More Commentfics
Can you tell I'm procrastinating?
More commentfics from touchyerwood. Take a prompt, leave a prompt, fill an already filled prompt again. Standard disclaimer of everything belonging to the Beeb, please read the warnings on each story. No, REALLY.
Untitled
Characters: Ianto/Lisa
NC-17
Warnings: see prompt
prompt: Ianto/Lisa, sounding
Lisa calls it a Dittel sound. Ianto takes one look and calls it a goddamned railroad spike and she wants to put it where? But she's adventurous, and to be fair, so's he when the mood strikes.
It's a Wednesday when she brings it up, and it's the following Saturday evening when he is stretched out on their bed, tied down with her favourite scarves. All the lights are on in their bedroom so she can focus on her work, on the precision of movement she needs so as not to hurt him. Lisa slides the metal, cold and slick, inside the tip of his cock, and part of him thinks the hottest thing is the sight of the latex gloves covering her deft hands.
"Trust me," Lisa says, and the metal falls slowly under its own weight into him, and he trusts her, god, he trusts her.
Six months later Ianto will find the sound in an unopened cardboard box, and the way the lamplight glints on it will pull a laugh from him that devolves into something horrible. Tonight, though, her hands are gentle and her eyes are filled with his trust, and the rod goes deeper and deeper, and it's love, it's all her perfect love pouring into him like molten steel.
Weapons Training
Characters: Gwen/Lois
R
warnings: none
prompt: Gwen/Lois, Weapons training - it was incredibly hot when Gwen would say to Lois "Good Girl"
Gwen's body is firm behind her and Lois is trying not to be distracted by her soap and perfume, but each movement of her hair sends another wave. This, Lois understands, is part of the training, just as the press of Gwen's thighs against her are important. Learn not to be distracted, learn how to stand, learn.
Gwen's hands are strong wrapped over hers, not too big, not encompassing, but guiding as Lois learns the aim of this weapon, huge and heavy in her grip. Coffee and paperwork, she thought when she said yes, but here and now she is being turned into another kind of asset, a guided missile. She is being groomed to replace Gwen because Gwen is busy scrambling to replace Jack. Replace. Go on. It sounded so noble in her head.
Gwen doesn't say Jack did this when she trained, when they all trained.
"Now," Gwen breathes into her ear, a hand flat on Lois's stomach, "squeeze."
Lois squeezes the trigger.
"You pulled." Lois opens her eyes, not realizing they'd been closed, sees the wild shot. Her pulse is racing, which Gwen can certainly feel from where she stands. "Try again."
Somehow Gwen is even closer now, with her thigh close against where Lois foolishly wore a skirt today, where Lois thinks she must be dripping. Gwen's breath is hot. "Go."
Lois focuses, moves past her heartbeat, past her desire, past the past. No replacements, no distractions, just her alone inside her own skin.
She squeezes.
Perfect shot.
"Good girl," Gwen says in her ear, and Lois cannot help it, cannot prevent the gush from her body. Without looking, she knows she's left a damp patch on Gwen's denims and she doesn't care, she wants to fire again, wants to run to the closest quiet corner to fuck her own fingers, wants Gwen to do it for her.
Gwen says, "Again," and Lois is the gun, and she fires herself at the world.
The Way You Think
Characters: Ianto/Face of Boe (Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ianto/OFCs)
NC-17
warnings: shades of dubcon
prompt: Ianto/Face of Boe, giant head WITH TENTACLES is kink enough
It's a head. In a jar. And it's staring at him.
Ianto takes another drink from the fluted glass he's been served. Over the past several months of his travels, he's developed a taste for this particular nectar, and anyway, it gives him something to do with his hands. He's getting used to being stared at, but that doesn't mean he likes it.
He is being chatted up by a green alien with five eyes, and its companion, which appears to be a sentient gas. Ianto is an oddity, a human in a time when humans are rarely seen in this part of the galaxy, and he feeds on their titters at his stories of Cardiff, of home. He's the exotic one, which means he's invited to receptions and events as a curiosity, and it also means his meals and transport are usually handled for him. It's better than being put into a zoo.
"So there we were, both covered in mud ... "
"Actual mud?" breathes the gas. "Decay and worm dung and water mixed to a paste?"
"Exactly," says Ianto, though he's never spent much time thinking about the components of dirt. "And Dad just said, 'Did you remember to pick up the lemons?'" He laughs at the memory, and his companions laugh as well, whether or not they understand why it's funny.
The head in the jar is still staring. As the other two move to mingle with the other guests, a short alien in a robe approaches Ianto respectfully. "Sir?"
Another thing to get used to. "Hello."
"His August Personage the Face of Boe has requested your presence." There's a note in the alien's voice that suggests the request is not negotiable. Ianto has heard the name before, mentioned as another distinguished guest at this reception. He's under the impression that the Face of Boe is there as a respectable guest, though, and not part of the sideshow entertainment.
"Of course." He follows the alien to the head in the jar, and tilts his torso respectfully.
Words appear in his mind, and by the reactions of the attendants around him, they appear in theirs as well: "You are human."
"Last I checked, yes." He expected something more formal, and now he's off-guard. He plays with his glass, and hopes he won't start stuttering, like he did when he first appeared in this time, lost among the stars and frightened.
"From Earth."
"Yes."
Now he knows where this is going, and he starts working out a polite excuse. Humans, especially Earth-based, are famous for many reasons, but in this era, the chief factoid Everyone Knows about them is that they'll have sex with anything. Having listened to various iterations and descriptions of this reputation, Ianto blames Jack, and suspects the man of founding at least two human religions based solely on pornography. Since arriving here, Ianto has been propositioned at almost every event he's attended. He's said yes to a few of the offers, figuring Jack had plenty of good things to say about interspecies sex. He wasn't kidding.
"Tell me," says the voice in Ianto's head. "Tell me of your Earth."
Ianto launches into a story, one of the several he keeps on hand for these things. The party-goers want tales of how simple and quirky his life was, so he tends to leave out the part where he chased aliens for a living. Because he is thinking of Jack again, he tells about a funny picnic they had, skimming over the blowjob he'd given Jack, focusing instead on the part where they were surprised by a large dog that had got loose and they ended up in a duck pond.
"So, dripping wet," Ianto says, because aliens really go for the stories where the humans end up messy, "we make our way back to the picnic blanket. Everything's scattered but the wine bottle's still upright, so we share the bottle back and forth until the dog's owner comes walking by, and she says, 'What on Earth happened?' and Jack says, 'It rained. Want some wine?'"
Rumbling laughter fills his mind, and it's pleasant. Other guests have wandered over, seeking audience with the head in the jar, but as Ianto starts to wander off, he hears a voice in his head that he somehow knows is only for him: "Stay."
The memory of that day comes back, like it's being teased from his mind, but the parts he didn't tell are suddenly in the forefront. As though he's on the blanket on his knees, instead of standing at a party holding a glass, Ianto can smell Jack, feel his mouth full of warm cock. Jack makes those soft gasps he always does, thrusting in deep, and Ianto forgets how to breathe, even as the Golari Ambassador bows to him and then to the Face in the jar. The Face is thinking something at the Ambassador, but its ancient eyes are on Ianto.
The memory morphs, and Jack is kissing the dog's owner, who enjoyed the wine thoroughly, while Ianto's hand is on her thigh stroking upwards under the loose skirt she's wearing. She's making soft, pleased noises in her throat as Jack holds her face. Ianto wants to move his hand further, knows he'll meet soft cotton already damp with arousal, but the dog barks, and she breaks the kiss with a disappointed laugh. They don't get her name as she goes to collect her pet, but she waves in the departing sunshine, and for a moment, he can see another future where they took her back to his flat and he and Jack set a contest to see who could make her come more times, and then she's gone.
He is standing rock still, his glass clutched in a deathgrip as the memories come through. This alien is sifting through his thoughts like he'd page through a book. "I hope you're enjoying yourself," he says quietly.
"It has been a long time since my physical form had encounters this way. I almost forgot how it felt."
Ianto doesn't have that issue, overwhelmed with sense memories of mouth and cock and arse and balls. The mental cataloguing touches his thoughts of Lisa, and delicately closes that door again, allowing him some shred of privacy. It's Jack, and then a moment with Jack and the woman they picked up from that club two nights later, both filled with regret that the last encounter hadn't continued. It is hurried kisses and quick fumbles and slow fucking in the cramped camp bed, each memory pulled out and analysed by the intruding mind.
He's going to come in his pants right here, and that will be a story for the next cocktail party. Probably earn him an invitation to five more after that. Meet the freak.
"No," says the Face, and the memories stop abruptly, leaving him staggering. The nearest alien touches his arm to help him steady.
"Are you well?"
"The nectar," Ianto lies, and hands off his glass to a passing waiter. That should be him, serving drinks and food quietly while the crème of society wander and chat and tell snobbish jokes about humans. He gives the waiter a friendly, understanding smile, but the waiter is no more human than any of the others here, and merely gives him a polite nod in return. "Goes to my head," he says to the concerned alien.
"Allow him to rest," says the Face to an attendant, and Ianto is led off to a quiet chamber some corridors away from the party. He would be frightened, but he stopped fearing for himself months ago. He's been told he will return home eventually, from an unimpeachable source. When he is taken somewhere, he no longer thinks he is being locked in a cell.
There's a bed. He thanks his guide and he lies down, shivering from the onslaught of memories.
Time passes, not much time but enough, and the door chimes. As he sits up, he sees the utterly mad vision of the giant jar outside his room. Someone's room. Is this the Face's quarters? Too Spartan, he thinks, for such a well-known personage.
The attendants help the jar into the room, and respectfully bow outside. The door shuts.
"Apologies," says the voice in his mind. "It was rude to wander through your thoughts. I know better."
"Thanks." He draws his knees up to his chest, feeling exposed, alone in the room with this creature.
"I have millions of years of memories. Species and worlds that are long gone that only remain in my mind and no other's."
"Were you collecting my thoughts to preserve them? Seems a funny set to want."
That mental laughter again. "No, pure selfishness. I've lost so much." Such regret in the thought. "I forgot about the day in the park with the dog."
Ianto's head snaps up, his mind filling with images not his own, jumbled together: faces of friends, swelling affection, Martha and Gwen both wrinkled and grey and still lovely, Owen's sharp laugh, a shy smile from Tosh, a flash of Hart, so many flickers of the Doctor, so much love, and with it, Ianto's face shown back at him like a flipbook of emotions and moments, treasured with the rest.
The surge of emotion fills him, pulls tears to his eyes which he wills away. "God. You kept us forever."
"I kept what I could." Ianto wonders if that's what brought on this change, if Jack surrendered his body to keep room in his mind for those he'd loved.
"No," says the Face, reading his thoughts again. "But that's a story for another time." His mind flows into Ianto's again, and Ianto welcomes the intrusion now, feels tendrils of thought wrap around every memory he has of Jack, of their friends, letting emotions both fine and base have equal care under his touch. But there are some he focuses on more.
"Millions of years old, and you still only have a one-track mind."
"Like I said, it has been a long time."
"I can't imagine you giving up sex."
"I did not give it up. I changed how it happened." And now the tendrils attached to the Face are pulsing, and Ianto has some pretty clear ideas of what they do. Shrouded in smoke, caught in a jar.
"Jack?"
Suddenly he feels the fingers on his body, though he and Jack are separated by the glass, each tentacle with a phantom self moving over him like a finger, a snake. His mind falls open again, with the scratchy blanket under his knees in the park, the distant sounds of traffic and the closer sounds of birds and from far off, a bark. Without touching him, tentacles stroke his balls, and play with the sensitive flesh around his hole, and his mouth is heavy with the taste of Jack, the blunt head going into his throat. More tentacles are on his nipples and at the soles of his feet, and running like hands up and down his shaft, and his thoughts are full of thrusting hard into Jack as he writhes, aiming for his sweet spot amid the tight heat, watching his face, contorted and beautiful. His face.
When the orgasm hits, burning through him like a wildfire, his thoughts reduce to one thin, perfect line of delight, and it explodes behind his eyes. He feels the Face burn inside his head, feels the echo linger for several minutes, drawing out the climax like a note held too long, while Ianto trembles inside of it on the bed. Too much, too much, trapped inside his own body sparking with an excess of pleasure that is almost pain.
The mind withdraws, and Ianto gasps, free suddenly but also empty.
"Apologies," says the Face again, and there's an afterglow coming through that Ianto thinks even the party-goers will be able to hear.
"Don't apologise," Ianto says. "Unless it's for ruining me for ordinary sex. And you did that ages ago." He's sticky, and messy, and his clothes will need cleaned, and he doesn't care.
A chuckle, which fades. "I miss you." The unexpected sorrow takes his breath away again, and he places an unsteady hand on the jar. Does anyone get to touch the Face?
"I'm going to be here for three more days. Plenty of memories left to make, yeah?"
The Face smiles. "Yes."
Zeus Appeared to Danaë
Characters: Gwen/Owen
NC-17
warnings: see prompt
prompt: Gwen/Owen watersports
AN: Meh. Experimental fic was experimental. But I've wanted to make the joke in the title for YEARS.
She told herself it was no different from running her hands under lukewarm water. Owen hadn't needed to tell her it was sterile, or as sterile as it could be, pouring from his body over hers. She'd felt worse, smelled worse.
"It'll be hot," he'd said although now she thought he'd forgot to add the words, "for me."
She didn't know why she was doing this. The urine, that was to please him, but whenever she stopped to catch her breath she wondered why pleasing Owen mattered to her. Warmth and wetness ran down her chest and arms, to drip into the tub where she knelt uncomfortably.
Owen groaned as he emptied the last of his bladder, and the hand on his prick started jerking it instead. The pleased-pained expression on his face stayed the same. Gwen went up to her knees and joined her hands with his.
"Oh, that's good. That's right," he said, eyes tightly shut. His voice shot through her, into her belly. Her hands moved faster. Owen's groans grew louder and merged into one ululating moan.
"On your knees," she said suddenly, rising to her feet, and Owen went down as though he'd been hit in the legs, coming to rest on the backs of his own calves. His hands stuttered in their task and then worked himself again, faster.
She wasn't sure she could do this. She wasn't sure she should. Almost thirty years of training and shame came to the forefront of her mind. She shoved them in the corner with the guilt and the regret.
Gwen pushed his head so that her bowed before her, and she stood over him, and she let go in a hot pulse, and she watched him come in his hands, and it mattered to her. It did.
Getting a Lift
Characters: Ianto, Jack, surprise
R
warnings: embarassment squick, if you're me
prompt: Ianto/anyone, public nudity
AN: bonus voyeurism
It's cold. The wind coming in from the Bay could be described, if he were feeling artistic, as biting with tiny needles in his skin. He's not feeling artistic. He's just cold. It is unfortunately the least of his problems.
"No one can see you," says Jack's voice warmly in his ear.
Ianto's head turns automatically towards the closest camera. "Do tell."
"No one but me."
He wants to ask how the repair is going. He wants to know how much longer he's going to have to stand here, perfectly still, waiting for the lift to lower him to safety. He wants, if nothing else, trousers. Jack could have brought him some clothes so he could walk back to the other entrance. But that wouldn't be Jack.
"Working on it," Jack says as if reading his mind. In the background, Ianto can hear, very faintly, the sounds of Jack's deft hands working with tools: metal scraping over metal.
His breath catches. It's not that he enjoys having that sound turn him on, it's that sometimes, he can't help it. If he could ever tell a psychiatrist about his life, he'd be a case study for many a journal, he's sure.
His arousal, of course, has not gone unnoticed.
"Oh," Jack breathes, "we are definitely going to explore this kink later." Ianto doesn't tell him that it's not the kink Jack's thinking of, not the standing out here in the cold at night as people walk by unawares, with the biting air and the memory sound of metal scraping.
Damn.
"If I swear to wipe the feed later, could I talk you into giving a little show while I work?"
"And distract you further? I would like to get inside before hypothermia sets in, thank you."
"It's not that cold out there."
"Says the man who's dressed."
"I'm not dressed."
And there goes any possible hope of hiding his erection. Calling Jack filthy names in his head, not necessarily in a sexual fashion, Ianto rubs his palm down and up again over the length of his shaft.
"Squeeze it."
"No."
"I'm almost done," Jack says, and Ianto really hopes he means with the lift mechanism. "Come on."
There's a sound around him, not the normal eerie grind of the pavement slab, but it is malfunctioning. Ianto sighs, and squeezes his cock, giving himself a few pulls. He'll erase the CCTV footage himself.
The noise gets louder. It's not the lift. Across the Plass, a familiar blue box materialises as Ianto stands there, unable to move.
"Jack?" he says in a strangled voice. "Now would be a perfect time to get that working, yeah?"
"Having some trouble with one of the gears. Only take a minute." Ianto is certain Jack wasn't looking at the camera feed right now if he's that blase about the Doctor's arrival. Pointing it out to him will only delay him further.
As the door to the police box opens, Ianto plasters a smile on his face, covering himself as well as he can with his hands.
"Hello there." As the words leave his mouth, the slab begins to descend, as if in answer to his unspoken prayers that a hole open beneath him and swallow him.
As the street rises (to his view) the Doctor and a pretty young woman emerge from the box and watch him, dumbfounded.
"Doctor?"
"Ah, yes. This is, well, Torchwood." He pats her hand, and says in a loud whisper, "You'll get used to them."
Stepping Out
Characters: Jack/Ianto
NC-17
warnings: none
prompt: Jack/Ianto, frottage, public place
AN: The requester of the previous fic wanted to know how Ianto got stuck on the invisible lift in the nude.
It's the coat that does him in this time. Sometimes it's Jack's smile, or the way he lowers his voice to a register that bypasses Ianto's ears and speaks directly to his prick, or the heat burning off a hand placed not remotely casually on the small of his back. All of those have been active in tonight's mutual seduction, just as Ianto knows his own choice of fitted trousers have caught Jack's eye today, while the intentional thickening of his accent and the wry jokes and coy looks as he handed Jack cups of coffee and papers and weapons all day have played their own parts. Still, it's the coat, wrapped and buttoned around Jack, showing his very bare legs underneath, that seals the deal.
"It'll be fun," Jack says, and Ianto pushes in for a kiss, stepping onto the lift next to him.
No need for words, as Jack works his way like a dervish down the line of buttons first on Ianto's waistcoat and then the lilac shirt beneath it. Hot hands radiate through his vest, while Ianto is caught between frantic kisses and equally frantic scrabbling at the buttons at his own wrists, and this is why he does this, why he keeps on with Jack when logic tells him their relationship is a disaster running in slow motion. The fire draws him. Fuck moths; he feels like a lost man encased in ice for a century, coming alive next to Jack's roaring blaze.
Only when his belt is slithered open and the well-fitted trousers are falling to his knees does Ianto take a moment to break the kisses. Jack settles for biting lightly at his neck, pinpricks of desire, but Ianto breaks away from those as well, toeing off his shoes and socks, stepping out of his trousers and pants to kick them over to puddle on the floor, and pulling his vest over his head to follow the lot.
"Ready?"
No. "Yeah." Jack touches his strap, and the lift jerks uneasily to life. Ianto grabs Jack's arm to steady himself but Jack's hands are already on his own buttons, dropping the greatcoat open for Ianto step inside the cloud of warmth created by Jack's body. As the bare feet promised, there is nothing under the coat but Jack himself as Jack embraces him, hands splayed on his arse. They rise, kissing, and at the back of Ianto's mind he thinks he should oil the lift's gears tomorrow, and then he forgets everything but Jack.
It is not a moan in his throat, Ianto tells himself. Not at the familiar sight, not at the chill at his back from the night air, nor the warmth on his front as they press together. His hands dig under Jack's arms to move restlessly against his back under the silky lining, and Jack's kisses are flavoured like something sweet and savoury from the edges of his memories. Jack has always smelled and tasted of sex, even before Ianto ever admitted his interest was genuine and not simply part of the greater plan. At this moment, there is no greater plan than grinding his own hips to work the friction between them, to focus on the brush of Jack's tongue inside his mouth as the too hot too tight skin on his cock slips and rubs against Jack's.
"How loud," Jack growls between kisses, "do you think we'd have to be," and kisses again, "to break the perception filter?"
Around them, the Plass isn't crowded but it's not empty either, as groups and couples and shoppers walk past unseeing. Ianto is aware of Jack's hands and the cold night air on his arse, aware too of the covering of the coat. Naked, but not. Exposed but hidden. Shagging secretly in plain sight. He reaches between them to grab both cocks, letting the pre-come slick his hand to give them both something to fuck into as they rut.
"I don't know," he says, fighting a gasp. "Scream for me and we'll find out, yeah?"
He is happy to identify the noise in Jack's throat as definitely a moan, and Jack lets himself go, breaking the moan into a shout as he comes all over Ianto's hand. The slick and the spurt and the fact that Jack comes undone for him this way is almost enough, and then Jack's lips are back at his again, and he sucks on Ianto's tongue just right, and he feels his balls tighten, and it's so good, so good, to come all over Jack's stomach with a loud groan caught inside Jack's mouth. The kisses turn softer, and they are alone out here, messy and dripping and glowing in the middle of the crowd.
Jack pulls away, an indulgent smile on his face, and he watches Ianto as he presses his wrist strap to take them safely down again. Which ought to happen any second now. They both look at the strap at the same time they hear the protesting stutter of the lift's gears.
"Uh oh," Jack says, and no amount of button pressing helps. But he has the greatcoat still, and while he'll look ridiculous bordering on obscene wrapped just in that as he dashes barefoot to the other entrance, it's better than nothing.
Ianto accepts a parting kiss with less grace than he could; he's outside at night stark naked, perception filter or no.
"It'll be fine," Jack reassures him. "You have your comm and I'll be in contact the whole time. Anyway, who's gonna see you?"
Rule of Law
Characters: John Barrowman, Neil Patrick Harris
PG-13
warnings: RPF
prompt: JB/Neil Patrick Harris tiebreaking "measuring contest" after the #biggaybattle on Twitter (bonus points for use of social networking and/or cybersexing)
AN: obl. disclaimer about celebrity impressions used for entertainment purposes only and should not be mistaken for representations of actual people
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH I win! jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman No way. I stomped u in the poll. Loser. j/k
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH Not in the poll. Measuring up. My dresser talked to ur dresser. jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman LOL. No way.
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH On the table. How long? jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman 9. U?
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH Hah! 22. ::victory dance:: jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman NO WAY.
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH ::victory dance:: Gtg. Filming. TTYL. jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman Wait. Is that metric? No fair using metric!
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman BARROWMAN!
More of a Good Thing
Characters: Gwen/Tosh/Ianto/Owen/clones
warnings: crack
prompt: clones, any character, any pairing
AN: Inspired in great part by angstslashhope's "We Happy Few". Go read it. (Pack a lunch.)
The first time, it was an accident brought on by too little sleep and far too much stress. Ianto juggled the stack of folders with one hand, and the artefact with the other, and really, anyone could have made the mistake with the button.
A flash of light later, and there was another him, standing in the room, blinking owlishly. Also stark naked.
Ianto first assessed the situation, consulted Owen to check on the nature of the thing (exact duplicate, down to the DNA), then made up his mind. He brought his double a spare suit, since he kept most of his suits there these days, and put him to work on the filing while Ianto went to help in the field. They needed all the help they could get with Jack gone, so one more Ianto was overall a good thing.
By the time they'd returned from the mission, filthy and tired, there were two more of him waiting, wearing more of his spare clothes.
"What's all this, then?" Owen demanded.
"Ianto," said Gwen, part soothing, part worrying, "you can't just keep cloning yourself."
"I was in the field at the time. But it isn't a bad idea. One of me for field work, one to do maintenance, one to keep the Archives, one to handle the Tourist Centre." The other Iantos nodded in agreement.
"It's creepy is what it is," Owen said, and he went into his work area and refused to speak to any of the Iantos for the rest of the long day.
Gwen patted the original Ianto's shoulder. "Sweetheart, we're all overworked. This isn't healthy."
"I'll figure something out," he said.
After Gwen had walked off, Tosh came closer. "What device did you use?"
The following morning, there was one additional Ianto (in charge of maintaining the SUV) and there were also two new Toshes.
"Tosh?" Gwen asked, taken aback at the twinned women at the computers.
"I needed help compiling this," said Tosh Alpha. "And Mainframe is frankly long overdue for an overhaul."
Owen came in a bit late, and screamed when one Ianto offered him coffee while another busied himself cleaning the med bay. "This has really gone too far," Owen said when he'd recovered what passed for composure.
"I agree," said Gwen. "We need to lock the artefact in the secure archives."
Ianto Alpha said, "I'm the one who knows the codes for that, and so do they."
One of the Toshes said, "I could probably hack into it in about five minutes."
Gwen sighed. Her phone rang, and she answered it. "Hello, Rhys. Yes, love. I remember. Noon. I'll be there."
An alert went off as soon as she closed the phone, and she swore as a Tosh said, "No, you won't. We've got a Rift spike on Hope Street. Big one."
Gwen looked stricken at the prospect of abandoning her fiance once again. Then she looked at the Ianto who was busy dusting while another one cleaned the kitchenette. "What's this device called?"
"I don't believe you," Owen said in disgust, getting his kit for the field.
Sleeping arrangements were arranged by two more Iantos, who cleared out some old storage spaces in an unused area of the Hub, and soon a clone dormitory was up and running. Extra Gwens and Toshes appeared throughout the day to help, and Owen grumbled that whenever he counted teaboys, there was always one more. When everyone gathered in the main Hub the following morning, it was to find two Owens, dressed in scrubs, in the process of converting the old boardroom to a greenhouse for his plants, another in the middle of an autopsy, and a fourth looking at porn.
The Owens all looked at the others. "What?"
Five Gwens, Seven Owens, and two Toshes later (they'd reached a maximum containable number of Iantos), the Hub was crowded and bustling with activity. Missions were assigned one after the other, with no worry except no doubles. The systems in the Hub were running more smoothly than they had in years. Gwen, still pretending Jack was merely on an assignment rather than missing, fielded grateful calls from Whitehall and even received a word of thanks from Mr. Saxon himself, who everyone said was a shoe-in when the vote came round. He even had an investigation he wanted them to undertake to the Himalayas, which Gwen sent four clones to go check out, whilst giggling a little.
The day the flight left, two teams came back to the Hub to discover everyone still there had stopped work in favour of what anyone (except Jack) would describe as the world's weirdest orgy. Gwens licked and nibbled each others' breasts, while Toshes rode Owen cocks and Ianto cocks, and one Owen thrust into a Gwen while getting fucked by an Ianto, and two Toshes were in a pleasant 69 off to one side, and three Iantos were enjoying themselves with an Owen, while a Gwen passionately kissed a Tosh while both were being double-teamed by both men, and any mouth not occupied by kissing was filled with a cock or licking a cunt. The elbows and knees alone were a sight out of some Goyaesque horror.
"What's going on?" Gwen Alpha demanded.
One of her clones paused mid-lick to say, "The power cell is dying. We're only going to live another ten minutes. We voted to go out with a bang." Gwen Delta went back to her work on Ianto Epsilon. The four clones on the aeroplane were probably enhancing Torchwood's reputation all by themselves.
Tosh Alpha and Ianto Alpha both tilted their heads, entranced, while Owen pulled out his camera and began taking pictures. Gwen Alpha looked like she wanted to protest, and instead was distracted by the arses of a particularly amorous Owen/Ianto coupling.
Sure enough, in about ten minutes, amid groans and screams and spurts and appeals to God, the giant pile of fuck sort of melted into a viscous mess of green slime and a little trickle of jizz.
Except for the naked Owen in the middle. The Owen with the camera had melted away. Owen Alpha said, "What?"
Ianto went for his mop, while Tosh hurried to lock the artefact in the secure archives and change the passcode. Owen pulled on his clothes. Standing at the edge of the mess, careful to keep her boots free of it, Gwen said, "All right, everyone. When Jack gets back, nobody tell him about this."
They were all in perfect agreement.
More commentfics from touchyerwood. Take a prompt, leave a prompt, fill an already filled prompt again. Standard disclaimer of everything belonging to the Beeb, please read the warnings on each story. No, REALLY.
Untitled
Characters: Ianto/Lisa
NC-17
Warnings: see prompt
prompt: Ianto/Lisa, sounding
Lisa calls it a Dittel sound. Ianto takes one look and calls it a goddamned railroad spike and she wants to put it where? But she's adventurous, and to be fair, so's he when the mood strikes.
It's a Wednesday when she brings it up, and it's the following Saturday evening when he is stretched out on their bed, tied down with her favourite scarves. All the lights are on in their bedroom so she can focus on her work, on the precision of movement she needs so as not to hurt him. Lisa slides the metal, cold and slick, inside the tip of his cock, and part of him thinks the hottest thing is the sight of the latex gloves covering her deft hands.
"Trust me," Lisa says, and the metal falls slowly under its own weight into him, and he trusts her, god, he trusts her.
Six months later Ianto will find the sound in an unopened cardboard box, and the way the lamplight glints on it will pull a laugh from him that devolves into something horrible. Tonight, though, her hands are gentle and her eyes are filled with his trust, and the rod goes deeper and deeper, and it's love, it's all her perfect love pouring into him like molten steel.
Weapons Training
Characters: Gwen/Lois
R
warnings: none
prompt: Gwen/Lois, Weapons training - it was incredibly hot when Gwen would say to Lois "Good Girl"
Gwen's body is firm behind her and Lois is trying not to be distracted by her soap and perfume, but each movement of her hair sends another wave. This, Lois understands, is part of the training, just as the press of Gwen's thighs against her are important. Learn not to be distracted, learn how to stand, learn.
Gwen's hands are strong wrapped over hers, not too big, not encompassing, but guiding as Lois learns the aim of this weapon, huge and heavy in her grip. Coffee and paperwork, she thought when she said yes, but here and now she is being turned into another kind of asset, a guided missile. She is being groomed to replace Gwen because Gwen is busy scrambling to replace Jack. Replace. Go on. It sounded so noble in her head.
Gwen doesn't say Jack did this when she trained, when they all trained.
"Now," Gwen breathes into her ear, a hand flat on Lois's stomach, "squeeze."
Lois squeezes the trigger.
"You pulled." Lois opens her eyes, not realizing they'd been closed, sees the wild shot. Her pulse is racing, which Gwen can certainly feel from where she stands. "Try again."
Somehow Gwen is even closer now, with her thigh close against where Lois foolishly wore a skirt today, where Lois thinks she must be dripping. Gwen's breath is hot. "Go."
Lois focuses, moves past her heartbeat, past her desire, past the past. No replacements, no distractions, just her alone inside her own skin.
She squeezes.
Perfect shot.
"Good girl," Gwen says in her ear, and Lois cannot help it, cannot prevent the gush from her body. Without looking, she knows she's left a damp patch on Gwen's denims and she doesn't care, she wants to fire again, wants to run to the closest quiet corner to fuck her own fingers, wants Gwen to do it for her.
Gwen says, "Again," and Lois is the gun, and she fires herself at the world.
The Way You Think
Characters: Ianto/Face of Boe (Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ianto/OFCs)
NC-17
warnings: shades of dubcon
prompt: Ianto/Face of Boe, giant head WITH TENTACLES is kink enough
It's a head. In a jar. And it's staring at him.
Ianto takes another drink from the fluted glass he's been served. Over the past several months of his travels, he's developed a taste for this particular nectar, and anyway, it gives him something to do with his hands. He's getting used to being stared at, but that doesn't mean he likes it.
He is being chatted up by a green alien with five eyes, and its companion, which appears to be a sentient gas. Ianto is an oddity, a human in a time when humans are rarely seen in this part of the galaxy, and he feeds on their titters at his stories of Cardiff, of home. He's the exotic one, which means he's invited to receptions and events as a curiosity, and it also means his meals and transport are usually handled for him. It's better than being put into a zoo.
"So there we were, both covered in mud ... "
"Actual mud?" breathes the gas. "Decay and worm dung and water mixed to a paste?"
"Exactly," says Ianto, though he's never spent much time thinking about the components of dirt. "And Dad just said, 'Did you remember to pick up the lemons?'" He laughs at the memory, and his companions laugh as well, whether or not they understand why it's funny.
The head in the jar is still staring. As the other two move to mingle with the other guests, a short alien in a robe approaches Ianto respectfully. "Sir?"
Another thing to get used to. "Hello."
"His August Personage the Face of Boe has requested your presence." There's a note in the alien's voice that suggests the request is not negotiable. Ianto has heard the name before, mentioned as another distinguished guest at this reception. He's under the impression that the Face of Boe is there as a respectable guest, though, and not part of the sideshow entertainment.
"Of course." He follows the alien to the head in the jar, and tilts his torso respectfully.
Words appear in his mind, and by the reactions of the attendants around him, they appear in theirs as well: "You are human."
"Last I checked, yes." He expected something more formal, and now he's off-guard. He plays with his glass, and hopes he won't start stuttering, like he did when he first appeared in this time, lost among the stars and frightened.
"From Earth."
"Yes."
Now he knows where this is going, and he starts working out a polite excuse. Humans, especially Earth-based, are famous for many reasons, but in this era, the chief factoid Everyone Knows about them is that they'll have sex with anything. Having listened to various iterations and descriptions of this reputation, Ianto blames Jack, and suspects the man of founding at least two human religions based solely on pornography. Since arriving here, Ianto has been propositioned at almost every event he's attended. He's said yes to a few of the offers, figuring Jack had plenty of good things to say about interspecies sex. He wasn't kidding.
"Tell me," says the voice in Ianto's head. "Tell me of your Earth."
Ianto launches into a story, one of the several he keeps on hand for these things. The party-goers want tales of how simple and quirky his life was, so he tends to leave out the part where he chased aliens for a living. Because he is thinking of Jack again, he tells about a funny picnic they had, skimming over the blowjob he'd given Jack, focusing instead on the part where they were surprised by a large dog that had got loose and they ended up in a duck pond.
"So, dripping wet," Ianto says, because aliens really go for the stories where the humans end up messy, "we make our way back to the picnic blanket. Everything's scattered but the wine bottle's still upright, so we share the bottle back and forth until the dog's owner comes walking by, and she says, 'What on Earth happened?' and Jack says, 'It rained. Want some wine?'"
Rumbling laughter fills his mind, and it's pleasant. Other guests have wandered over, seeking audience with the head in the jar, but as Ianto starts to wander off, he hears a voice in his head that he somehow knows is only for him: "Stay."
The memory of that day comes back, like it's being teased from his mind, but the parts he didn't tell are suddenly in the forefront. As though he's on the blanket on his knees, instead of standing at a party holding a glass, Ianto can smell Jack, feel his mouth full of warm cock. Jack makes those soft gasps he always does, thrusting in deep, and Ianto forgets how to breathe, even as the Golari Ambassador bows to him and then to the Face in the jar. The Face is thinking something at the Ambassador, but its ancient eyes are on Ianto.
The memory morphs, and Jack is kissing the dog's owner, who enjoyed the wine thoroughly, while Ianto's hand is on her thigh stroking upwards under the loose skirt she's wearing. She's making soft, pleased noises in her throat as Jack holds her face. Ianto wants to move his hand further, knows he'll meet soft cotton already damp with arousal, but the dog barks, and she breaks the kiss with a disappointed laugh. They don't get her name as she goes to collect her pet, but she waves in the departing sunshine, and for a moment, he can see another future where they took her back to his flat and he and Jack set a contest to see who could make her come more times, and then she's gone.
He is standing rock still, his glass clutched in a deathgrip as the memories come through. This alien is sifting through his thoughts like he'd page through a book. "I hope you're enjoying yourself," he says quietly.
"It has been a long time since my physical form had encounters this way. I almost forgot how it felt."
Ianto doesn't have that issue, overwhelmed with sense memories of mouth and cock and arse and balls. The mental cataloguing touches his thoughts of Lisa, and delicately closes that door again, allowing him some shred of privacy. It's Jack, and then a moment with Jack and the woman they picked up from that club two nights later, both filled with regret that the last encounter hadn't continued. It is hurried kisses and quick fumbles and slow fucking in the cramped camp bed, each memory pulled out and analysed by the intruding mind.
He's going to come in his pants right here, and that will be a story for the next cocktail party. Probably earn him an invitation to five more after that. Meet the freak.
"No," says the Face, and the memories stop abruptly, leaving him staggering. The nearest alien touches his arm to help him steady.
"Are you well?"
"The nectar," Ianto lies, and hands off his glass to a passing waiter. That should be him, serving drinks and food quietly while the crème of society wander and chat and tell snobbish jokes about humans. He gives the waiter a friendly, understanding smile, but the waiter is no more human than any of the others here, and merely gives him a polite nod in return. "Goes to my head," he says to the concerned alien.
"Allow him to rest," says the Face to an attendant, and Ianto is led off to a quiet chamber some corridors away from the party. He would be frightened, but he stopped fearing for himself months ago. He's been told he will return home eventually, from an unimpeachable source. When he is taken somewhere, he no longer thinks he is being locked in a cell.
There's a bed. He thanks his guide and he lies down, shivering from the onslaught of memories.
Time passes, not much time but enough, and the door chimes. As he sits up, he sees the utterly mad vision of the giant jar outside his room. Someone's room. Is this the Face's quarters? Too Spartan, he thinks, for such a well-known personage.
The attendants help the jar into the room, and respectfully bow outside. The door shuts.
"Apologies," says the voice in his mind. "It was rude to wander through your thoughts. I know better."
"Thanks." He draws his knees up to his chest, feeling exposed, alone in the room with this creature.
"I have millions of years of memories. Species and worlds that are long gone that only remain in my mind and no other's."
"Were you collecting my thoughts to preserve them? Seems a funny set to want."
That mental laughter again. "No, pure selfishness. I've lost so much." Such regret in the thought. "I forgot about the day in the park with the dog."
Ianto's head snaps up, his mind filling with images not his own, jumbled together: faces of friends, swelling affection, Martha and Gwen both wrinkled and grey and still lovely, Owen's sharp laugh, a shy smile from Tosh, a flash of Hart, so many flickers of the Doctor, so much love, and with it, Ianto's face shown back at him like a flipbook of emotions and moments, treasured with the rest.
The surge of emotion fills him, pulls tears to his eyes which he wills away. "God. You kept us forever."
"I kept what I could." Ianto wonders if that's what brought on this change, if Jack surrendered his body to keep room in his mind for those he'd loved.
"No," says the Face, reading his thoughts again. "But that's a story for another time." His mind flows into Ianto's again, and Ianto welcomes the intrusion now, feels tendrils of thought wrap around every memory he has of Jack, of their friends, letting emotions both fine and base have equal care under his touch. But there are some he focuses on more.
"Millions of years old, and you still only have a one-track mind."
"Like I said, it has been a long time."
"I can't imagine you giving up sex."
"I did not give it up. I changed how it happened." And now the tendrils attached to the Face are pulsing, and Ianto has some pretty clear ideas of what they do. Shrouded in smoke, caught in a jar.
"Jack?"
Suddenly he feels the fingers on his body, though he and Jack are separated by the glass, each tentacle with a phantom self moving over him like a finger, a snake. His mind falls open again, with the scratchy blanket under his knees in the park, the distant sounds of traffic and the closer sounds of birds and from far off, a bark. Without touching him, tentacles stroke his balls, and play with the sensitive flesh around his hole, and his mouth is heavy with the taste of Jack, the blunt head going into his throat. More tentacles are on his nipples and at the soles of his feet, and running like hands up and down his shaft, and his thoughts are full of thrusting hard into Jack as he writhes, aiming for his sweet spot amid the tight heat, watching his face, contorted and beautiful. His face.
When the orgasm hits, burning through him like a wildfire, his thoughts reduce to one thin, perfect line of delight, and it explodes behind his eyes. He feels the Face burn inside his head, feels the echo linger for several minutes, drawing out the climax like a note held too long, while Ianto trembles inside of it on the bed. Too much, too much, trapped inside his own body sparking with an excess of pleasure that is almost pain.
The mind withdraws, and Ianto gasps, free suddenly but also empty.
"Apologies," says the Face again, and there's an afterglow coming through that Ianto thinks even the party-goers will be able to hear.
"Don't apologise," Ianto says. "Unless it's for ruining me for ordinary sex. And you did that ages ago." He's sticky, and messy, and his clothes will need cleaned, and he doesn't care.
A chuckle, which fades. "I miss you." The unexpected sorrow takes his breath away again, and he places an unsteady hand on the jar. Does anyone get to touch the Face?
"I'm going to be here for three more days. Plenty of memories left to make, yeah?"
The Face smiles. "Yes."
Zeus Appeared to Danaë
Characters: Gwen/Owen
NC-17
warnings: see prompt
prompt: Gwen/Owen watersports
AN: Meh. Experimental fic was experimental. But I've wanted to make the joke in the title for YEARS.
She told herself it was no different from running her hands under lukewarm water. Owen hadn't needed to tell her it was sterile, or as sterile as it could be, pouring from his body over hers. She'd felt worse, smelled worse.
"It'll be hot," he'd said although now she thought he'd forgot to add the words, "for me."
She didn't know why she was doing this. The urine, that was to please him, but whenever she stopped to catch her breath she wondered why pleasing Owen mattered to her. Warmth and wetness ran down her chest and arms, to drip into the tub where she knelt uncomfortably.
Owen groaned as he emptied the last of his bladder, and the hand on his prick started jerking it instead. The pleased-pained expression on his face stayed the same. Gwen went up to her knees and joined her hands with his.
"Oh, that's good. That's right," he said, eyes tightly shut. His voice shot through her, into her belly. Her hands moved faster. Owen's groans grew louder and merged into one ululating moan.
"On your knees," she said suddenly, rising to her feet, and Owen went down as though he'd been hit in the legs, coming to rest on the backs of his own calves. His hands stuttered in their task and then worked himself again, faster.
She wasn't sure she could do this. She wasn't sure she should. Almost thirty years of training and shame came to the forefront of her mind. She shoved them in the corner with the guilt and the regret.
Gwen pushed his head so that her bowed before her, and she stood over him, and she let go in a hot pulse, and she watched him come in his hands, and it mattered to her. It did.
Getting a Lift
Characters: Ianto, Jack, surprise
R
warnings: embarassment squick, if you're me
prompt: Ianto/anyone, public nudity
AN: bonus voyeurism
It's cold. The wind coming in from the Bay could be described, if he were feeling artistic, as biting with tiny needles in his skin. He's not feeling artistic. He's just cold. It is unfortunately the least of his problems.
"No one can see you," says Jack's voice warmly in his ear.
Ianto's head turns automatically towards the closest camera. "Do tell."
"No one but me."
He wants to ask how the repair is going. He wants to know how much longer he's going to have to stand here, perfectly still, waiting for the lift to lower him to safety. He wants, if nothing else, trousers. Jack could have brought him some clothes so he could walk back to the other entrance. But that wouldn't be Jack.
"Working on it," Jack says as if reading his mind. In the background, Ianto can hear, very faintly, the sounds of Jack's deft hands working with tools: metal scraping over metal.
His breath catches. It's not that he enjoys having that sound turn him on, it's that sometimes, he can't help it. If he could ever tell a psychiatrist about his life, he'd be a case study for many a journal, he's sure.
His arousal, of course, has not gone unnoticed.
"Oh," Jack breathes, "we are definitely going to explore this kink later." Ianto doesn't tell him that it's not the kink Jack's thinking of, not the standing out here in the cold at night as people walk by unawares, with the biting air and the memory sound of metal scraping.
Damn.
"If I swear to wipe the feed later, could I talk you into giving a little show while I work?"
"And distract you further? I would like to get inside before hypothermia sets in, thank you."
"It's not that cold out there."
"Says the man who's dressed."
"I'm not dressed."
And there goes any possible hope of hiding his erection. Calling Jack filthy names in his head, not necessarily in a sexual fashion, Ianto rubs his palm down and up again over the length of his shaft.
"Squeeze it."
"No."
"I'm almost done," Jack says, and Ianto really hopes he means with the lift mechanism. "Come on."
There's a sound around him, not the normal eerie grind of the pavement slab, but it is malfunctioning. Ianto sighs, and squeezes his cock, giving himself a few pulls. He'll erase the CCTV footage himself.
The noise gets louder. It's not the lift. Across the Plass, a familiar blue box materialises as Ianto stands there, unable to move.
"Jack?" he says in a strangled voice. "Now would be a perfect time to get that working, yeah?"
"Having some trouble with one of the gears. Only take a minute." Ianto is certain Jack wasn't looking at the camera feed right now if he's that blase about the Doctor's arrival. Pointing it out to him will only delay him further.
As the door to the police box opens, Ianto plasters a smile on his face, covering himself as well as he can with his hands.
"Hello there." As the words leave his mouth, the slab begins to descend, as if in answer to his unspoken prayers that a hole open beneath him and swallow him.
As the street rises (to his view) the Doctor and a pretty young woman emerge from the box and watch him, dumbfounded.
"Doctor?"
"Ah, yes. This is, well, Torchwood." He pats her hand, and says in a loud whisper, "You'll get used to them."
Stepping Out
Characters: Jack/Ianto
NC-17
warnings: none
prompt: Jack/Ianto, frottage, public place
AN: The requester of the previous fic wanted to know how Ianto got stuck on the invisible lift in the nude.
It's the coat that does him in this time. Sometimes it's Jack's smile, or the way he lowers his voice to a register that bypasses Ianto's ears and speaks directly to his prick, or the heat burning off a hand placed not remotely casually on the small of his back. All of those have been active in tonight's mutual seduction, just as Ianto knows his own choice of fitted trousers have caught Jack's eye today, while the intentional thickening of his accent and the wry jokes and coy looks as he handed Jack cups of coffee and papers and weapons all day have played their own parts. Still, it's the coat, wrapped and buttoned around Jack, showing his very bare legs underneath, that seals the deal.
"It'll be fun," Jack says, and Ianto pushes in for a kiss, stepping onto the lift next to him.
No need for words, as Jack works his way like a dervish down the line of buttons first on Ianto's waistcoat and then the lilac shirt beneath it. Hot hands radiate through his vest, while Ianto is caught between frantic kisses and equally frantic scrabbling at the buttons at his own wrists, and this is why he does this, why he keeps on with Jack when logic tells him their relationship is a disaster running in slow motion. The fire draws him. Fuck moths; he feels like a lost man encased in ice for a century, coming alive next to Jack's roaring blaze.
Only when his belt is slithered open and the well-fitted trousers are falling to his knees does Ianto take a moment to break the kisses. Jack settles for biting lightly at his neck, pinpricks of desire, but Ianto breaks away from those as well, toeing off his shoes and socks, stepping out of his trousers and pants to kick them over to puddle on the floor, and pulling his vest over his head to follow the lot.
"Ready?"
No. "Yeah." Jack touches his strap, and the lift jerks uneasily to life. Ianto grabs Jack's arm to steady himself but Jack's hands are already on his own buttons, dropping the greatcoat open for Ianto step inside the cloud of warmth created by Jack's body. As the bare feet promised, there is nothing under the coat but Jack himself as Jack embraces him, hands splayed on his arse. They rise, kissing, and at the back of Ianto's mind he thinks he should oil the lift's gears tomorrow, and then he forgets everything but Jack.
It is not a moan in his throat, Ianto tells himself. Not at the familiar sight, not at the chill at his back from the night air, nor the warmth on his front as they press together. His hands dig under Jack's arms to move restlessly against his back under the silky lining, and Jack's kisses are flavoured like something sweet and savoury from the edges of his memories. Jack has always smelled and tasted of sex, even before Ianto ever admitted his interest was genuine and not simply part of the greater plan. At this moment, there is no greater plan than grinding his own hips to work the friction between them, to focus on the brush of Jack's tongue inside his mouth as the too hot too tight skin on his cock slips and rubs against Jack's.
"How loud," Jack growls between kisses, "do you think we'd have to be," and kisses again, "to break the perception filter?"
Around them, the Plass isn't crowded but it's not empty either, as groups and couples and shoppers walk past unseeing. Ianto is aware of Jack's hands and the cold night air on his arse, aware too of the covering of the coat. Naked, but not. Exposed but hidden. Shagging secretly in plain sight. He reaches between them to grab both cocks, letting the pre-come slick his hand to give them both something to fuck into as they rut.
"I don't know," he says, fighting a gasp. "Scream for me and we'll find out, yeah?"
He is happy to identify the noise in Jack's throat as definitely a moan, and Jack lets himself go, breaking the moan into a shout as he comes all over Ianto's hand. The slick and the spurt and the fact that Jack comes undone for him this way is almost enough, and then Jack's lips are back at his again, and he sucks on Ianto's tongue just right, and he feels his balls tighten, and it's so good, so good, to come all over Jack's stomach with a loud groan caught inside Jack's mouth. The kisses turn softer, and they are alone out here, messy and dripping and glowing in the middle of the crowd.
Jack pulls away, an indulgent smile on his face, and he watches Ianto as he presses his wrist strap to take them safely down again. Which ought to happen any second now. They both look at the strap at the same time they hear the protesting stutter of the lift's gears.
"Uh oh," Jack says, and no amount of button pressing helps. But he has the greatcoat still, and while he'll look ridiculous bordering on obscene wrapped just in that as he dashes barefoot to the other entrance, it's better than nothing.
Ianto accepts a parting kiss with less grace than he could; he's outside at night stark naked, perception filter or no.
"It'll be fine," Jack reassures him. "You have your comm and I'll be in contact the whole time. Anyway, who's gonna see you?"
Rule of Law
Characters: John Barrowman, Neil Patrick Harris
PG-13
warnings: RPF
prompt: JB/Neil Patrick Harris tiebreaking "measuring contest" after the #biggaybattle on Twitter (bonus points for use of social networking and/or cybersexing)
AN: obl. disclaimer about celebrity impressions used for entertainment purposes only and should not be mistaken for representations of actual people
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH I win! jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman No way. I stomped u in the poll. Loser. j/k
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH Not in the poll. Measuring up. My dresser talked to ur dresser. jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman LOL. No way.
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH On the table. How long? jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman 9. U?
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH Hah! 22. ::victory dance:: jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman NO WAY.
Team_Barrowman @ActuallyNPH ::victory dance:: Gtg. Filming. TTYL. jb
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman Wait. Is that metric? No fair using metric!
ActuallyNPH @Team_Barrowman BARROWMAN!
More of a Good Thing
Characters: Gwen/Tosh/Ianto/Owen/clones
warnings: crack
prompt: clones, any character, any pairing
AN: Inspired in great part by angstslashhope's "We Happy Few". Go read it. (Pack a lunch.)
The first time, it was an accident brought on by too little sleep and far too much stress. Ianto juggled the stack of folders with one hand, and the artefact with the other, and really, anyone could have made the mistake with the button.
A flash of light later, and there was another him, standing in the room, blinking owlishly. Also stark naked.
Ianto first assessed the situation, consulted Owen to check on the nature of the thing (exact duplicate, down to the DNA), then made up his mind. He brought his double a spare suit, since he kept most of his suits there these days, and put him to work on the filing while Ianto went to help in the field. They needed all the help they could get with Jack gone, so one more Ianto was overall a good thing.
By the time they'd returned from the mission, filthy and tired, there were two more of him waiting, wearing more of his spare clothes.
"What's all this, then?" Owen demanded.
"Ianto," said Gwen, part soothing, part worrying, "you can't just keep cloning yourself."
"I was in the field at the time. But it isn't a bad idea. One of me for field work, one to do maintenance, one to keep the Archives, one to handle the Tourist Centre." The other Iantos nodded in agreement.
"It's creepy is what it is," Owen said, and he went into his work area and refused to speak to any of the Iantos for the rest of the long day.
Gwen patted the original Ianto's shoulder. "Sweetheart, we're all overworked. This isn't healthy."
"I'll figure something out," he said.
After Gwen had walked off, Tosh came closer. "What device did you use?"
The following morning, there was one additional Ianto (in charge of maintaining the SUV) and there were also two new Toshes.
"Tosh?" Gwen asked, taken aback at the twinned women at the computers.
"I needed help compiling this," said Tosh Alpha. "And Mainframe is frankly long overdue for an overhaul."
Owen came in a bit late, and screamed when one Ianto offered him coffee while another busied himself cleaning the med bay. "This has really gone too far," Owen said when he'd recovered what passed for composure.
"I agree," said Gwen. "We need to lock the artefact in the secure archives."
Ianto Alpha said, "I'm the one who knows the codes for that, and so do they."
One of the Toshes said, "I could probably hack into it in about five minutes."
Gwen sighed. Her phone rang, and she answered it. "Hello, Rhys. Yes, love. I remember. Noon. I'll be there."
An alert went off as soon as she closed the phone, and she swore as a Tosh said, "No, you won't. We've got a Rift spike on Hope Street. Big one."
Gwen looked stricken at the prospect of abandoning her fiance once again. Then she looked at the Ianto who was busy dusting while another one cleaned the kitchenette. "What's this device called?"
"I don't believe you," Owen said in disgust, getting his kit for the field.
Sleeping arrangements were arranged by two more Iantos, who cleared out some old storage spaces in an unused area of the Hub, and soon a clone dormitory was up and running. Extra Gwens and Toshes appeared throughout the day to help, and Owen grumbled that whenever he counted teaboys, there was always one more. When everyone gathered in the main Hub the following morning, it was to find two Owens, dressed in scrubs, in the process of converting the old boardroom to a greenhouse for his plants, another in the middle of an autopsy, and a fourth looking at porn.
The Owens all looked at the others. "What?"
Five Gwens, Seven Owens, and two Toshes later (they'd reached a maximum containable number of Iantos), the Hub was crowded and bustling with activity. Missions were assigned one after the other, with no worry except no doubles. The systems in the Hub were running more smoothly than they had in years. Gwen, still pretending Jack was merely on an assignment rather than missing, fielded grateful calls from Whitehall and even received a word of thanks from Mr. Saxon himself, who everyone said was a shoe-in when the vote came round. He even had an investigation he wanted them to undertake to the Himalayas, which Gwen sent four clones to go check out, whilst giggling a little.
The day the flight left, two teams came back to the Hub to discover everyone still there had stopped work in favour of what anyone (except Jack) would describe as the world's weirdest orgy. Gwens licked and nibbled each others' breasts, while Toshes rode Owen cocks and Ianto cocks, and one Owen thrust into a Gwen while getting fucked by an Ianto, and two Toshes were in a pleasant 69 off to one side, and three Iantos were enjoying themselves with an Owen, while a Gwen passionately kissed a Tosh while both were being double-teamed by both men, and any mouth not occupied by kissing was filled with a cock or licking a cunt. The elbows and knees alone were a sight out of some Goyaesque horror.
"What's going on?" Gwen Alpha demanded.
One of her clones paused mid-lick to say, "The power cell is dying. We're only going to live another ten minutes. We voted to go out with a bang." Gwen Delta went back to her work on Ianto Epsilon. The four clones on the aeroplane were probably enhancing Torchwood's reputation all by themselves.
Tosh Alpha and Ianto Alpha both tilted their heads, entranced, while Owen pulled out his camera and began taking pictures. Gwen Alpha looked like she wanted to protest, and instead was distracted by the arses of a particularly amorous Owen/Ianto coupling.
Sure enough, in about ten minutes, amid groans and screams and spurts and appeals to God, the giant pile of fuck sort of melted into a viscous mess of green slime and a little trickle of jizz.
Except for the naked Owen in the middle. The Owen with the camera had melted away. Owen Alpha said, "What?"
Ianto went for his mop, while Tosh hurried to lock the artefact in the secure archives and change the passcode. Owen pulled on his clothes. Standing at the edge of the mess, careful to keep her boots free of it, Gwen said, "All right, everyone. When Jack gets back, nobody tell him about this."
They were all in perfect agreement.