body to stop from boiling over. Underneath him Jack wriggles, breathing no longer quiet, each pant ragged, as though the air is being ripped from his lungs in infrequent bursts. When he moans, it’s not quiet and guarded like they have to be at the hub, (just in case). It is unrestrained, full of purpose and intent. Jack arches against the press of Ianto’s hips against his, and Ianto growls low.
“I want...” he says, and Jack knows what he means, what he expects, what he needs, and he’s reaching toward Ianto’s side cupboard before Ianto’s even finished the sentence. Jack tears the top of the condom packet off with his teeth and rolls it onto Ianto who puts his chin to his chest and tries to control his breathing. He then slowly coats Ianto’s cock in lube, hand working up and down, underneath his sac, fingers finding places that Ianto didn’t even know made him feel like that.
“I thought you said that I’d never top you, Jack,” laughs Ianto, watching as Jack spreads himself wide and closes his eyes. Jack grins, shaking his head hopelessly.
“You’d never top my wit. I said you’d... you’d never top my wit.”
“I see...” says Ianto, his words cut short as he pushes into Jack with careful concentration. Jack is warm and soft around him; it takes another couple of seconds for Ianto to breathe in and out, just to stop him from coming. As he begins to work up speed, Jack pushes toward him, taking him in further, and then Jack’s coming over his stomach, over his hands, and Ianto’s left on his own as he pumps in and out of Jack, searching for release.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” he says softly against Jack’s ear, leaning over him, almost choking on the sensation that the angle causes. Jack looks at him hard before blood red lips are pressed against his, a gesture of hidden meaning, a gesture of honesty. The slide of Jack’s tongue against his is the thing which takes Ianto over the edge. He comes hard inside Jack, his breathless groans muffled against Jack’s collar bone. His teeth skim Jack’s skin as he kisses his shoulder, pulling out of Jack and using his hand to stroke the last pangs of sensation away.
He rolls over and lies next to Jack, listening to him breathing harshly in the darkness of the bedroom. The sheets underneath them are too silky for comfort; the increase in sensation after his orgasm makes Ianto writhe uncomfortably. His cock is already beginning to harden again.
“I’m glad you let me stay.” Jacks words are soft and as quite and insubstantial as the blackness, but Ianto takes hold of them like they are the most precious things in the world. He finds Jack’s hand in the darkness and squeezes it once, before allowing it to drop away, knowing that when he wakes the body lying next to him will still be there, and for the first time in a long while he’s finally not alone.
A/N: “Twice in a month?” I hear you cry! It shocked me too, believe me :D Huge thanks to maverick0324 for the use of purple bed sheets. And in honour of Mr. Barrowman's birthday I've updated a day early! Have a good 'un, John.
Oo... and the topping quote is an actual conversation from the Torchwood Books. Precisely the reason everyone should fight to obtain them!
Guns N' Roses knew what they were talking about when they wrote November Rain, thinks Ianto as he shivers in the bitter, cold drizzle. Carrying his shopping from the car boot to the house, he juggles keys and bags in one hand as he tries to open the front door. The sharp wind that accompanies the rain blows him and his shopping through the front door, whistling through the house and making the carpet near the front door wet through. Ianto uses his shoulder to shut the front door behind him before he stumbles through the small corridor which leads to his kitchen. He places the carrier bags on the kitchen counters and heaves a sigh of relief as he leans against the worktop and feels the tension in his arms and neck release.
The house is dark; the rain outside of the windows mixed with the hours of evening steal the sunlight easily. There is a pile of letters, which he didn’t notice as he came in, on a mat by the front door as he heads upstairs. The first couple are soaked, the ink running like black rain drops across the white. He rolls his eyes and tuts as he picks them up and jogs upstairs, toward his bedroom.
He strips off easily (there are no eyes to hide from any more) and wanders around his bedroom in search for a pair of jeans and large black hoodie which he quickly pulls on over a thin t-shirt. He rubs his hair with a towel from the bathroom, drying it of the raindrops, before hanging it over a rail and jogging back down to the kitchen again.
It’s strange, this house so large and empty of life. He’s a stranger to silence throughout his busy days, despite his own reserved nature towards life, and this complete solitude makes him feel more alone than ever as he puts his shopping away and pours a glass of orange juice for himself. He wanders into his living room, and even that is empty, the absence of homely mess and chaos adding to the feeling of being unlived in. It’s plain walls and solid lines, and there’s not even a newspaper or a magazine to clutter the spaces between sofa’s and walls, the gaps between armchair cushions and seats.
Ianto flicks through his mail and absently tosses the junk mail in a neat pile on one of the small side tables, smiling humourlessly. At least that makes the room look a little less pathetic. Ianto sits heavily in one of the over-stuffed brown armchairs and opens a few bills before switching on the television.
The flicking light of the telly makes it easy to feel a little more at home. The room is dark, darker still it seems with only the light of the television to illuminate the room, and slowly Ianto slips into sleep, his cheek resting on his hand as he drifts off.
He’s awoken abruptly by the harsh knocking of his front door. He jerks awake, cheek slipping off hand, and blinks his eyes furiously to read the clock over his small fireplace which reads nine o’clock, before stumbling out of the chair and heading for the front door. Opening it, he finds the rain and winds from earlier have far from subsided. Instead they seem even fiercer, and with their presence they bring another more sturdy character who blusters through the door heeding little regard for Ianto’s cream carpets.
“Every time you think you’re in control of things, the Welsh weather has to jump out and surprise you. God, I love how nature can always get the upper-hand on extra-terrestrials.”
The rustling of a raincoat is louder than it should be in the small confines of Ianto’s hall. Rain splatters everywhere as the dark-coated figure shakes himself and wanders off. Ianto looks as though he’s about to cry as he eyes the muddy footprints that lead through to the kitchen. A light flickers harshly as it’s switched on in the kitchen.
“I brought pizza!” calls a voice, followed by a sneeze.
“Oh... good.”
Jack’s head pokes around the kitchen door and grins widely. “Cheese and tomato. I would’ve got pepperoni, which I know is your favourite, but... I didn’t. You’re not in a suit. How odd. Do you have plates?”
Ianto stares blankly at Jack. He doesn’t know where to begin. “Hello,” is a conventional start, but he thinks that moment has come and gone, without him even having the chance to wave at it as it passed by.
“Of course I have plates. Top cupboard, left of the oven, next to your head.”
Jack tries to open the cupboard without knocking a fern that’s hanging awkwardly next to the kitchen door and goes to pull out two plates before shrugging and putting them back again.
“What are you--?” says Ianto who has just wandered into the kitchen.
“It’s more fun to eat from the box, don’t you think?”
Ianto doesn’t, but he shrugs anyway before slipping into the living room, ignoring the patches of mud on the hall carpet.
“Take your shoes and jacket off,” he says automatically, feeling Jack’s feet about to touch the clean cream of the living room carpet. Jack draws his foot back and kicks of his boots before padding into the living room, turning on another light as he goes and making the recently dark house now bright with light.
Ianto is not as surprised at Jack’s presence as he should be. The drowsiness of sleep still haunts him, eyes heavy as he sits down on the sofa and switches off the television. Jack sits next to him, long legs brushing Ianto’s with a closeness that’s not needed for a three-person settee, but Ianto doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry it’s so late but I thought, well, how much have you eaten today? A sandwich? If that?”
Ianto rubs his eyes again and peers blearily at Jack. “What... why, why are you... what?” He yawns. Nine o’clock and already shattered; he really is getting old.
“--And I figured that you’d be on your own and when you’re not in the hub you’re here, and I’m glad you are because driving in this weather is a nightmare! Even in the SUV. Hello? Are you listening?”
“Do you ever stop talking?” Ianto says without thinking. His welsh accent is thick and low, roughened by the need for sleep. Jack looks at him as though he’s genuinely considering his answer.
“No. Not really.”
“Right...” Ianto sighs. “Right.”
Jack smiles and nudges the pizza box towards Ianto who smiles gratefully despite his tiredness and takes a slice.
“I’m surprised you remembered where I live.”
“Hard to forget really.”
Ianto doesn’t ask what Jack means. Jack doesn’t elaborate.
They sit together in peaceful silence, Ianto eating the pizza whilst Jack pours over the junk mail fliers for the local supermarkets. An eighteen pence jar of strawberry jam and a paper shredder catches his eye, but other than that his supermarket search turns out to be quite fruitless. It’s only when the pizza box is empty that Ianto realises that Jack’s only had about two slices of the pizza. He’d normally feel guilty, but the look in Jack’s eyes tells him that he’s not surprised and he doesn’t begrudge him one bit.
Leaning back into the sofa, now comfortably full, Ianto closes his eyes and smiles serenely. Jack’s body is warm against his side, comforting, a new source of light in his darkness, just like always. The feeling of no longer being alone is almost overwhelming as they sit there, Jack’s hands fiddling with the fliers as he makes small paper aeroplanes.
“I...” Ianto swallows. His eyes flick over Jack’s wet hair, his eyes shining brightly as they watch his fingers carefully, all the while creasing the paper with meticulous precision. “Stay the night,” he says, deeply, huskily, and it’s not a question, not even a plea. Jack nods with such definition that Ianto knows that this is why he came. He’s thankful for that. It’s not just Jack’s need to look after Ianto that brings him to his house when the world has gone dark, submissive to night. It is his need for company. It’s something that Ianto can do for Jack in return and Ianto’s grateful that he doesn’t owe Jack favours.
Ianto hand feels awkward as he slips it around the back of Jack’s neck and holds it there, hair damp under his fingers. His forehead touches Jack’s, and then his nose touches Jack’s nose, and then their lips are touching, tongues finding tongues, and all at once Ianto’s body is tight and aching, desperate to have contact with Jack’s.
His heart begins to race as Jack pulls him up from the settee, towards the stairs. “I didn’t come here for this,” Jack murmurs against Ianto’s neck, except they both know he’s lying. “I didn’t come here just for this,” he corrects, stumbling up the stairs with Ianto pushing him backward, their lips and teeth knocking. Ianto’s hoodie is missing by the time that Jack and he crash through his bedroom door, kisses becoming nips and bites, touches becoming bruises. Ianto and Jack roughly push Ianto’s duvet and throw onto the floor, brown and creams being peeled away to reveal rich, deep purple bed sheets.
Jack’s always said that Ianto was like his bed, always being the last two times that they’ve done this here: A regal, smart exterior being ripped away to reveal a sensual and attractive underlay. Lisa never liked this bedding, these browns and purples. Jack is beautiful against the deep lavender sheets as they ripple and fold around his body. Ianto pulls his shirt away to expose white skin to the harsh darkness of the sheets. The orange glow of the streetlamp outside is watery as it illuminates the room, giving barely enough light to see, giving touch and taste dominance over all other senses.
It doesn’t take a lot for Ianto to get hard around Jack these days. He straddles Jack without thinking, the need to rub against him overpowering. He exhales, and his breath out comes deep, from the center of his chest. He shakes involuntarily as Jack pulls him close, as he growls against his neck and then arches his own as Ianto’s fingers find the button’s on his trousers. Jack mirrors the action, causing them to both lose their trousers and pants at the same time. It’s a moment before Ianto pulls his t-shirt over his head, and then they’re both completely naked, warm skin pressing everywhere, heart beats merging as chests press against chests, as wrists are held commandingly.
Their hands start to explore.
Ianto feels Jack’s cock in his hand as he moves it lower and spreads his fingers around the hard length. Jack’s head is wet already, and he sucks in a breath of air when Ianto uses his thumb to trace the slit carefully. Ianto watches Jack as he moves his hand. Jack’s taught him this, taught him almost everything that he knows, but it doesn’t make any difference to the amount of pleasure that it gives him. Seeing Jack’s composure slowly ebb away makes Ianto even harder. His cock throbs against his stomach as it bobs in front of him.
There’s a strip of light that streaks in from the slight gap in the door where they’ve left it open. It’s bright when mixed with the dull amber tones from the window and Ianto watches the bars of colour that hit Jack with an interest that has too much fervour, too much wildness about it. Jack notices; he brings Ianto into the light, into the strips of white and yellow, even blue where the moonlight decides to join them.
His fingers absently trace the line of hair on Ianto’s stomach that leads from navel to prick, teasing him, making his prick jolt with interest. Ianto moans and squeezes Jack hard enough to make him stop. Jack laughs breathlessly, moves his lips to Ianto’s chin, to his jaw, to his lips, and then they’re kissing deeply, sweetly, until they have to draw back for air.
Ianto breathes out, deeply but slowly, eyes shut as he forces his body to stop from boiling over. Underneath him Jack wriggles, breathing no longer quiet, each pant ragged, as though the air is being ripped from his lungs in infrequent bursts. When he moans, it’s not quiet and guarded like they have to be at the hub, (just in case). It is unrestrained, full of purpose and intent. Jack arches against the press of Ianto’s hips against his, and Ianto growls low.
“I want...” he says, and Jack knows what he means, what he expects, what he needs, and he’s reaching toward Ianto’s side cupboard before Ianto’s even finished the sentence. Jack tears the top of the condom packet off with his teeth and rolls it onto Ianto who puts his chin to his chest and tries to control his breathing. He then slowly coats Ianto’s cock in lube, hand working up and down, underneath his sac, fingers finding places that Ianto didn’t even know made him feel like that.
“I thought you said that I’d never top you, Jack,” laughs Ianto, watching as Jack spreads himself wide and closes his eyes. Jack grins, shaking his head hopelessly.
“You’d never top my wit. I said you’d... you’d never top my wit.”
“I see...” says Ianto, his words cut short as he pushes into Jack with careful concentration. Jack is warm and soft around him; it takes another couple of seconds for Ianto to breathe in and out, just to stop him from coming. As he begins to work up speed, Jack pushes toward him, taking him in further, and then Jack’s coming over his stomach, over his hands, and Ianto’s left on his own as he pumps in and out of Jack, searching for release.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” he says softly against Jack’s ear, leaning over him, almost choking on the sensation that the angle causes. Jack looks at him hard before blood red lips are pressed against his, a gesture of hidden meaning, a gesture of honesty. The slide of Jack’s tongue against his is the thing which takes Ianto over the edge. He comes hard inside Jack, his breathless groans muffled against Jack’s collar bone. His teeth skim Jack’s skin as he kisses his shoulder, pulling out of Jack and using his hand to stroke the last pangs of sensation away.
He rolls over and lies next to Jack, listening to him breathing harshly in the darkness of the bedroom. The sheets underneath them are too silky for comfort; the increase in sensation after his orgasm makes Ianto writhe uncomfortably. His cock is already beginning to harden again.
“I’m glad you let me stay.” Jacks words are soft and as quite and insubstantial as the blackness, but Ianto takes hold of them like they are the most precious things in the world. He finds Jack’s hand in the darkness and squeezes it once, before allowing it to drop away, knowing that when he wakes the body lying next to him will still be there, and for the first time in a long while he’s finally not alone.
A/N: “Twice in a month?” I hear you cry! It shocked me too, believe me :D Huge thanks to maverick0324 for the use of purple bed sheets. And in honour of Mr. Barrowman's birthday I've updated a day early! Have a good 'un, John.
Oo... and the topping quote is an actual conversation from the Torchwood Books. Precisely the reason everyone should fight to obtain them!