Comment Fics
I'm stalled in my tardis_bigbang story. I know what's going to happen more or less, and the order, but when I'm writing two sentences per day, something's still not clicking. So instead, I've been writing a bit over at touchyerwood to get the, um, juices flowing. De-anoning for the hell of it. The following are unbetaed, and I've made one or two edits from the original posts. All originally posted on the kinkmeme, mostly here. Lots of prompts still need love, and you can always fill a prompt again. More porn = everyone wins. Obvious disclaimer of "The BBC owns these characters" is obvious.
Lending a Hand
Characters: Jack/Tosh, Suzie/Owen
NC-17
Warnings: AMTDI, so implied dub-con
prompt: Jack/Tosh, mutual masturbation
A/N: Bonus sex pollen and voyeurism
If Tosh had a quid for every time the Rift threw something at them that turned out to be sex-related, she'd have a pension. She couldn't use it, no one in Torchwood would, but the thought was there.
They'd managed to get the alien plant contained and incinerated before more than the handful of passersby to the little park could be contaminated. Jack's suggestion that they join in the impromptu orgy had been met with less than the usual level of sneering, but the plant was gone, Retcon and contraceptives had been administered, and now they were back at the Hub, dealing with what were turning out to be some stellar residual effects from the contact.
Suzie and Owen hadn't made it out of the autopsy bay, ripping at each other's clothing like, well, like they probably ripped it off when they went home together on odd nights anyway. It wasn't as though the rest of them were blind or stupid.
Unbidden, Tosh went to the railing to watch. Suzie's breasts were free now, clutched in Owen's hands as Suzie's fingers scrabbled at his zip. Tosh bit back her moan as she watched them, watched Suzie's success as she shoved Owen's pants out of the way and freed his cock to slam hard into her. Tosh clutched the railing, wanting to join them, knowing they'd say yes, already feeling her own face rubbing between Suzie's breasts, Owen's mouth hot on her cunt.
Heavy hands touched her shoulders, and then the moan came out.
"Beautiful," said Jack, his eyes wide in a familiar lust, but Jack would shag anything, wouldn't he? He'd go down there right now and have them both. He'd …
"You're so beautiful," he breathed into Tosh's hair and her body trembled.
His fingers slid down the neck of her blouse and under her bra like he was dipping into water, trapping one nipple between thumb and forefinger.
"Oh," she breathed out, as he rolled the nipple. "Oh God, keep going."
She was aware of herself, of the nerves in her body as separate things from her, each of them firing now as her eyes were trapped on the rise and fall of Suzie's hair, as her ears were buffeted by Owen's groans.
"We're not in our right minds," Jack said, hand stilling to cup her breast.
"I don't care. Please." She unclenched one hand from the deathgrip on the railing, reached behind her, and rubbed his hard cock through the fine wool of his trousers. His breath went hot and still behind her, and then his fingers resumed their work.
Jack's other hand snaked around, and he bent slightly to reach the bottom of her skirt, oh thank Christ she'd worn a skirt today, with sandals so she wouldn't have to fuss with stockings in today's rare heat. Jack's hand ran up her thigh, and smoothed over the soft cotton of her knickers. He pressed in with two fingers over the fabric, pressed against her where she was already sodden with desire.
"Right there," Tosh said, kneading his cock harder with her fingers. She wanted to turn, wanted to undo his flies and take him out properly, run her hands over the velvet-soft flesh she found. But she was frozen here, watching Suzie shift her knees, riding Owen as her breasts bounced.
Jack bent down, bit her neck just as his fingers went under the barrier of her panties to rub against her labia, teasing but not touching her clit. "Ah!" she said, loudly enough that the lovers below them paused, and both looked up to see them observing from the rail.
"You going to fuck her?" Owen said, resuming his thrusts as Suzie moaned, slammed her hips down against him.
Jack's voice was low, and only in her ear. "I don't know. Am I?"
Tosh's thoughts were cloudy, but spears of sanity, that spoke of a lack of any sort of birth control or STI protection, broke through like sunlight. Knowing how promiscuous Jack was, the latter worried her more. She shook her head. "No. Just this."
One finger brushed against her clit then, and she squeezed his cock. The hand at her breast, practically ignored anyway, pulled out and went to join hers, tugging open his own trousers with practised ease. There was her prize, hot and thick in her fingers. Her arm was uncomfortable, pinned behind her, and she didn't care. She stroked him, heard the little gasps as her fingers, cold to his warmth, teased at his slit.
"Jerk it," Jack growled, and his own hand continued its work on her, dipping two fingers inside to bring out more wet, which he rubbed over her like cream.
She stroked him harder as he played with her, hot body against her back, shoulder starting to ache, body sparking with heat.
Suzie came first, with a "Fuck," and a louder, "Owen!" Sweat dripped off her, and Tosh wanted to taste it, follow each bead down Suzie's arms, onto her legs, into the sweet pool of her lap. A second later, an orgasm burned through her, torched by Jack's fingers and shaped like the bodies still fucking below them. Tosh said something, but her head was too full of buzzing to know what.
Jack's fingers kept moving inside her, kept pressing, and now it was speed, now she had to bring him off before her finished her again and she burned to ashes from the pleasure. But this was Jack, veteran of a thousand beds if she believed his stories, and how could she force him over before he …
Another moan came from her throat, she was so close again.
"Come for me," she ordered, and Jack making no noise but a gasp, spurted wetly against the back of her blouse and over her hand, dripping down onto the bunch back of her skirt. His fingers twitched hard in her panties. Against her will, she came again, just as, below them, Owen shouted and ground hard up into Suzie's dripping cunt, obscenities flying from his mouth like ugly birds.
Jack rested his forehead against the top of her head, hand still buried against her. Half his weight rested on her, and her weight was on the rail held with just one hand that was rapidly losing feeling. It would serve them all right if she fell, if they fell, if they all broke their necks here and now. It would certainly save embarrassment tomorrow morning at the staff meeting.
"Thank you," Jack said, kissing what hair he could reach.
She wanted to thank him too, but it would sound trite now. Instead, she pulled her hand free of him, pulled his wrist away from her, and he stood there limply.
Below them, Suzie collapsed onto Owen's chest, and as Tosh watched, he stroked her back lazily, protectively. It was as close to a cuddle as she could imagine either ever doing. Jack would cuddle, she was certain, and tell outrageous stories while he did. And that's not what she wanted from him. She shifted him off her, and waited until they were both steady on their feet.
"So," Jack said, eventually breaking the awkward stillness. "Who's ready for lunch?" As the words left his mouth, the Rift alarm went off, and even as she hurried to her terminal, she could see Suzie throwing her own clothes back on while she hurried up the stairs. Owen came after her, doing up his trousers.
Back to work.
The Fourth Night
Characters: Jack/Ianto
NC-17
Warnings: none
prompt: Jack/Ianto, Intercrural sex
A/N: I'm really pleased with how this one turned out.
It's the fourth night, and everything about him hurts, from the balls of his feet to his hair. They're all in a bad mood from the war that played out in miniature along the Cardiff streets, two races locked in a combat no one cares about, certainly not Torchwood. Now the combatants are dead or incarcerated, the surviving human bystanders have been Retconned and the deceased have had their deaths covered up and their bodies dumped all around the city in a series of staged gruesome accidents.
No wonder he's tired.
Jack's awake and surprisingly upbeat for the number of casualties, but there are days Ianto thinks Jack takes anything less than the full-out destruction of the human race as a win. Maybe Jack's just glad he doesn't have to shelve another teammate so soon after Suzie's less than triumphant return. Maybe Ianto's thinking about this too hard.
Ianto manages a polite cough at the doorway. "Sir, I was just finishing up. Anything you need?" He lets his tone drift, knowing it's too late to call back the words, and Jack will always jump on any possible innuendo regardless.
"I'm sure I could think of a few things." Jump.
The fourth night, and they've fallen into a pattern already. This is where Ianto should comment about tending to Jack's needs, but the words stick, and anyway, he's beat. "When you do let me know. Otherwise, I'll be off."
He actually gets a foot onto the stairs because the words drifts out of Jack's office behind him: "Ianto." And for all that Jack teases him about his accent, the sound of Jack's own foreign vowels somehow bypasses his ears and hits him directly in the groin. Unfair. Completely unfair.
"Yes, sir?" He turns, affixing a placid smile on his face. This, too, is part of the pattern, except when it isn't.
"Any plans for tonight?"
He ticks off on his fingers. "Hot shower, mindless television, perhaps some porn, have a wank, get too little sleep, back in the morning."
That pulls a laugh from Jack, and Ianto smiles inwardly. "Busy night."
"I try to stay active."
"You could stay here."
He doesn't mean for his breath to catch, but it does. Sometimes there's the game, and sometimes there is just Jack's directness, simple and fierce. This is just sex, and Ianto feels like he is drowning, like Jack is consuming him. He can't imagine how deep he'd be in if this were something more.
He nods, not trusting his voice under the waves.
Down the ladder, he's in another world. Above, he's no one, a ghost in the corner, the loyal (but for once) servant, provider of meals and services. He worked there two weeks before Suzie and Owen bothered to say his name, and Tosh didn't pronounce it right for a month despite her attempts. Since Lisa, he's been keeping less to the shadows and still they barely see him, even Gwen, who prides herself on her compassion; even Jack, who ought to know better. Below, though, in the darkness of Jack's small room, Ianto is the sole focus of Jack's attention. Deft hands unbutton the extra layers he's adopted just for the sake of giving Jack another challenge. Without the requirements of Above, he's alive down here in ways he can't be elsewhere, teeth reaching for any bare flesh he can find, fingers clawed along Jack's willing sides.
He's hungry, feels it in a way he's ignored for weeks, and satisfies himself with sucking on the salt at Jack's throat, earning a needy whine for the effort that he can feel vibrate under his tongue.
Jack's clever hands are everywhere, running through every inch of hair on his body, up his legs and over his head, rushing down his chest and tangling big fingers in the curls at the base of his cock. They don't kiss, there's no room for kissing in this unspecified thing they have, but Jack finds his earlobe, and he's licking and blowing and sucking on it somehow that feels almost as good as his mouth covering Ianto's prick.
Jack doesn't have to say the words, his cock is hard against Ianto's belly, but he breathes, "I want you," into Ianto's ear, and instead of responding, Ianto licks his hand and starts pumping Jack's cock.
"That's good," says Jack, gasping and thrusting his hips. His own hand reaches blindly for Ianto's cock, grabbing and rubbing a thumb to smear the wetness he finds around the foreskin and over the slit. Ianto relaxes into it, not speeding towards a climax. The first thing Jack taught him: this is not a race.
Jack pulls away suddenly, leaving Ianto with the feeling of phantom fingers stroking him still in the sense-memory. Strong hands are rolling him over onto his stomach, and he clenches.
"Wait."
Part of him never believes Jack will stop when Ianto says the word, believes this will end with a struggle he isn't strong enough or trained well enough to win. Believes that if he tries to call a halt, Jack will force his legs open and take his own pleasure anyway. They have no trust between them, not yet, and so he tenses for a fight logic tells him won't come while instinct whispers otherwise.
Jack stops.
Jack always stops.
"What is it?"
"I can't. That. Tonight."
Jack lets out a breath. "If you can do the action, you can say the words."
The dark covers his blush. It probably doesn't make sense to be more ashamed of speaking things out loud. He thinks briefly about the phrase "The love that dares not speak its name," and considers, not for the first time, that acute embarrassment might have been the culprit all along.
"I don't want your cock in my arse tonight. I'm sore."
"There. Was that so hard?"
Ianto glares, but it does nothing in the gloom. "I hate you."
"What every man wants to hear in bed," says Jack. "C'mon, I've got something else in mind that's fun."
He coaxes Ianto onto his side, spooning him. Ianto's heart is still racing, but Jack's hands are calming, and his lips are pressed to a hard place on the back of Ianto's neck that unspools under the tender nips and licks. A contented moan escapes Ianto's throat, and Jack's hands come up to press against it, not hard, not choking, but firm. The hands creep up, and fingers slide into his mouth. Ianto sucks on each one, laving them from the short fingernails down to the delicate webbing at the very base.
"Like this," says Jack, and then his hands are between Ianto's thighs, moving one leg up enough to slide a spit-slicked cock through the space between, creating a delightful friction along Ianto's perineum and against his balls. The sensitive flesh of his inner thighs clasps hard, and it's a completely different kind of fullness than when they're fucking.
They set up a smooth rhythm, slower than their usual, and Ianto shuts his eyes hard against the new sensations. Jack's body is warm against his back, and his mouth has gone back to Ianto's ear, where it alternates between gentle bites and filthy whispers.
"Oh," Jack breathes, his body hitching. "You've got to feel this later. So slick and firm." He starts pushing faster. "Touch yourself. Do it now."
Ianto doesn't even think before obeying, grabbing his own cock and stroking himself the way he likes. Jack's not supposed to give orders here, not really, but the boundaries are fluid tonight, as Jack's cock presses pleasure out of places Ianto didn't know could feel this good. He speeds up his own hand, feeling Jack's orgasm near in the jerks behind him.
"Don't come," Jack says, and it's the last thing he gets out before he spurts hotly between Ianto's thighs with a cry. The semen slicks him further, and Jack jerks his trembling cock thrice more before stilling in a final shudder.
Ianto's close, hand gone rigid on his own cock. He can ignore the order, or request, or whatever the hell they'll pretend it was later, but he doesn't want to, so he obeys.
Jack slides, wetly, from behind him and pushes his shoulder so Ianto is on his back. He can make out Jack's eyes in the darkness now, dilated and mischievous, and then Jack places his lips just around the head of Ianto's cock and begins to suck.
It only takes a few more strokes before Ianto is coming and coming, and Jack sucks and swallows and licks him clean. Then he nuzzles in and licks away his own come from between Ianto's legs, and Ianto can't tell if it's weirdly intimate or just weird, the tickling around his balls and through his pubes, and the one last lick of his softening cock.
"You should taste this," Jack says, settling behind him again, mouth hot on his shoulder.
Ianto makes a noise that isn't a 'no' but isn't a 'yes' either; he's not used to the flavour yet, still spits it out when Jack comes in his mouth instead of on his face. Jack seems to understand, and isn't pushing, instead wraps his arms tightly around Ianto's chest.
Jack says, "When we're both not half-dead from exhaustion, I want to show you how to do that with the backs of your knees." With a quick squeeze, he brings one hand down, tickles the soft skin behind Ianto's left knee, which makes him jump.
"If I end up accidentally kicking you in the balls, you have no one to blame but yourself."
"Hazards of the trade. You know, I could make you come just by fucking your knees, or your underarms."
Ianto wants to call Jack on such a bullshit claim, but part of him thinks it's possible, and most of him is just sleepy. He should leave, now, before he drifts off, but the arms are around him again. As if reading his mind, Jack says, "Stay." It's not quite an order, which makes it easier to convince himself that acquiescence isn't obedience.
"I'll stay." This is just sex, not a relationship, not anything else, and it doesn't mean anything that he stays, that Jack wants him to stay. He can go home tomorrow night, and in the meantime, they can try out that knee thing.
As lies to himself go, this one isn't bad, and it chases him into his dreams.
Pokin' in the Boys' Room
Characters: Jack/Ianto
NC-17
Warnings: none
prompt: Jack/Ianto, genderfuck: female!Jack, possible maid outfit
A/N: Added bonus side orders of bathroom sex and sorta fail!sex. I don't know what I was thinking with this one.
Jack had forgotten how much fun it was to have tits. He slipped his hand up under his shirt whenever he got the chance, and every hour or so, he ducked off to the loo to give the rest of his new parts a squeeze.
"This means I get to go into the Ladies' now, right?" he'd said. Gwen and Tosh's matched expressions said no, that a mismatched Jack was still essentially Jack. He'd pouted, and then gone into the Gents' instead.
He was never going to get any work done today at this rate, he thought, heading into the stall again. Moments later, his trousers down at his ankles and hand rubbing desperately at his new clit, Jack ceased to care. He let out a moan that sounded nothing at all like his normal self.
There was a polite cough that could only be one person.
Jack said, "If this was a porno, you'd already be knocking on the door asking if I needed a hand."
The stall door swung open; it wasn't like Jack had bothered to lock it. "If this was a porno," Ianto said, manoeuvring inside, "you'd already be pretending to enjoy giving me a blowjob."
"I always enjoy giving you a blowjob."
"That's not the point."
The stall wasn't large, but that was fine. Jack could smell his own arousal, covering his fingers moistly. He locked eyes with Ianto and pushed his fingers into Ianto's mouth so he could taste. Ianto's eyes rolled back in pleasure.
Jack didn't ask how long it had been because he didn't want Ianto to dwell on Lisa just now. Struck with inspiration, he sat on the only available seat, and even as Ianto's face drew into a confused frown, Jack unbuttoned his shirt and began rubbing his breasts against Ianto's trousers.
He gave Ianto a dirty smile.
Ianto's hands flew to his zip and carefully pulled out his cock. Jack guided it between his tits as Ianto started to thrust.
The sensation wasn't unpleasant, and the sounds Ianto tried not to make were gratifying. Jack let one hand drift back between his own legs to slide back and forth across his sensitive nub. Much better.
Ianto tugged on his arms suddenly, distracting Jack from both pleasures. "I want you," he growled, but it was Ianto and he waited for Jack's nod before pulling him upright.
Ianto had a condom in his pocket, and paused in putting it on only long enough to drop his trousers and pants the rest of the way while Jack kicked his to the floor. Jack was wet, had been wet since about five minutes after the change this morning, once the disorientation wore off. He'd lost about two inches in height, which made their usual "fucking standing up" positions more difficult. Then Ianto lifted him up and, straining, brought him down again on his cock.
Sweet deity, the position was strange, and the sensations stranger as Jack wrapped his legs around Ianto's waist. Pain cracked in his head and down his back as they slammed -- too hard -- into the side of the stall.
"You okay?" Ianto asked, pensive and stilling.
"Fine, fine," Jack said breathlessly. "Don't. Fucking. Stop."
His senses were flooded with new information: the stretch of his internal walls, painful at first but shifting into a better position as they went; the short, sharp bumps of flesh grinding at his entrance, brushing his clit but not enough; the rough feel of Ianto's clothes against his arms. Jack tried to imagine this with costumes, a pirate and a French maid, or a superspy and a cat burglar. Warmth flooded him at the fantasy. Definitely bringing out the costumes next time.
"I'm not going to ... " Ianto gasped, and then he was coming, pounding away hard. Jack rode it, although the thrusts had gone back to being painful.
When he'd subsided, Ianto managed to pull out and set Jack down both without damaging himself badly, or at least Jack thought before Ianto fell to his knees.
"Did you--?"
Ianto's mouth was on his cunt then, licking and lapping despite what Jack knew was an unpleasant latex aftertaste over the better flavour of Woman. His tongue and fingers soothed and stroked and loved at Jack, and where his cock had frankly ached a bit, his lips were just perfect.
Jack sighed happily, then tensed as Ianto slid two fingers inside of him, but the fingers stroked a beautiful spot just up and inside as Ianto bit down gently on his clit and ...
The orgasm hit Jack hard, and he let a scream burble out as fingers and tongue relentlessly pushed him harder, giving him barely a moment before ravishing him again with the same strong stimuli. He slammed his head into the wall again and did not feel it until several minutes later.
"Enough," he said, as Ianto began working him towards a third one. All the bones in his body gone, he slid to the floor, which would have been disgusting in any bathroom not regularly maintained by the man in here with him. His eyes weren't focused quite right, but he could make out the smug look on Ianto's face, damp as it was with Jack's juices. (Jack hated that word. Home had lovely words for the various fluids of sex, and most of them were synonyms for "joy".)
The door to the loo banged open. Owen shouted, "Oi! Everything all right in here? I heard a scream."
"Nothing to worry about," said Jack. He sensed rather than saw Owen's dawning suspicion.
"Ianto?"
"'Lo, Owen."
Muttering disgustedly about idiots who didn't know what a bed was for, Owen slammed the door behind him as he exited. Their eyes met again, and they both laughed until they were sick.
Keeping Up With the Joneses
Characters: Martha/Ianto
NC-17
Warnings: infidelity
prompt: Ianto/Martha, Jones comfort sex while their real lovers (either Jack and the Doctor or Jack and Tom) are off saving the world, adultery
A/N: Bonus end of the world sex
Fear, worry, desire, and death, they're used to those. But uncertainty in the face of non-existence? Even the Doctor might forgive them some trepidation.
The Doctor isn't here. Accident or intent, he has taken his picked soldiers, willingly so or not, off to the battle which is pitched parsecs away and may involve a single move of a chess piece. Jack wasn't sure, only said he needed to be there beside the Doctor and Mickey and brilliant Donna, and Ianto knows there is no point in questioning this.
But here they are, alone and afraid, stuck in the Hub with no contact, no word. Gwen has returned home to Rhys, knowing it could be the end and having nothing better to do for it than wait with him. Martha, recovered from her injury but not fast enough to join the quest, sits restlessly in front of her monitor, flipping between the silent channel of the TARDIS and the silent news from Tom's last known location. Stillness is filled with the crackle of static. Something about where they are, what they're doing, radiation the Doctor thinks, means the phone won't connect to the ship, and Tom dropped his in a river last week, so they are left with this, and this is nothing.
Ianto brings her tea. Reduced to a scared thing who doesn't know if the universe will end any second, he hides behind a mug and a false smile, bravery for a woman who has walked past far greater threats than even he will ever see.
She catches his hand as he sets down the mug. There's a broken line in her forehead, and knowing Jack would do the same, he bends in for a friendly kiss upon it to smooth her brow. She shivers, and he goes to fetch her a blanket, a sweater, something to keep out the damp chill of their underground world, but Martha's hand is latched on his wrist, and won't let go as her eyes search his for something.
Her other hand flicks the switch. Empty air clicks over to empty air, hissing and popping with no promises.
"If they don't come back," she says, voice small in the large room, "we'll never know."
Ianto nods. "Jack said it will be like unwinding the past until there's nothing left." He tries for a smile, a joke, anything to chase away the worry across her face. "Just another day here, really."
"With the Doctor, too," she says. "Always the world ending or the universe collapsing. But he'd always have this mad look in his eye, and I wouldn't be scared anymore, because I knew he'd find a way out."
"Jack's like that. I think he must get it from spending time with the Doctor."
"I think Jack already had it."
He doesn't know which of them moves first, but he's already bent down and she is already looking up, and a kiss doesn't have to mean anything. He's given Gwen the occasional affectionate snog, gave them to Toshiko once upon a time. Rare, true, but also real and freely offered. Martha's mouth opens under his, and then he's no longer going to be able to pretend this is a friendly kiss. She tastes of the last two sweet cups of tea he made for her, and a little of the protein bar he coaxed her to eat when real food was out of the question. For the first time since Jack came back, he finds himself worried for the state of his own breath.
Martha doesn't seem to mind.
Both her hands are on his arms now, not pulling, not pushing, and he tilts his head to move further into the kiss without moving his body at all.
He is kissing Martha. He's sure there are rules about this, written and enforced by Jack and the Doctor both: thou shalt not fuck with Martha Jones lest we smack you, unless she says it's cool. Her body language says it's cool, but Ianto is suddenly worried. He pulls back from the kiss, but holds her eyes with his.
"Sorry," she says, closing her own eyes. "That wasn't fair of me. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." His hand is at her cheek, stroking her delicate chin.
"I just ... I'm afraid. And you're always so kind to me, and it's not fair to you, so I'm sorry."
This isn't the strangest conversation he's had after snogging someone. That honour goes to the "Have you ever fucked a Weevil?" chat with Jack that one night. Still.
"Jack and I have an understanding," he says, which will have to suffice, because trying to explain the complexities of 51st century dating standards is just beyond him right now, and anyway it boils down to how they both see other people while remaining each other's primary partner. With the universe and all of history about to unravel, that's simply not something he intends to explain in detail now.
"Tom and I don't."
"All right," he says for something to say. It was just a kiss, after all. Jack will likely replay it on the CCTV when he comes home. If he comes home.
"So when I say," says Martha as if she didn't hear him, "that I'm scared, and I just want you to hold me, Tom won't understand. At all. And God, you're gay, so I feel even worse for thinking it."
A frown comes to his face. He can't do anything about the Tom issue, because other people's relationships are not his to fix. "I'm not gay. Jack's ... Jack." That's all there is to say, and the expression on her face, in her eyes, tells him she understands that part, at least. Everyone is a Jacksexual.
She pulls his arms then, gently, and he comes to her mouth again. She will have to sort out her life with Tom on her own terms, but the universe is likely ending, and Ianto knows Jack understands the need of warmth against the encroaching darkness. That doesn't mean he won't wipe the camera feed later. There is such a thing as privacy, even if Jack disagrees.
The sofa isn't far, and they make it over while not breaking the kiss. Ianto has fucked and been fucked on this sofa countless times, but there is something about Martha that makes him wish to give her satin sheets. No help for it now. Her mouth is alive against his, searching and tasting him like a treat or a mystery. He takes a second, just one, to pull back and look at her face, so beautiful he could cry. His life is fucked up and filled with shit, but somehow he's ended up in bed with the most gorgeous lovers, and that has to count for something.
He pulls off her shirt, and unsnaps her bra, taking the time to worship her breasts with his hands and mouth. Her nipples are already hard in the chilly air, so he warms each one with his mouth. The only sounds are the pops of static from the speakers, and the hum of the equipment as it runs. Even Myfanwy is out tonight, free to swoop in the night air for the last night of the world. No one will see them here.
Trousers are difficult, but they manage, and he lays her down on the uncomfortable sofa, drinking in the sight of her lithe body before kissing her again. He's hard against her hip where he's draped, and he can't think of anything he wants more right now than to slide inside of her. His fingers skitter down her sides, stroke her waist, and skid in a flat palm across her belly, while she spreads her knees apart.
"Shit," he says, pulling off. "Condom."
"Go," she says breathlessly, and he runs, completely naked and hard as a rock, up to Jack's office where they stash the extra condoms and lube. He grabs both.
Back at the sofa, Martha's hand is between her own folds, and he moans at the sight: one arm stretched over her head, extending her breasts, one moving rhythmically for her own pleasure. Ianto sets down his prizes and goes to his knees on the hard floor beside the sofa, bending in like a supplicant. Her hand moves away and he licks a long stripe up her closed folds with the flat of his tongue, then dives in. Martha's body arches up to meet him.
It's good, god it's good, this taste. He lingers there, drinking her down, revelling in the differences between her and each other woman he's done this for. Jack doesn't use the "snowflake" metaphor, but yeah, it's always a different world every time.
"Please," she says, eyes clenched shut. "Please."
Somehow, he'll never remember how later, his hands figure out the condom the first time and slick it on. He pours a bit of lube, just enough, though he doesn't think he'll need it, not with her body here open before him and ready and wet.
It's a fast coupling. Missionary is practically a joke, but her body undulates beneath his in a sinewy fashion, like one taut line broken free to writhe, and he finds that she is the one in control, she is the one setting the pace and the movements, and he is here, just here, holding her. No wonder Jack speaks of Martha in such worshipful tones when she's not around. Fucking Jack is like fucking time itself, but Martha is a goddess, and Ianto has just found a new religion.
Jack keeps suggesting threesomes. They are definitely exploring this option should history not unwind around them.
Martha's eyes are tightly shut, and as she comes, Ianto is certain he is nowhere near her thoughts. His own last coherent thought is that this isn't a bad way for the world to end. If the name on his lips isn't hers, he doesn't think she minds. His vision greys out with his orgasm rushing through him, one last hot wave of lust bursting through him and out his cock.
But it's not his vision. Martha's eyes are open, and her head turned to see the rest of the Hub, and as he also looks, everything is grey. Still riding the last crest of his climax, he feels his memories trickling out one by one.
Martha reaches up and touches his face, her eyes full of tears. "I'm glad it was you," she says, and just as he leans in to kiss her goodbye, the universe fades away.
Stimulation
Characters: Ianto/Lisa
NC-17
Warning: read the prompt, people
prompt: Ianto/Cyber!Lisa, Her new metal-sheathed parts needs MASSIVE simulation for her to get off. A peening hammer? A cattle prod? Take your pick! No non-con/violence, please.
A/N: This may have been written partially in response to someone saying they didn't "get" drabbles. *cough*
Ianto has acquired numerous books on the topic of sex and physical disabilities. Lisa's metal shell includes replacements for the body parts which were already removed, and even in the brightest of uncertain futures, they will still be gone.
The books are useful now, as he relearns her remaining nerves, as he traces them with his lips before pulling away.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
He takes a breath, places the stun gun against her crotch. She cries out, but he knows that beautiful cry. The books have nothing to add as he squeezes the trigger again and again and again.
Welcome Reception
Characters: Jack/Ianto/Lisa
NC-17
Warnings: none
prompt: Jack/Lisa/Ianto, it turns out Jack's met Ianto and Lisa pre-Fragments at a Torchwood affair. threesome ensues.
A/N: Everyone knew this was me, right? Right.
He never got their names. They were introduced, but the pair were both lightweights on the cocktails that flowed freely at the reception, and Jack had been too busy with Yvonne throwing name after name at him to care. Everyone knows who he is, and that's the important part.
But now they're among the coats, and her boyfriend's cock (fiance's? husband's? Jack's unsure and doesn't care much) is deep inside her, setting up what is for them probably a familiar rhythm, and the boyfriend says he's done this before with men. He's tight, but he knows how to push back onto Jack's cock like an old pro.
They're going to make too much noise in here. Jack doesn't care much about that, either.
The girlfriend is whining, deep in her throat, her lover's hands tight on her hips as he drives in, and Jack rides them both like a damn stallion, like a wave. It's been a while since he's had more than one person in his bed, and even if this does not qualify as anything like "bed," he's good. He's really good.
The boyfriend isn't going to last long, not with Jack knowing exactly how to move and the girlfriend (gotta get their names, this could be fun as a semi-regular London thing) does something that even Jack can feel, echoing through the man's body, and the boyfriend is coming with a keen that Jack manages to stifle with his hand.
"Unless you want an audience," Jack hisses, "shut up." He goes full out now, giving one hand over to help the girlfriend finish her own climax, finding her boyfriend's fingers already there. It doesn't take long for her to shudder and let out one long moan. That gives Jack pride of place as he finishes deep in the boyfriend's arse, cursing and laughing as he comes.
Jesus. Not the way he normally spends these boring functions. But certainly an improvement.
"You okay?" he asks, to both of them, gets a pair of matching nods as they all disentangle.
Someone opens the cloakroom door, and Jack, who's done things like this before, immediately piles the three of them under a few coats that have fallen. Hm. Someone's going to need a dry cleaner after this, and he reminds himself to slip a few quid into the pockets of the coats they've soiled. He tries to be polite.
When the door closes again, they emerge from the pile. The boyfriend's hair is a mess, but the girlfriend has already smoothed hers back into place.
"You know," says Jack, "I'm supposed to be up here again in a few months for a meeting. We could ... "
"Thanks," says the girlfriend. "We'll think about it." Which means "No."
Oh well. The nice thing about anonymous shags, he thinks as they dress and sort out who's going to nip out first, is that he almost never runs into the participants again anyway.
Supply Run
Characters: Jack/Ianto/Lois
NC-17
Warnings: bondage, some role-play
prompt: Jack/Ianto/Lois, PA of the year, bonus for creative use of office supplies
A/N: And now I 'ship it. Huh.
"Binder clips do not make appropriate nipple clamps," Ianto says, swiping the large one deftly from Lois's fingers.
Lois makes a noise that is not a squawk, thank you, and tries unsuccessfully to steal it back, but he's too tall for her to reach without climbing his body and Jack says they're not allowed to touch each other yet. Bloody Jack. "I've tried them out at home," she says.
"We've tried them out here," he replies. "The answer is no."
"Kids, kids, no need to fight." Jack is tied to his chair, one wrist bound to the armrest with the cord from the computer's surge protector, the other with sellotape. His trousers have been pulled down to his ankles, and the legs expertly stapled together at the feet so he can't move. Despite this, he appears relaxed and in charge rather than ridiculous.
Lois is wearing a necklace made of paperclips and nothing else. 'Ridiculous' sums up exactly how she feels at this moment.
Sitting at a precise distance from each hand are two perfectly-brewed cups of coffee. He casts a lingering glance at them, and Ianto is better at reading him anyway, dips his pinky into the cup he prepared and feeds the drops into Jack's hungry mouth. Jack suckles on it like a little pig, and pulls off the finger with a pop. Lois stands back, thinking, then pours just half an ounce into the palm of her hand, scalding before it cools a bit. She rubs the warm liquid over the dark areola of one breast. She thinks this is better for him to suckle, and Jack's hungry mouth agrees. She sends a look to Ianto, whose own mouth is making little movements in sympathy to Jack's. But there's a rule.
When he has cleaned off all the coffee from her, Jack says, "I suppose a spanking with a ruler is out of the question."
The ruler appears in Ianto's hand, as if by magic, but instead of spanking, he draws one edge slowly from the top of Jack's head, making a straight line down his smooth chest, dipping into his navel, and then circling around the base of Jack's proud cock before -- Jack moans -- scratching over his balls and threading between the cheeks of his arse. Ianto leaves it there, sticking out like a flat extra penis.
"Okay," Jack says, voice calm but Lois can hear the catch, "time for the final part of the competition."
Lois is first to the gate this time, having already spied where the pair keep their ribbons of condoms. She rips open one, and rolls it with precision over Jack's erection.
"Ianto?"
"Ladies first."
Jack scoots his bottom closer to the edge of the chair, knocking the ruler to the floor, and Lois turns her back to him, carefully easing herself onto his cock, all the pressure in her knees and thighs. She fucks herself slowly on him, bending and stretching, as Jack pumps himself with the little movement he can make. He's whining in his throat, and if she gets him off right now, she wins. Ianto isn't watching them, is doing something behind Jack but she's sure he isn't touching.
"Enough!" Jack almost shouts it, and she freezes. "His turn." She considers going for it anyway, impaling herself again, but that's not the game tonight and anyway, she's not a rapist. Her turn is over. She stands up, letting his cock fall out of her.
Ianto does extend a hand to her then, helping her walk, but Jack doesn't object. With a quick hand, Ianto strips off the first condom, applies a new one, and as he takes the position she just vacated, she sees he spent the time preparing himself so Jack could slide right inside of him. Jack grunts, but this has to be familiar for him, for them. Now she can see Jack's face, and she wonders if he made that same contortion when he was fucking her. It's beautiful. They're beautiful, sellotape and all. A handful of offhand remarks Gwen has said over the last few weeks become clear, and her breath catches.
Jack must be psychic, saying, "You're here because we want you here and you want to be here." She didn't even have the question formed in her mind, but it's the answer she needs. Ianto's legs have to be killing him as he rides Jack, his own cock bobbing against his stomach untouched.
Lois hasn't been told she can't touch herself, and she does, finding just the right spot, and Ianto's eyes are locked on her hand.
Jack groans and then says, "Stop!" Ianto stops. Jack still hasn't come. Stamina or stupidity. Ianto disengages from him, and they both stand in front of Jack, panting and ready.
This was so not in the job description.
"Now," he says, eyes flicking between them, "now you can touch each other. Hands only. Get each other off." Ianto's hands are on her before she can think, writhing against the same spot he just watched her caress. It's good, it's so good, and he's just right. She feels slow, reaches belatedly for his dick, wraps both hands around him, and she jerks him the way her last boyfriend liked to be jerked. He's moaning now, still only touching her at her nether folds, and she feels her orgasm coiled inside her ready to spring.
"Ianto wait," Jack says, and Lois swears because she was right there. "Use the highlighter." Lois lets go of him so he can dash for the garish blue marker Jack insisted on, and he uncaps it with shaking hands, drawing the wet tip over her breasts. She hisses, and then she growls as he writes his initials on her stomach, his mouth in a twisted smile.
"Arse."
"Just signing my work," he says, and then flips it and slides the solid end right into her as he brushes her clit with his thumb, and that's just right. Lois shouts as she comes, wet over the marker and his hands.
"That was gorgeous," Jack says, eyes wide and cock so hard it surely hurts him. She doesn't care, not right now, not still thrilling inside to her own quakes. As Ianto pulls the marker out of her, she remembers her task, and brings her hand back to him. He's almost there, and she pumps him to climax, letting him shoot over her hand and into the space between them. There will be a mess on the floor later, but cleaning Jack's office is his job, not hers.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" Ianto sounds like he's just brought a round of coffees.
Jack pumps his hips, but there's no friction in empty air. "Yes. Someone really needs to suck me off right now."
Ianto catches her eye, and she gets the game. "Of course, sir," Lois says in her most formal voice. "However, I believe we'll need written instructions on how to proceed."
Jack actually goes to move his arms, and is stuck. She watches him struggle for a second. "Lois, I'll need you to take some dictation."
"Yes, sir." She finds a notepad, yellow, and perches on the edge of her desk, legs demurely crossed but lifted enough for Jack to see her pussy. His mouth is watering, but he says, "Subject. Re: blowjobs. One of my personal assistants needs to come to my assistance immediately for the purpose of oral gratification. Mine. Etcetera etcetera, Captain Jack Harkness."
"Yes, sir," said Lois, and got down from the desk. "I'll just type this up."
Ianto says, "Handwritten should be sufficient, Ms. Habiba. Kindly go make a copy."
She is not walking naked through the Hub, except apparently she is, and as she exits Jack's office, she sees Ianto get to his knees to take Jack into his mouth. Lois runs. The copier doesn't jam, for once, and she's back in about a minute. Jack's head is thrown back in pleasure, and he's thrusting into Ianto's mouth.
"Just in time," Jack says. "Unless of course that's a photocopy of your tits."
"No, sir, but I'll make a note for next time." She kneels beside Ianto, and she takes Jack's cock into her mouth. Between fucking him and Ianto's mouth, Jack is just a few strokes away even as she starts sucking him, and he has just enough time to shout a warning before she lets go and come splashes the skin of her throat.
"Ianto," he drawls, "I've made a mess on poor Lois. Clean her off for me?"
"With pleasure, sir." His tongue is warm, and he slurps a little, but Ianto is efficient and wipes up every drop, even the drops she knows for a fact did not spill on her nipples. If this happens again, Lois is going to spend some quality time with Ianto's tongue.
When she's clean, he sits back, and faces Jack. "Sir?"
"Okay, okay. Performance evaluation complete." She expects him to declare Ianto the winner, since they are lovers and domestic bliss is better than the alternative. Of course, if they've had a spat recently, he might declare Lois the winner just so he can encourage Ianto to try harder when they're alone later. "It's a draw."
"Excuse me?" Lois tries not to snap, but it's hard, especially with Ianto making an annoyed growl beside her.
"You're both perfect personal assistants. Sorry. Now, I suggest we get a little supper and try this competition again in a few hours. Who's with me?" He looks from one to the other eagerly.
***
Jack is still bound to the chair when they are fully dressed and leaving for dinner without him. "Come on, guys."
They ignore him, and this is getting annoying.
"Binder clips feel wonderful on the nipples," Lois says.
"On your nipples, maybe. Mine were bruised for a week the last time we tried." The closing of the cog wheel door behind them silences the rest of the argument. Jack struggles against the tape. First, he's going to get free. Then, he's going to order something for delivery. Then he's going to wait until they return, and he's going to glue them together back to back and enjoy himself. It's a good plan and he thoroughly approves of it.
He tugs at his arm again. Bloody sellotape.
Clarity
Characters: Johnson (Alice implied)
NC-17
Warnings: second-person POV, toys, stalking
prompt: Alice/Johnson, anything
A/N: I de-anoned on this earlier, but am posting it here for the first time.
You're not sure how you got here. Oh, there's the obvious: espionage, murder, kidnapping, and standing idly by while a child was obliterated for the sake of all other children. That's easy to understand, if not to live with.
You're not certain how that led you here, not really. You know that when you brought her in, you saw a light in her eyes you'd never seen before in anyone else's. You remember the taste of the air between you as she told you what needed to be done, as she spoke the words that would lead to her son's death. You can still smell the stink in the air in that room, how it seeped into everything and everyone, filling them all with atoms of their own souls' destruction as she wept and screamed. It swathed her hair when you held her, because someone had to hold her, it was required on such an awful day for someone to hold her. Under the stench of death, you smelled her hair and the perfume she wore beneath the cloak of Steven's death hit you like a hammer to the jaw.
The funny thing, the thing that makes you laugh when you're alone, and then it's not a funny laugh at all, is that you know they all think you're a lesbian. They see the clothes, hear the severity in your voice, and not one man under your command thinks anything but that you'd fuck the same dim-eyed bimbos they stroke themselves fantasising about, when they're not thinking about humping one other. But you're not, you haven't. Your tastes have always run to the younger, more delicate men you've learned to pick up around the college pubs. Take them while they're trainable, possess them for a while knowing you're in charge, drop them when they get clingy. You've had enough of men running your life, and you're not interested in any would-be he-man to sweep you off your feet, overpower you with lust, dominate you. Never again. No hero types and no women.
It comes as a surprise to you, then, to find yourself here. You watch her through the windows, you track her movements, you cannot ask her how she is doing because there are no words for the enormity of what has happened, of what your own actions enabled. You have a key to her house, access for when she isn't home, and you know she would kill you if she knew. You climb her stairs, avoid the closed door to the bedroom you know was his, walk into hers.
Alice's pillow always smells of tears and sweat and the unmistakable scent of her. One of these days, you're going to shatter your own last shred of self-control and steal the duvet cover, steal the pillowcases, steal pieces of her and take them home with you to hold against you while you sleep. Perhaps today. The smells are overpowering: her grief made potent and real, and … You flip over the duvet, find her sheets, and they are stale and unchanged and smell fully of sex, of her.
You jerk back, sanity reasserting itself briefly, and then falling again. This is madness, to stand her in the bedroom of a woman you barely know, someone who has every cause to hate you, and not be able to resist placing your face against the depression in the bed where her body has been and breathe deep into the dark blue sheets.
God, your fingers are inside your pants so fast, circling and rubbing hard. Your head goes back, watches her ceiling, the pale eggshell colour of it filling your eyes from the darkness of her bedding. So good, so close, and all you can do is think of her eyes, that firm tilt of her mouth.
A moan passes your lips, and you stop suddenly. You've been silent up to now, and fear trickles through you. She could catch you, and there are no explanations you can ever give for why you're here. You barely kept your job after the disaster of the 456, and you will not hold onto it if you are found out now. Your fingers creep back under your waistband anyway. As you turn your eyes to the door of her bedroom, something catches your attention.
Alice's sheets hold other surprises. Pulling them further away, releasing, oh God, more scent into the closed room, you find it. Long, smooth, bulged in gentle ridges, made of silicone.
The sigh you make is edged with another moan as you bring the toy to your face. You stick just the tip of your tongue through your lips and taste the soft residue left from the last time she pleasured herself. Alice tastes as good as she smells.
You close your eyes.
You need to stop. You can still put everything back, remake the rumpled ruin of her bed, walk out as you have five times before. Already you've been here longer, seen and done more, than you thought you would or could or dared.
And now the dildo is in your mouth, sliding in and out as your spit covers it, washes the traces of Alice away, as you suckle her distantly, and you're not leaving.
Your trousers come loose with a tug, and you slide one hand up your shirt, under your bra, tweak an aching nipple and then its mate. The hand slides down to pull down your trousers, and the cotton panties, so practical when you put them on this morning. Your fingers are covered with your own slick, made more generous just by the thought of what you're doing. You get to your knees beside her bed, as if praying, though if this is for your soul or just for an orgasm, no one can say.
It's cold, sliding into you, and you bite your lip to keep from gasping. In and out, and oh this is exactly what you needed, what you wanted. Your face dips to her sheets again, that smell of woman, of sensual rebirth after everything. She hates you and you don't think you can live without her.
Your fingers work your clit, rub your urethra, tracing both with long-practised ease as your other hand pumps in and out. Colour is high in your cheeks, you breathe in gasps, and Alice is everywhere in this room. You picture her finding you here, horrified. You picture her lying here in her bed, thrusting against the dildo in her own hand, moaning, yes, moaning your name because this is your fantasy and you can. You push it in hard, and you pinch your clit, and you picture Alice beneath you, her face against your dark curls and her tongue loving you, and you hitch and fold inside and come. You keep thrusting, keep rubbing, and you hold that image, of Alice licking you and you let out a sharp moan as you crest a second time.
God.
Your knees ache from the position, and you lower yourself to the rug. The dildo comes out of you with a sticky sound, and now it is covered with your pleasure instead. Shaking, you pull up your panties and redo your trousers, and with a fierce hot blush on your face, you rinse the dildo off with hot water from the sink in the ensuite. You use her towel, another item in this place covered with the smell of her, to dry it and you place it back as best you remember, along with the sheets and the duvet.
The tingle is still there. You know if you slide your fingers against yourself one more time, you could get off again within a minute. You really want to get off again, and you know you can't stay.
She's probably going to miss the pillow, and you're not going to be able to come back here again if she does. You take it anyway.
Your van is parked half a street away, and you're inside it just in time for her to round the corner in her own car. You watch as she gets out, as her eyes take in the house and the street in a way that suggests she will be moving soon, and you can't blame her. After she goes inside, you bring the pillow to your face, and it turns out you can get yourself off again in under thirty seconds.
You wonder how long it will take you to get a key to Alice's new house.
Lending a Hand
Characters: Jack/Tosh, Suzie/Owen
NC-17
Warnings: AMTDI, so implied dub-con
prompt: Jack/Tosh, mutual masturbation
A/N: Bonus sex pollen and voyeurism
If Tosh had a quid for every time the Rift threw something at them that turned out to be sex-related, she'd have a pension. She couldn't use it, no one in Torchwood would, but the thought was there.
They'd managed to get the alien plant contained and incinerated before more than the handful of passersby to the little park could be contaminated. Jack's suggestion that they join in the impromptu orgy had been met with less than the usual level of sneering, but the plant was gone, Retcon and contraceptives had been administered, and now they were back at the Hub, dealing with what were turning out to be some stellar residual effects from the contact.
Suzie and Owen hadn't made it out of the autopsy bay, ripping at each other's clothing like, well, like they probably ripped it off when they went home together on odd nights anyway. It wasn't as though the rest of them were blind or stupid.
Unbidden, Tosh went to the railing to watch. Suzie's breasts were free now, clutched in Owen's hands as Suzie's fingers scrabbled at his zip. Tosh bit back her moan as she watched them, watched Suzie's success as she shoved Owen's pants out of the way and freed his cock to slam hard into her. Tosh clutched the railing, wanting to join them, knowing they'd say yes, already feeling her own face rubbing between Suzie's breasts, Owen's mouth hot on her cunt.
Heavy hands touched her shoulders, and then the moan came out.
"Beautiful," said Jack, his eyes wide in a familiar lust, but Jack would shag anything, wouldn't he? He'd go down there right now and have them both. He'd …
"You're so beautiful," he breathed into Tosh's hair and her body trembled.
His fingers slid down the neck of her blouse and under her bra like he was dipping into water, trapping one nipple between thumb and forefinger.
"Oh," she breathed out, as he rolled the nipple. "Oh God, keep going."
She was aware of herself, of the nerves in her body as separate things from her, each of them firing now as her eyes were trapped on the rise and fall of Suzie's hair, as her ears were buffeted by Owen's groans.
"We're not in our right minds," Jack said, hand stilling to cup her breast.
"I don't care. Please." She unclenched one hand from the deathgrip on the railing, reached behind her, and rubbed his hard cock through the fine wool of his trousers. His breath went hot and still behind her, and then his fingers resumed their work.
Jack's other hand snaked around, and he bent slightly to reach the bottom of her skirt, oh thank Christ she'd worn a skirt today, with sandals so she wouldn't have to fuss with stockings in today's rare heat. Jack's hand ran up her thigh, and smoothed over the soft cotton of her knickers. He pressed in with two fingers over the fabric, pressed against her where she was already sodden with desire.
"Right there," Tosh said, kneading his cock harder with her fingers. She wanted to turn, wanted to undo his flies and take him out properly, run her hands over the velvet-soft flesh she found. But she was frozen here, watching Suzie shift her knees, riding Owen as her breasts bounced.
Jack bent down, bit her neck just as his fingers went under the barrier of her panties to rub against her labia, teasing but not touching her clit. "Ah!" she said, loudly enough that the lovers below them paused, and both looked up to see them observing from the rail.
"You going to fuck her?" Owen said, resuming his thrusts as Suzie moaned, slammed her hips down against him.
Jack's voice was low, and only in her ear. "I don't know. Am I?"
Tosh's thoughts were cloudy, but spears of sanity, that spoke of a lack of any sort of birth control or STI protection, broke through like sunlight. Knowing how promiscuous Jack was, the latter worried her more. She shook her head. "No. Just this."
One finger brushed against her clit then, and she squeezed his cock. The hand at her breast, practically ignored anyway, pulled out and went to join hers, tugging open his own trousers with practised ease. There was her prize, hot and thick in her fingers. Her arm was uncomfortable, pinned behind her, and she didn't care. She stroked him, heard the little gasps as her fingers, cold to his warmth, teased at his slit.
"Jerk it," Jack growled, and his own hand continued its work on her, dipping two fingers inside to bring out more wet, which he rubbed over her like cream.
She stroked him harder as he played with her, hot body against her back, shoulder starting to ache, body sparking with heat.
Suzie came first, with a "Fuck," and a louder, "Owen!" Sweat dripped off her, and Tosh wanted to taste it, follow each bead down Suzie's arms, onto her legs, into the sweet pool of her lap. A second later, an orgasm burned through her, torched by Jack's fingers and shaped like the bodies still fucking below them. Tosh said something, but her head was too full of buzzing to know what.
Jack's fingers kept moving inside her, kept pressing, and now it was speed, now she had to bring him off before her finished her again and she burned to ashes from the pleasure. But this was Jack, veteran of a thousand beds if she believed his stories, and how could she force him over before he …
Another moan came from her throat, she was so close again.
"Come for me," she ordered, and Jack making no noise but a gasp, spurted wetly against the back of her blouse and over her hand, dripping down onto the bunch back of her skirt. His fingers twitched hard in her panties. Against her will, she came again, just as, below them, Owen shouted and ground hard up into Suzie's dripping cunt, obscenities flying from his mouth like ugly birds.
Jack rested his forehead against the top of her head, hand still buried against her. Half his weight rested on her, and her weight was on the rail held with just one hand that was rapidly losing feeling. It would serve them all right if she fell, if they fell, if they all broke their necks here and now. It would certainly save embarrassment tomorrow morning at the staff meeting.
"Thank you," Jack said, kissing what hair he could reach.
She wanted to thank him too, but it would sound trite now. Instead, she pulled her hand free of him, pulled his wrist away from her, and he stood there limply.
Below them, Suzie collapsed onto Owen's chest, and as Tosh watched, he stroked her back lazily, protectively. It was as close to a cuddle as she could imagine either ever doing. Jack would cuddle, she was certain, and tell outrageous stories while he did. And that's not what she wanted from him. She shifted him off her, and waited until they were both steady on their feet.
"So," Jack said, eventually breaking the awkward stillness. "Who's ready for lunch?" As the words left his mouth, the Rift alarm went off, and even as she hurried to her terminal, she could see Suzie throwing her own clothes back on while she hurried up the stairs. Owen came after her, doing up his trousers.
Back to work.
The Fourth Night
Characters: Jack/Ianto
NC-17
Warnings: none
prompt: Jack/Ianto, Intercrural sex
A/N: I'm really pleased with how this one turned out.
It's the fourth night, and everything about him hurts, from the balls of his feet to his hair. They're all in a bad mood from the war that played out in miniature along the Cardiff streets, two races locked in a combat no one cares about, certainly not Torchwood. Now the combatants are dead or incarcerated, the surviving human bystanders have been Retconned and the deceased have had their deaths covered up and their bodies dumped all around the city in a series of staged gruesome accidents.
No wonder he's tired.
Jack's awake and surprisingly upbeat for the number of casualties, but there are days Ianto thinks Jack takes anything less than the full-out destruction of the human race as a win. Maybe Jack's just glad he doesn't have to shelve another teammate so soon after Suzie's less than triumphant return. Maybe Ianto's thinking about this too hard.
Ianto manages a polite cough at the doorway. "Sir, I was just finishing up. Anything you need?" He lets his tone drift, knowing it's too late to call back the words, and Jack will always jump on any possible innuendo regardless.
"I'm sure I could think of a few things." Jump.
The fourth night, and they've fallen into a pattern already. This is where Ianto should comment about tending to Jack's needs, but the words stick, and anyway, he's beat. "When you do let me know. Otherwise, I'll be off."
He actually gets a foot onto the stairs because the words drifts out of Jack's office behind him: "Ianto." And for all that Jack teases him about his accent, the sound of Jack's own foreign vowels somehow bypasses his ears and hits him directly in the groin. Unfair. Completely unfair.
"Yes, sir?" He turns, affixing a placid smile on his face. This, too, is part of the pattern, except when it isn't.
"Any plans for tonight?"
He ticks off on his fingers. "Hot shower, mindless television, perhaps some porn, have a wank, get too little sleep, back in the morning."
That pulls a laugh from Jack, and Ianto smiles inwardly. "Busy night."
"I try to stay active."
"You could stay here."
He doesn't mean for his breath to catch, but it does. Sometimes there's the game, and sometimes there is just Jack's directness, simple and fierce. This is just sex, and Ianto feels like he is drowning, like Jack is consuming him. He can't imagine how deep he'd be in if this were something more.
He nods, not trusting his voice under the waves.
Down the ladder, he's in another world. Above, he's no one, a ghost in the corner, the loyal (but for once) servant, provider of meals and services. He worked there two weeks before Suzie and Owen bothered to say his name, and Tosh didn't pronounce it right for a month despite her attempts. Since Lisa, he's been keeping less to the shadows and still they barely see him, even Gwen, who prides herself on her compassion; even Jack, who ought to know better. Below, though, in the darkness of Jack's small room, Ianto is the sole focus of Jack's attention. Deft hands unbutton the extra layers he's adopted just for the sake of giving Jack another challenge. Without the requirements of Above, he's alive down here in ways he can't be elsewhere, teeth reaching for any bare flesh he can find, fingers clawed along Jack's willing sides.
He's hungry, feels it in a way he's ignored for weeks, and satisfies himself with sucking on the salt at Jack's throat, earning a needy whine for the effort that he can feel vibrate under his tongue.
Jack's clever hands are everywhere, running through every inch of hair on his body, up his legs and over his head, rushing down his chest and tangling big fingers in the curls at the base of his cock. They don't kiss, there's no room for kissing in this unspecified thing they have, but Jack finds his earlobe, and he's licking and blowing and sucking on it somehow that feels almost as good as his mouth covering Ianto's prick.
Jack doesn't have to say the words, his cock is hard against Ianto's belly, but he breathes, "I want you," into Ianto's ear, and instead of responding, Ianto licks his hand and starts pumping Jack's cock.
"That's good," says Jack, gasping and thrusting his hips. His own hand reaches blindly for Ianto's cock, grabbing and rubbing a thumb to smear the wetness he finds around the foreskin and over the slit. Ianto relaxes into it, not speeding towards a climax. The first thing Jack taught him: this is not a race.
Jack pulls away suddenly, leaving Ianto with the feeling of phantom fingers stroking him still in the sense-memory. Strong hands are rolling him over onto his stomach, and he clenches.
"Wait."
Part of him never believes Jack will stop when Ianto says the word, believes this will end with a struggle he isn't strong enough or trained well enough to win. Believes that if he tries to call a halt, Jack will force his legs open and take his own pleasure anyway. They have no trust between them, not yet, and so he tenses for a fight logic tells him won't come while instinct whispers otherwise.
Jack stops.
Jack always stops.
"What is it?"
"I can't. That. Tonight."
Jack lets out a breath. "If you can do the action, you can say the words."
The dark covers his blush. It probably doesn't make sense to be more ashamed of speaking things out loud. He thinks briefly about the phrase "The love that dares not speak its name," and considers, not for the first time, that acute embarrassment might have been the culprit all along.
"I don't want your cock in my arse tonight. I'm sore."
"There. Was that so hard?"
Ianto glares, but it does nothing in the gloom. "I hate you."
"What every man wants to hear in bed," says Jack. "C'mon, I've got something else in mind that's fun."
He coaxes Ianto onto his side, spooning him. Ianto's heart is still racing, but Jack's hands are calming, and his lips are pressed to a hard place on the back of Ianto's neck that unspools under the tender nips and licks. A contented moan escapes Ianto's throat, and Jack's hands come up to press against it, not hard, not choking, but firm. The hands creep up, and fingers slide into his mouth. Ianto sucks on each one, laving them from the short fingernails down to the delicate webbing at the very base.
"Like this," says Jack, and then his hands are between Ianto's thighs, moving one leg up enough to slide a spit-slicked cock through the space between, creating a delightful friction along Ianto's perineum and against his balls. The sensitive flesh of his inner thighs clasps hard, and it's a completely different kind of fullness than when they're fucking.
They set up a smooth rhythm, slower than their usual, and Ianto shuts his eyes hard against the new sensations. Jack's body is warm against his back, and his mouth has gone back to Ianto's ear, where it alternates between gentle bites and filthy whispers.
"Oh," Jack breathes, his body hitching. "You've got to feel this later. So slick and firm." He starts pushing faster. "Touch yourself. Do it now."
Ianto doesn't even think before obeying, grabbing his own cock and stroking himself the way he likes. Jack's not supposed to give orders here, not really, but the boundaries are fluid tonight, as Jack's cock presses pleasure out of places Ianto didn't know could feel this good. He speeds up his own hand, feeling Jack's orgasm near in the jerks behind him.
"Don't come," Jack says, and it's the last thing he gets out before he spurts hotly between Ianto's thighs with a cry. The semen slicks him further, and Jack jerks his trembling cock thrice more before stilling in a final shudder.
Ianto's close, hand gone rigid on his own cock. He can ignore the order, or request, or whatever the hell they'll pretend it was later, but he doesn't want to, so he obeys.
Jack slides, wetly, from behind him and pushes his shoulder so Ianto is on his back. He can make out Jack's eyes in the darkness now, dilated and mischievous, and then Jack places his lips just around the head of Ianto's cock and begins to suck.
It only takes a few more strokes before Ianto is coming and coming, and Jack sucks and swallows and licks him clean. Then he nuzzles in and licks away his own come from between Ianto's legs, and Ianto can't tell if it's weirdly intimate or just weird, the tickling around his balls and through his pubes, and the one last lick of his softening cock.
"You should taste this," Jack says, settling behind him again, mouth hot on his shoulder.
Ianto makes a noise that isn't a 'no' but isn't a 'yes' either; he's not used to the flavour yet, still spits it out when Jack comes in his mouth instead of on his face. Jack seems to understand, and isn't pushing, instead wraps his arms tightly around Ianto's chest.
Jack says, "When we're both not half-dead from exhaustion, I want to show you how to do that with the backs of your knees." With a quick squeeze, he brings one hand down, tickles the soft skin behind Ianto's left knee, which makes him jump.
"If I end up accidentally kicking you in the balls, you have no one to blame but yourself."
"Hazards of the trade. You know, I could make you come just by fucking your knees, or your underarms."
Ianto wants to call Jack on such a bullshit claim, but part of him thinks it's possible, and most of him is just sleepy. He should leave, now, before he drifts off, but the arms are around him again. As if reading his mind, Jack says, "Stay." It's not quite an order, which makes it easier to convince himself that acquiescence isn't obedience.
"I'll stay." This is just sex, not a relationship, not anything else, and it doesn't mean anything that he stays, that Jack wants him to stay. He can go home tomorrow night, and in the meantime, they can try out that knee thing.
As lies to himself go, this one isn't bad, and it chases him into his dreams.
Pokin' in the Boys' Room
Characters: Jack/Ianto
NC-17
Warnings: none
prompt: Jack/Ianto, genderfuck: female!Jack, possible maid outfit
A/N: Added bonus side orders of bathroom sex and sorta fail!sex. I don't know what I was thinking with this one.
Jack had forgotten how much fun it was to have tits. He slipped his hand up under his shirt whenever he got the chance, and every hour or so, he ducked off to the loo to give the rest of his new parts a squeeze.
"This means I get to go into the Ladies' now, right?" he'd said. Gwen and Tosh's matched expressions said no, that a mismatched Jack was still essentially Jack. He'd pouted, and then gone into the Gents' instead.
He was never going to get any work done today at this rate, he thought, heading into the stall again. Moments later, his trousers down at his ankles and hand rubbing desperately at his new clit, Jack ceased to care. He let out a moan that sounded nothing at all like his normal self.
There was a polite cough that could only be one person.
Jack said, "If this was a porno, you'd already be knocking on the door asking if I needed a hand."
The stall door swung open; it wasn't like Jack had bothered to lock it. "If this was a porno," Ianto said, manoeuvring inside, "you'd already be pretending to enjoy giving me a blowjob."
"I always enjoy giving you a blowjob."
"That's not the point."
The stall wasn't large, but that was fine. Jack could smell his own arousal, covering his fingers moistly. He locked eyes with Ianto and pushed his fingers into Ianto's mouth so he could taste. Ianto's eyes rolled back in pleasure.
Jack didn't ask how long it had been because he didn't want Ianto to dwell on Lisa just now. Struck with inspiration, he sat on the only available seat, and even as Ianto's face drew into a confused frown, Jack unbuttoned his shirt and began rubbing his breasts against Ianto's trousers.
He gave Ianto a dirty smile.
Ianto's hands flew to his zip and carefully pulled out his cock. Jack guided it between his tits as Ianto started to thrust.
The sensation wasn't unpleasant, and the sounds Ianto tried not to make were gratifying. Jack let one hand drift back between his own legs to slide back and forth across his sensitive nub. Much better.
Ianto tugged on his arms suddenly, distracting Jack from both pleasures. "I want you," he growled, but it was Ianto and he waited for Jack's nod before pulling him upright.
Ianto had a condom in his pocket, and paused in putting it on only long enough to drop his trousers and pants the rest of the way while Jack kicked his to the floor. Jack was wet, had been wet since about five minutes after the change this morning, once the disorientation wore off. He'd lost about two inches in height, which made their usual "fucking standing up" positions more difficult. Then Ianto lifted him up and, straining, brought him down again on his cock.
Sweet deity, the position was strange, and the sensations stranger as Jack wrapped his legs around Ianto's waist. Pain cracked in his head and down his back as they slammed -- too hard -- into the side of the stall.
"You okay?" Ianto asked, pensive and stilling.
"Fine, fine," Jack said breathlessly. "Don't. Fucking. Stop."
His senses were flooded with new information: the stretch of his internal walls, painful at first but shifting into a better position as they went; the short, sharp bumps of flesh grinding at his entrance, brushing his clit but not enough; the rough feel of Ianto's clothes against his arms. Jack tried to imagine this with costumes, a pirate and a French maid, or a superspy and a cat burglar. Warmth flooded him at the fantasy. Definitely bringing out the costumes next time.
"I'm not going to ... " Ianto gasped, and then he was coming, pounding away hard. Jack rode it, although the thrusts had gone back to being painful.
When he'd subsided, Ianto managed to pull out and set Jack down both without damaging himself badly, or at least Jack thought before Ianto fell to his knees.
"Did you--?"
Ianto's mouth was on his cunt then, licking and lapping despite what Jack knew was an unpleasant latex aftertaste over the better flavour of Woman. His tongue and fingers soothed and stroked and loved at Jack, and where his cock had frankly ached a bit, his lips were just perfect.
Jack sighed happily, then tensed as Ianto slid two fingers inside of him, but the fingers stroked a beautiful spot just up and inside as Ianto bit down gently on his clit and ...
The orgasm hit Jack hard, and he let a scream burble out as fingers and tongue relentlessly pushed him harder, giving him barely a moment before ravishing him again with the same strong stimuli. He slammed his head into the wall again and did not feel it until several minutes later.
"Enough," he said, as Ianto began working him towards a third one. All the bones in his body gone, he slid to the floor, which would have been disgusting in any bathroom not regularly maintained by the man in here with him. His eyes weren't focused quite right, but he could make out the smug look on Ianto's face, damp as it was with Jack's juices. (Jack hated that word. Home had lovely words for the various fluids of sex, and most of them were synonyms for "joy".)
The door to the loo banged open. Owen shouted, "Oi! Everything all right in here? I heard a scream."
"Nothing to worry about," said Jack. He sensed rather than saw Owen's dawning suspicion.
"Ianto?"
"'Lo, Owen."
Muttering disgustedly about idiots who didn't know what a bed was for, Owen slammed the door behind him as he exited. Their eyes met again, and they both laughed until they were sick.
Keeping Up With the Joneses
Characters: Martha/Ianto
NC-17
Warnings: infidelity
prompt: Ianto/Martha, Jones comfort sex while their real lovers (either Jack and the Doctor or Jack and Tom) are off saving the world, adultery
A/N: Bonus end of the world sex
Fear, worry, desire, and death, they're used to those. But uncertainty in the face of non-existence? Even the Doctor might forgive them some trepidation.
The Doctor isn't here. Accident or intent, he has taken his picked soldiers, willingly so or not, off to the battle which is pitched parsecs away and may involve a single move of a chess piece. Jack wasn't sure, only said he needed to be there beside the Doctor and Mickey and brilliant Donna, and Ianto knows there is no point in questioning this.
But here they are, alone and afraid, stuck in the Hub with no contact, no word. Gwen has returned home to Rhys, knowing it could be the end and having nothing better to do for it than wait with him. Martha, recovered from her injury but not fast enough to join the quest, sits restlessly in front of her monitor, flipping between the silent channel of the TARDIS and the silent news from Tom's last known location. Stillness is filled with the crackle of static. Something about where they are, what they're doing, radiation the Doctor thinks, means the phone won't connect to the ship, and Tom dropped his in a river last week, so they are left with this, and this is nothing.
Ianto brings her tea. Reduced to a scared thing who doesn't know if the universe will end any second, he hides behind a mug and a false smile, bravery for a woman who has walked past far greater threats than even he will ever see.
She catches his hand as he sets down the mug. There's a broken line in her forehead, and knowing Jack would do the same, he bends in for a friendly kiss upon it to smooth her brow. She shivers, and he goes to fetch her a blanket, a sweater, something to keep out the damp chill of their underground world, but Martha's hand is latched on his wrist, and won't let go as her eyes search his for something.
Her other hand flicks the switch. Empty air clicks over to empty air, hissing and popping with no promises.
"If they don't come back," she says, voice small in the large room, "we'll never know."
Ianto nods. "Jack said it will be like unwinding the past until there's nothing left." He tries for a smile, a joke, anything to chase away the worry across her face. "Just another day here, really."
"With the Doctor, too," she says. "Always the world ending or the universe collapsing. But he'd always have this mad look in his eye, and I wouldn't be scared anymore, because I knew he'd find a way out."
"Jack's like that. I think he must get it from spending time with the Doctor."
"I think Jack already had it."
He doesn't know which of them moves first, but he's already bent down and she is already looking up, and a kiss doesn't have to mean anything. He's given Gwen the occasional affectionate snog, gave them to Toshiko once upon a time. Rare, true, but also real and freely offered. Martha's mouth opens under his, and then he's no longer going to be able to pretend this is a friendly kiss. She tastes of the last two sweet cups of tea he made for her, and a little of the protein bar he coaxed her to eat when real food was out of the question. For the first time since Jack came back, he finds himself worried for the state of his own breath.
Martha doesn't seem to mind.
Both her hands are on his arms now, not pulling, not pushing, and he tilts his head to move further into the kiss without moving his body at all.
He is kissing Martha. He's sure there are rules about this, written and enforced by Jack and the Doctor both: thou shalt not fuck with Martha Jones lest we smack you, unless she says it's cool. Her body language says it's cool, but Ianto is suddenly worried. He pulls back from the kiss, but holds her eyes with his.
"Sorry," she says, closing her own eyes. "That wasn't fair of me. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." His hand is at her cheek, stroking her delicate chin.
"I just ... I'm afraid. And you're always so kind to me, and it's not fair to you, so I'm sorry."
This isn't the strangest conversation he's had after snogging someone. That honour goes to the "Have you ever fucked a Weevil?" chat with Jack that one night. Still.
"Jack and I have an understanding," he says, which will have to suffice, because trying to explain the complexities of 51st century dating standards is just beyond him right now, and anyway it boils down to how they both see other people while remaining each other's primary partner. With the universe and all of history about to unravel, that's simply not something he intends to explain in detail now.
"Tom and I don't."
"All right," he says for something to say. It was just a kiss, after all. Jack will likely replay it on the CCTV when he comes home. If he comes home.
"So when I say," says Martha as if she didn't hear him, "that I'm scared, and I just want you to hold me, Tom won't understand. At all. And God, you're gay, so I feel even worse for thinking it."
A frown comes to his face. He can't do anything about the Tom issue, because other people's relationships are not his to fix. "I'm not gay. Jack's ... Jack." That's all there is to say, and the expression on her face, in her eyes, tells him she understands that part, at least. Everyone is a Jacksexual.
She pulls his arms then, gently, and he comes to her mouth again. She will have to sort out her life with Tom on her own terms, but the universe is likely ending, and Ianto knows Jack understands the need of warmth against the encroaching darkness. That doesn't mean he won't wipe the camera feed later. There is such a thing as privacy, even if Jack disagrees.
The sofa isn't far, and they make it over while not breaking the kiss. Ianto has fucked and been fucked on this sofa countless times, but there is something about Martha that makes him wish to give her satin sheets. No help for it now. Her mouth is alive against his, searching and tasting him like a treat or a mystery. He takes a second, just one, to pull back and look at her face, so beautiful he could cry. His life is fucked up and filled with shit, but somehow he's ended up in bed with the most gorgeous lovers, and that has to count for something.
He pulls off her shirt, and unsnaps her bra, taking the time to worship her breasts with his hands and mouth. Her nipples are already hard in the chilly air, so he warms each one with his mouth. The only sounds are the pops of static from the speakers, and the hum of the equipment as it runs. Even Myfanwy is out tonight, free to swoop in the night air for the last night of the world. No one will see them here.
Trousers are difficult, but they manage, and he lays her down on the uncomfortable sofa, drinking in the sight of her lithe body before kissing her again. He's hard against her hip where he's draped, and he can't think of anything he wants more right now than to slide inside of her. His fingers skitter down her sides, stroke her waist, and skid in a flat palm across her belly, while she spreads her knees apart.
"Shit," he says, pulling off. "Condom."
"Go," she says breathlessly, and he runs, completely naked and hard as a rock, up to Jack's office where they stash the extra condoms and lube. He grabs both.
Back at the sofa, Martha's hand is between her own folds, and he moans at the sight: one arm stretched over her head, extending her breasts, one moving rhythmically for her own pleasure. Ianto sets down his prizes and goes to his knees on the hard floor beside the sofa, bending in like a supplicant. Her hand moves away and he licks a long stripe up her closed folds with the flat of his tongue, then dives in. Martha's body arches up to meet him.
It's good, god it's good, this taste. He lingers there, drinking her down, revelling in the differences between her and each other woman he's done this for. Jack doesn't use the "snowflake" metaphor, but yeah, it's always a different world every time.
"Please," she says, eyes clenched shut. "Please."
Somehow, he'll never remember how later, his hands figure out the condom the first time and slick it on. He pours a bit of lube, just enough, though he doesn't think he'll need it, not with her body here open before him and ready and wet.
It's a fast coupling. Missionary is practically a joke, but her body undulates beneath his in a sinewy fashion, like one taut line broken free to writhe, and he finds that she is the one in control, she is the one setting the pace and the movements, and he is here, just here, holding her. No wonder Jack speaks of Martha in such worshipful tones when she's not around. Fucking Jack is like fucking time itself, but Martha is a goddess, and Ianto has just found a new religion.
Jack keeps suggesting threesomes. They are definitely exploring this option should history not unwind around them.
Martha's eyes are tightly shut, and as she comes, Ianto is certain he is nowhere near her thoughts. His own last coherent thought is that this isn't a bad way for the world to end. If the name on his lips isn't hers, he doesn't think she minds. His vision greys out with his orgasm rushing through him, one last hot wave of lust bursting through him and out his cock.
But it's not his vision. Martha's eyes are open, and her head turned to see the rest of the Hub, and as he also looks, everything is grey. Still riding the last crest of his climax, he feels his memories trickling out one by one.
Martha reaches up and touches his face, her eyes full of tears. "I'm glad it was you," she says, and just as he leans in to kiss her goodbye, the universe fades away.
Stimulation
Characters: Ianto/Lisa
NC-17
Warning: read the prompt, people
prompt: Ianto/Cyber!Lisa, Her new metal-sheathed parts needs MASSIVE simulation for her to get off. A peening hammer? A cattle prod? Take your pick! No non-con/violence, please.
A/N: This may have been written partially in response to someone saying they didn't "get" drabbles. *cough*
Ianto has acquired numerous books on the topic of sex and physical disabilities. Lisa's metal shell includes replacements for the body parts which were already removed, and even in the brightest of uncertain futures, they will still be gone.
The books are useful now, as he relearns her remaining nerves, as he traces them with his lips before pulling away.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
He takes a breath, places the stun gun against her crotch. She cries out, but he knows that beautiful cry. The books have nothing to add as he squeezes the trigger again and again and again.
Welcome Reception
Characters: Jack/Ianto/Lisa
NC-17
Warnings: none
prompt: Jack/Lisa/Ianto, it turns out Jack's met Ianto and Lisa pre-Fragments at a Torchwood affair. threesome ensues.
A/N: Everyone knew this was me, right? Right.
He never got their names. They were introduced, but the pair were both lightweights on the cocktails that flowed freely at the reception, and Jack had been too busy with Yvonne throwing name after name at him to care. Everyone knows who he is, and that's the important part.
But now they're among the coats, and her boyfriend's cock (fiance's? husband's? Jack's unsure and doesn't care much) is deep inside her, setting up what is for them probably a familiar rhythm, and the boyfriend says he's done this before with men. He's tight, but he knows how to push back onto Jack's cock like an old pro.
They're going to make too much noise in here. Jack doesn't care much about that, either.
The girlfriend is whining, deep in her throat, her lover's hands tight on her hips as he drives in, and Jack rides them both like a damn stallion, like a wave. It's been a while since he's had more than one person in his bed, and even if this does not qualify as anything like "bed," he's good. He's really good.
The boyfriend isn't going to last long, not with Jack knowing exactly how to move and the girlfriend (gotta get their names, this could be fun as a semi-regular London thing) does something that even Jack can feel, echoing through the man's body, and the boyfriend is coming with a keen that Jack manages to stifle with his hand.
"Unless you want an audience," Jack hisses, "shut up." He goes full out now, giving one hand over to help the girlfriend finish her own climax, finding her boyfriend's fingers already there. It doesn't take long for her to shudder and let out one long moan. That gives Jack pride of place as he finishes deep in the boyfriend's arse, cursing and laughing as he comes.
Jesus. Not the way he normally spends these boring functions. But certainly an improvement.
"You okay?" he asks, to both of them, gets a pair of matching nods as they all disentangle.
Someone opens the cloakroom door, and Jack, who's done things like this before, immediately piles the three of them under a few coats that have fallen. Hm. Someone's going to need a dry cleaner after this, and he reminds himself to slip a few quid into the pockets of the coats they've soiled. He tries to be polite.
When the door closes again, they emerge from the pile. The boyfriend's hair is a mess, but the girlfriend has already smoothed hers back into place.
"You know," says Jack, "I'm supposed to be up here again in a few months for a meeting. We could ... "
"Thanks," says the girlfriend. "We'll think about it." Which means "No."
Oh well. The nice thing about anonymous shags, he thinks as they dress and sort out who's going to nip out first, is that he almost never runs into the participants again anyway.
Supply Run
Characters: Jack/Ianto/Lois
NC-17
Warnings: bondage, some role-play
prompt: Jack/Ianto/Lois, PA of the year, bonus for creative use of office supplies
A/N: And now I 'ship it. Huh.
"Binder clips do not make appropriate nipple clamps," Ianto says, swiping the large one deftly from Lois's fingers.
Lois makes a noise that is not a squawk, thank you, and tries unsuccessfully to steal it back, but he's too tall for her to reach without climbing his body and Jack says they're not allowed to touch each other yet. Bloody Jack. "I've tried them out at home," she says.
"We've tried them out here," he replies. "The answer is no."
"Kids, kids, no need to fight." Jack is tied to his chair, one wrist bound to the armrest with the cord from the computer's surge protector, the other with sellotape. His trousers have been pulled down to his ankles, and the legs expertly stapled together at the feet so he can't move. Despite this, he appears relaxed and in charge rather than ridiculous.
Lois is wearing a necklace made of paperclips and nothing else. 'Ridiculous' sums up exactly how she feels at this moment.
Sitting at a precise distance from each hand are two perfectly-brewed cups of coffee. He casts a lingering glance at them, and Ianto is better at reading him anyway, dips his pinky into the cup he prepared and feeds the drops into Jack's hungry mouth. Jack suckles on it like a little pig, and pulls off the finger with a pop. Lois stands back, thinking, then pours just half an ounce into the palm of her hand, scalding before it cools a bit. She rubs the warm liquid over the dark areola of one breast. She thinks this is better for him to suckle, and Jack's hungry mouth agrees. She sends a look to Ianto, whose own mouth is making little movements in sympathy to Jack's. But there's a rule.
When he has cleaned off all the coffee from her, Jack says, "I suppose a spanking with a ruler is out of the question."
The ruler appears in Ianto's hand, as if by magic, but instead of spanking, he draws one edge slowly from the top of Jack's head, making a straight line down his smooth chest, dipping into his navel, and then circling around the base of Jack's proud cock before -- Jack moans -- scratching over his balls and threading between the cheeks of his arse. Ianto leaves it there, sticking out like a flat extra penis.
"Okay," Jack says, voice calm but Lois can hear the catch, "time for the final part of the competition."
Lois is first to the gate this time, having already spied where the pair keep their ribbons of condoms. She rips open one, and rolls it with precision over Jack's erection.
"Ianto?"
"Ladies first."
Jack scoots his bottom closer to the edge of the chair, knocking the ruler to the floor, and Lois turns her back to him, carefully easing herself onto his cock, all the pressure in her knees and thighs. She fucks herself slowly on him, bending and stretching, as Jack pumps himself with the little movement he can make. He's whining in his throat, and if she gets him off right now, she wins. Ianto isn't watching them, is doing something behind Jack but she's sure he isn't touching.
"Enough!" Jack almost shouts it, and she freezes. "His turn." She considers going for it anyway, impaling herself again, but that's not the game tonight and anyway, she's not a rapist. Her turn is over. She stands up, letting his cock fall out of her.
Ianto does extend a hand to her then, helping her walk, but Jack doesn't object. With a quick hand, Ianto strips off the first condom, applies a new one, and as he takes the position she just vacated, she sees he spent the time preparing himself so Jack could slide right inside of him. Jack grunts, but this has to be familiar for him, for them. Now she can see Jack's face, and she wonders if he made that same contortion when he was fucking her. It's beautiful. They're beautiful, sellotape and all. A handful of offhand remarks Gwen has said over the last few weeks become clear, and her breath catches.
Jack must be psychic, saying, "You're here because we want you here and you want to be here." She didn't even have the question formed in her mind, but it's the answer she needs. Ianto's legs have to be killing him as he rides Jack, his own cock bobbing against his stomach untouched.
Lois hasn't been told she can't touch herself, and she does, finding just the right spot, and Ianto's eyes are locked on her hand.
Jack groans and then says, "Stop!" Ianto stops. Jack still hasn't come. Stamina or stupidity. Ianto disengages from him, and they both stand in front of Jack, panting and ready.
This was so not in the job description.
"Now," he says, eyes flicking between them, "now you can touch each other. Hands only. Get each other off." Ianto's hands are on her before she can think, writhing against the same spot he just watched her caress. It's good, it's so good, and he's just right. She feels slow, reaches belatedly for his dick, wraps both hands around him, and she jerks him the way her last boyfriend liked to be jerked. He's moaning now, still only touching her at her nether folds, and she feels her orgasm coiled inside her ready to spring.
"Ianto wait," Jack says, and Lois swears because she was right there. "Use the highlighter." Lois lets go of him so he can dash for the garish blue marker Jack insisted on, and he uncaps it with shaking hands, drawing the wet tip over her breasts. She hisses, and then she growls as he writes his initials on her stomach, his mouth in a twisted smile.
"Arse."
"Just signing my work," he says, and then flips it and slides the solid end right into her as he brushes her clit with his thumb, and that's just right. Lois shouts as she comes, wet over the marker and his hands.
"That was gorgeous," Jack says, eyes wide and cock so hard it surely hurts him. She doesn't care, not right now, not still thrilling inside to her own quakes. As Ianto pulls the marker out of her, she remembers her task, and brings her hand back to him. He's almost there, and she pumps him to climax, letting him shoot over her hand and into the space between them. There will be a mess on the floor later, but cleaning Jack's office is his job, not hers.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" Ianto sounds like he's just brought a round of coffees.
Jack pumps his hips, but there's no friction in empty air. "Yes. Someone really needs to suck me off right now."
Ianto catches her eye, and she gets the game. "Of course, sir," Lois says in her most formal voice. "However, I believe we'll need written instructions on how to proceed."
Jack actually goes to move his arms, and is stuck. She watches him struggle for a second. "Lois, I'll need you to take some dictation."
"Yes, sir." She finds a notepad, yellow, and perches on the edge of her desk, legs demurely crossed but lifted enough for Jack to see her pussy. His mouth is watering, but he says, "Subject. Re: blowjobs. One of my personal assistants needs to come to my assistance immediately for the purpose of oral gratification. Mine. Etcetera etcetera, Captain Jack Harkness."
"Yes, sir," said Lois, and got down from the desk. "I'll just type this up."
Ianto says, "Handwritten should be sufficient, Ms. Habiba. Kindly go make a copy."
She is not walking naked through the Hub, except apparently she is, and as she exits Jack's office, she sees Ianto get to his knees to take Jack into his mouth. Lois runs. The copier doesn't jam, for once, and she's back in about a minute. Jack's head is thrown back in pleasure, and he's thrusting into Ianto's mouth.
"Just in time," Jack says. "Unless of course that's a photocopy of your tits."
"No, sir, but I'll make a note for next time." She kneels beside Ianto, and she takes Jack's cock into her mouth. Between fucking him and Ianto's mouth, Jack is just a few strokes away even as she starts sucking him, and he has just enough time to shout a warning before she lets go and come splashes the skin of her throat.
"Ianto," he drawls, "I've made a mess on poor Lois. Clean her off for me?"
"With pleasure, sir." His tongue is warm, and he slurps a little, but Ianto is efficient and wipes up every drop, even the drops she knows for a fact did not spill on her nipples. If this happens again, Lois is going to spend some quality time with Ianto's tongue.
When she's clean, he sits back, and faces Jack. "Sir?"
"Okay, okay. Performance evaluation complete." She expects him to declare Ianto the winner, since they are lovers and domestic bliss is better than the alternative. Of course, if they've had a spat recently, he might declare Lois the winner just so he can encourage Ianto to try harder when they're alone later. "It's a draw."
"Excuse me?" Lois tries not to snap, but it's hard, especially with Ianto making an annoyed growl beside her.
"You're both perfect personal assistants. Sorry. Now, I suggest we get a little supper and try this competition again in a few hours. Who's with me?" He looks from one to the other eagerly.
***
Jack is still bound to the chair when they are fully dressed and leaving for dinner without him. "Come on, guys."
They ignore him, and this is getting annoying.
"Binder clips feel wonderful on the nipples," Lois says.
"On your nipples, maybe. Mine were bruised for a week the last time we tried." The closing of the cog wheel door behind them silences the rest of the argument. Jack struggles against the tape. First, he's going to get free. Then, he's going to order something for delivery. Then he's going to wait until they return, and he's going to glue them together back to back and enjoy himself. It's a good plan and he thoroughly approves of it.
He tugs at his arm again. Bloody sellotape.
Clarity
Characters: Johnson (Alice implied)
NC-17
Warnings: second-person POV, toys, stalking
prompt: Alice/Johnson, anything
A/N: I de-anoned on this earlier, but am posting it here for the first time.
You're not sure how you got here. Oh, there's the obvious: espionage, murder, kidnapping, and standing idly by while a child was obliterated for the sake of all other children. That's easy to understand, if not to live with.
You're not certain how that led you here, not really. You know that when you brought her in, you saw a light in her eyes you'd never seen before in anyone else's. You remember the taste of the air between you as she told you what needed to be done, as she spoke the words that would lead to her son's death. You can still smell the stink in the air in that room, how it seeped into everything and everyone, filling them all with atoms of their own souls' destruction as she wept and screamed. It swathed her hair when you held her, because someone had to hold her, it was required on such an awful day for someone to hold her. Under the stench of death, you smelled her hair and the perfume she wore beneath the cloak of Steven's death hit you like a hammer to the jaw.
The funny thing, the thing that makes you laugh when you're alone, and then it's not a funny laugh at all, is that you know they all think you're a lesbian. They see the clothes, hear the severity in your voice, and not one man under your command thinks anything but that you'd fuck the same dim-eyed bimbos they stroke themselves fantasising about, when they're not thinking about humping one other. But you're not, you haven't. Your tastes have always run to the younger, more delicate men you've learned to pick up around the college pubs. Take them while they're trainable, possess them for a while knowing you're in charge, drop them when they get clingy. You've had enough of men running your life, and you're not interested in any would-be he-man to sweep you off your feet, overpower you with lust, dominate you. Never again. No hero types and no women.
It comes as a surprise to you, then, to find yourself here. You watch her through the windows, you track her movements, you cannot ask her how she is doing because there are no words for the enormity of what has happened, of what your own actions enabled. You have a key to her house, access for when she isn't home, and you know she would kill you if she knew. You climb her stairs, avoid the closed door to the bedroom you know was his, walk into hers.
Alice's pillow always smells of tears and sweat and the unmistakable scent of her. One of these days, you're going to shatter your own last shred of self-control and steal the duvet cover, steal the pillowcases, steal pieces of her and take them home with you to hold against you while you sleep. Perhaps today. The smells are overpowering: her grief made potent and real, and … You flip over the duvet, find her sheets, and they are stale and unchanged and smell fully of sex, of her.
You jerk back, sanity reasserting itself briefly, and then falling again. This is madness, to stand her in the bedroom of a woman you barely know, someone who has every cause to hate you, and not be able to resist placing your face against the depression in the bed where her body has been and breathe deep into the dark blue sheets.
God, your fingers are inside your pants so fast, circling and rubbing hard. Your head goes back, watches her ceiling, the pale eggshell colour of it filling your eyes from the darkness of her bedding. So good, so close, and all you can do is think of her eyes, that firm tilt of her mouth.
A moan passes your lips, and you stop suddenly. You've been silent up to now, and fear trickles through you. She could catch you, and there are no explanations you can ever give for why you're here. You barely kept your job after the disaster of the 456, and you will not hold onto it if you are found out now. Your fingers creep back under your waistband anyway. As you turn your eyes to the door of her bedroom, something catches your attention.
Alice's sheets hold other surprises. Pulling them further away, releasing, oh God, more scent into the closed room, you find it. Long, smooth, bulged in gentle ridges, made of silicone.
The sigh you make is edged with another moan as you bring the toy to your face. You stick just the tip of your tongue through your lips and taste the soft residue left from the last time she pleasured herself. Alice tastes as good as she smells.
You close your eyes.
You need to stop. You can still put everything back, remake the rumpled ruin of her bed, walk out as you have five times before. Already you've been here longer, seen and done more, than you thought you would or could or dared.
And now the dildo is in your mouth, sliding in and out as your spit covers it, washes the traces of Alice away, as you suckle her distantly, and you're not leaving.
Your trousers come loose with a tug, and you slide one hand up your shirt, under your bra, tweak an aching nipple and then its mate. The hand slides down to pull down your trousers, and the cotton panties, so practical when you put them on this morning. Your fingers are covered with your own slick, made more generous just by the thought of what you're doing. You get to your knees beside her bed, as if praying, though if this is for your soul or just for an orgasm, no one can say.
It's cold, sliding into you, and you bite your lip to keep from gasping. In and out, and oh this is exactly what you needed, what you wanted. Your face dips to her sheets again, that smell of woman, of sensual rebirth after everything. She hates you and you don't think you can live without her.
Your fingers work your clit, rub your urethra, tracing both with long-practised ease as your other hand pumps in and out. Colour is high in your cheeks, you breathe in gasps, and Alice is everywhere in this room. You picture her finding you here, horrified. You picture her lying here in her bed, thrusting against the dildo in her own hand, moaning, yes, moaning your name because this is your fantasy and you can. You push it in hard, and you pinch your clit, and you picture Alice beneath you, her face against your dark curls and her tongue loving you, and you hitch and fold inside and come. You keep thrusting, keep rubbing, and you hold that image, of Alice licking you and you let out a sharp moan as you crest a second time.
God.
Your knees ache from the position, and you lower yourself to the rug. The dildo comes out of you with a sticky sound, and now it is covered with your pleasure instead. Shaking, you pull up your panties and redo your trousers, and with a fierce hot blush on your face, you rinse the dildo off with hot water from the sink in the ensuite. You use her towel, another item in this place covered with the smell of her, to dry it and you place it back as best you remember, along with the sheets and the duvet.
The tingle is still there. You know if you slide your fingers against yourself one more time, you could get off again within a minute. You really want to get off again, and you know you can't stay.
She's probably going to miss the pillow, and you're not going to be able to come back here again if she does. You take it anyway.
Your van is parked half a street away, and you're inside it just in time for her to round the corner in her own car. You watch as she gets out, as her eyes take in the house and the street in a way that suggests she will be moving soon, and you can't blame her. After she goes inside, you bring the pillow to your face, and it turns out you can get yourself off again in under thirty seconds.
You wonder how long it will take you to get a key to Alice's new house.